What are you doin kickin that can down the street...

MOVIN. Why don't you come over and see me sometime: soboclassifieds.wordpress.com

Is that a TENT POLE in your pants?

If you are sexually repressed or overly sensitive, please do not read on. Because I am now going to talk to you about hard-ons. That ubiquitously male tent pole in the pants that can at once be a source of shame or a badge of honor, depending on the age in which it occurs.

The thing about a hard-on is it can happen at any time. It’s uncontrollable and sudden. And it’s a beacon that ultimately points to one thing — and one thing only — regardless of sexual orientation.

Now when you are male and come down with the big C, the part of the body that must be attacked to save your life is beside the point. But once said cancer is duly disposed of, it could be that your life is irrevocably altered if you’ve had giant lasers and surgeon scalpels pointed at your nether regions.

You see where I’m going with this. Now, enter VIAGRA (or any of those other tiny male miracle pills that fill our inboxes daily with spam). I don’t know about you, but I am HIGHLY unlikely to take these mysterious offerers of HOT SEXY FREEDOM up on their drugs that come from GODKNOWSWHERE. This is, of course, beside the point, but...

Instead, I delete the emails like a daily plague while saying a silent prayer of gratitude that these pills exist in such abundance. Here’s why.

For more years than I can count, I’ve been among those hoards of women who pretend to be asleep. Who inwardly go concave when — TURNS OUT — I was about to be the recipient of a nice, big INNOCENT bear hug with no underlying innuendo.

You all know these women. We’re at your girls’ nights, your book clubs, your PTO meetings, on your Facebook and at your dinner tables. We’ve been finishing college and grad school as hot little willing participants. But then we started those long days of corporate desk or travel slogdom. Bringing home the bacon too while taking our temperatures and saying, “NOW.” Then came the ultimate juggling act. Big time career coupled with those little birdies crowding up the nest with their sweet little mouths waiting for the worm.

So those UPALLNIGHT worm-providing through our once ample — and much ogled — breasts episodes, followed by the days of trying to be A WOMAN OF THE 00s began to take it’s toll. Some of us quit to focus on the birdies and TO STOP BURNING THAT DAMNABLE CANDLE AT BOTH ENDS. Some of us kept up the good fight. And some of us channeled our creative juices into a side business that we run after the birdies are roosted for the night and you are in your birthday suit pitching a tent in the sheets and waiting for us to return to you.

About the time of a second wind called ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (and a little thing called completely unfair and poorly-timed hormones), you might be ready to go back to rock-n-roll queen-dom. Patently unfair if you happen to have a partner with the BIG C.
Luckily, some mad scientist — who I’m guessing was not female (just sayin’) — uncovered the secret formula for loving forever. (I think Hugh Hefner was behind it all.)

So if you’re 40-something and just trying to survive the madness. And if you happen to end up with a male partner with cancer, there may be hope after all.

And if — after a few months of religious pill use — he wakes up one morning, reaches for your hand (awwww...) and pulls it towards his crotch beacon that is suddenly emitting a signal with no pills in sight [LOUD needle scratch], you may actually find yourself NOT feigning sleep THIS ONE TIME.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Make Some Noise. Beasties. My rhymes... age like wine as I get older. I'm getting bolder competition is waning.I got the feeling and I'm single laning.

All over yer face, kid.

Without warning your life goes from cancer [insert dark cloud and boom of thunder that follows you everywhere] to you’re done!!! [insert people looking for all that sparkly sunshine that’s supposed to be poking through them thar clouds] But there really haven’t been any moments of screaming from the rooftops. No moments of intense jubilation. No shoulders suddenly removed from ears moments of oh, that’s where they go.

And this was puzzling me. Where were the hallelujahs and praise Jesuses? Or even the champagne fountain complete with fireworks that shoot out of everyone’s ASSES at the push of a button? No where. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

And then it hit me. Like a shot of sun reflection to the eye from a shiny bumper in a summer parking lot. CANCER IS NOT OVER. IT WILL NEVER, EVER BE OVER.

Ah-ha moment complete, the hubby and I had a chat. And the truth of it is that no matter how many times we assure people that, “Yes, he’s better! Yes, he’s all done with treatment! Yes, we are so relieved to be on this side!” We are a couple of fucking liars.

We smile and nod and say all of the right things. Because, really, even your closest friends DO NOT want to hear what you’re really thinking. And that is something like this:

“WHAT? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I'M PISSED! WHERE THE EFF DID THE LAST YEAR OF MY LIFE GO?!”

and

“CANCER ISN’T SOMETHING YOU ARE JUST FUCKING DONE WITH! YOU AREN’T EVER DONE UNTIL IT’S DONE WITH YOU! AND EVEN THEN, IT’S NEVER DONE WITH YOU. YOU ARE FOREVER SOMEONE WHO HAD CANCER AND WONDERS IF OR WHEN YOU’LL BE CATAPULTED BACKWARDS INTO ALL OF THAT SHIT AGAIN!!!”

So now that I got that off my chest, I’m concentrating on removing my shoulders from my ears and remembering what it feels like to fully inhale and exhale like you have all of the time in the world.

We took some time after the last treatment to try to get life back on track. I was immediately bombarded with all those “YAYS YOU’RE BACKS! Now you can finally get my shit DONES!” We got pummeled and batted around like a trapped fly with medical reports (see my last post). Got the pump out and did a couple of fist pumps for that. The hubby headed back to Cali for some overdue work meetings.

Then it was off to Florida for the much-anticipated and much-needed vacation. After about a million ideas including everything from Fiji (my all-time ultimate dream vaca, just in case you’re really rich and want to sponsor us) to Turks & Caicos (running a very close second), we landed in Tampa with a small thud, but very thankful for the amazing generosity of friends who loaned us their posh condo in a four-star resort.

It’s funny how we were so GOING BIG and then sat there two nights after the port was out and said, “We’re tired.” We suddenly had no steam to fuel the energy needed to update passports, book places abroad and fly for hours. No. We just needed some warmth and a pool. And the Brents were at the ready.

Turns out it was just what the doctor ordered. The pool was perfect and staffed. The beaches were an easy day trip away. And we even decided last minute to surprise the girls with a day trip to the Magic Kingdom on a rainy day. It wasn’t until they spied the big ears that they had a clue and it was priceless. We slogged around my formerly most hated place in the universe and joined in with their joy immediately. We laughed all day because we were soaked to our unders and wearing Disney ponchos no less. At one point, I ran into one of the many stores to grab said ponchos and when the hubby called to find me, I explained, “I think I’ve landed in the place were the princesses go to vomit.”

We truly had a GREAT day. Embraced it fully and didn’t let the constant drenching downpour and closed rides due to lightning dampen our enthusiasm. “I JUST FINISHED CANCER TREATMENT AND I’M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!!”

Uh. No. But I’m so riding Dumbo again the next time I go...

So since we landed back in reality post vacation, we’ve been in the throes of kitchen remodel. We have to fully move out this weekend. And then there was the downed apple tree from—er—MAY 2010 to contend with. And a garden to plant. And soccer games to attend. And science projects to complete. And birthdays to celebrate. And new clients to pitch. And annual meetings to plan.

And. Well. Before you know it, you’re back ensconced. Forever changed and liver enzymes all wack from too much wine. But.

I may never take a fully deep breath again. An so what if my shoulders reach for the sky. My nearest and dearest is here and alive and sassy enough to tell me to take a chill pill. So that’s all I need. (I don't need this or this. Just this ashtray... And this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need... )

TODAY’S THEME SONG: These Days. Black Keys. My hand to God
I didn't mean to. After all. Look what we've been through.

I'm a little teapot. What? What?

“I've had some time to think about IT
And watch the sun sink like a stone
I've had some time to think about you
On the long ride home...”
-Long Ride Home

“Things can move at such a pace
The second hand just waved goodbye.”
-Let Him Fly

Patty Griffin just seems to pop into our minds on a day like today. Close call? Coulda been IT? HOLY SHIT? I did think these lyrics at many times over the last of these HELLISH 9 months. When you hear those FUCKING stupid words: CANCER. STAGE. THREE. I immediately pictured myself in black (painfully stylish though trying to look too grief-stricken to care.) Jackie O. Yes.

GDMF. It’s been a LONG STRANGE TRIP. And today when we got up for the early call of the surgeon, it felt like deja vu. Our hearts racing in fear of waking up late. But been there done that. So up we got. At 5am. Showered. Dressed. Then girls. Complaining. “I’m exhausted.” (Yea. Me too sister.) Purse Girl at the ready (along with TRPL TRBL and Tabby Cat if needed). We are SO freaking blessed. And I don’t really mean that in a JESUS way. I mean it more in a UNIVERSE HAS BEEN EXCEPTIONALLY KIND TO US kind of way. (Though I’m sure that all of my many, many friends praying to Jesus has helped too.)

Today was the day. The day that I could officially stop wallowing and start to truly look forward. But, DAMN, if it didn’t feel almost the same. The palpitations. The same ride to Lutheran in Wheat Ridge. But instead of all of those side-head-tilts-I’m-sure-it-will-all-be-okays (Mel? Ring a bell?), it was HELL-YES-ES! As in HAIL-YAY-ES. Seriously.

When someone actually arrives to have a PORT taken out? Well, that just means another FUCK-YOU-CANCER! (And who doesn’t want to SCREAM that from the top of their lungs? Seriously.

The last few weeks haven’t been the rosy road I had envisioned (delusions of grandeur anyone?) After the biopsy and Mayo send, we were all SO? (Kind of like Pauly D on Jersey Shore. “WHAT-CHOO-LOOKIN-AT-BI-OTCH?!”)

Turns out. No. Those results weren’t just nothing to worry about. They were showing more FUCKING CANCER to not just one, but TWO pathologists. And. Turns out? Not one of the three awesome docs wanted to be the one to say those truly SHIT-I-FIED words to us. THE COUPLE. The couple who is so in love that they all well up with tears when they look at us? Yea. That’s US.

So it wasn’t until our dear, dear Kelly at the surgeon’s office came in to meet with us that we learned the full scoop. Dr. Hollywood (love him) was still in surgery, so she grabbed paperwork in that“HOLYSHITYOU’VEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME” kind of way. I could read it on her face. Lucky for us, Doc Mozia returned before we left. Cleared it up like this:

“It’s like this. We were all shitting our pants. Knew it couldn’t be more FUCKING CANCER. But DAMN if those results didn’t just scream that right in all of our overly educated faces. So. We all three agreed: TIME FOR ANOTHER OPINION. And we decided to keep this juicy tidbit to ourselves. No staff. Just the three of us. And whoever got the results back from Mayo first? Well. THEY could do the deed.”

One of them did. Just. That. But how can you NOT freak out all over again when cute Kelly is welling up and asking how we’re taking the news. My breath LEFT me. No breath for the wicked. (I’m sorry, Jesus. I really do love you. I take it all back.)

It wasn’t until the mystery was all cleared up. NOFUCKINGCANCER. And 10 minutes down the road that I lost it. Full wailing. Holy shit. The dam broke. Then later than night and some wine later: “So. What would you DO?” “Well. If it was 20 years and I was 63? I’d fight it. If it was 40 years and I was 83? Not so much.” Okay. I could live with that. Because I was thinking: “Kauai. I will move us there and we will be exceptionally happy for FIVE YEARS.”

What a relief. I can keep the love of my life for a little while longer AND we can start making some seriously kick-ass plans for the FUTURE. Future. A concept that has just rejoined our vernacular. A few short hours ago.

So after the surgery, we hit Union Brasserie before they were officially open and those Profts. Well. They opened their arms. Their bottle of prosecco. And made us one freakin’ awesome omelette. Yes. We. Are. Blessed.

We love you all and our hearts are now so open that we can’t imagine a life without each and every one of you...

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Road Trippin. Chilis. So much has come before those battles lost and won. This life is shining more forever in the sun.

POW-POW (Gotta get that.)

The vast majority of my friends here in Colorado are obsessed this time of year. And I can only nod with a small twinge of envy. We live in one of the top skiing destinations in the world — great skiing in fact only 30 or so minutes away — and then there is us. I want to be one of the cool ones who talk about this elusive pow-pow. Epic days. All those exciting, hip words that are commonly associated with the kind of powder power that only the Rockies can deliver. And once upon a time, we were there too. Season passes purchased that took us up on many an early weekend morning to hit the slopes and squeeze in a quick apres ski before bellying up to the beast that is a return on I-70 on any big powder day (or even not).

But not now. We’re a rare breed. Just because we haven’t truly skied in over 4 years. So the question is: Where do we find our own very special brand of POW-POW if it’s not careening down a thickly powdered hill at 20 mph?

Here’s what happened. This year was finally going to be THE YEAR. The bean finally old enough to really shred it up. Miss-miss already riding a lift alone and knocking it out (and only a year away from the free ride pass that all 5th graders get. Yahoo!) But we got stuck on the lift. So next year we may be cool again. This year, we’re just going to stick with uncool and cancer-free.

The hubby’s last chemo was on February 15th. He almost didn’t make the cut due to low platelet and white blood cell counts, but...he did well, collected his congrats coffee mug and we bade farewell to our wonderful nurses (for at least until Thursday when we were due back for pump removal and IV). It was a milestone day. Without a doubt. But it’s hard to skip-to-my-lou when you are feeling like a dookie sandwich.

Then he got the added insult to injury of having to head home and conduct two enemas in a row, then try to hold his butt cheeks together and let me drive him back to the hospital so Dr. Matt could stick a tube six inches up his arse with no anesthesia. Who said we weren’t cool?

The verdict — which was delivered in that damnable room again — wasn’t terrible. They took two biopsies and would call us in the morning. (Or more like a few days.) Ulceration around the incision site and more swelling the rectum. Oh ass fire? Can you hear me? “Probably nothing to worry about, but we want to check it out.” Okay. But, uh, doc? Did you have to put us back in this room again? “This time the door was open. Did you notice?” Ha.

In preparation for our expected ‘down for three+ days’ post-chemo (which had become de rigor), I’d made reservations at the new and awesome Pizzeria Locale for miss-miss’ big 10th b-day. No pressure on the hubby. He could just stay home if needed. But miss-miss would get her day. I went big on the presents also in anticipation. The girl truly did expect to wake up with fireworks shooting out of her butt. And I’m so not kidding. “It’s a DOUBLE-DIGIT BIRTHDAY MOOOOMMMM! .

But this particular week, the hubby didn’t go completely pancake-flat. He was up and around, though still with a vague sense of malaise, discomfort and lack of poop control. So let’s just suffice it say, we’ve had worse. Usually it’s all of that PLUS an inability to raise his head and utter a sentence. So I’ll take it.

He was able to function (and control function) well enough to cook birthday breakfast and attend the dinner. He left a little early, but he was THERE. Again. I’ll take it.

We had a long weekend and miss-miss had a friend over for the night on Sunday. We took them brunching at Union Brasserie (our dear friends’, the Profts, new restaurant in Lakewood), pedicuring and we ended the night with a movie and personal pizzas cheffed up by the hubby.

He continued on a slow improvement bent (though walking into the 4th Grade Mini-Society event that celebrates colonial economic ventures, I noticed him walking a bit funny). We were able to laugh about it all later. Because who on Earth would ever think you’d poop yourself walking into your kid’s elementary school event? No one. And he just continued on — unphased — after a quick stop at the restroom. The irony of it was just too much. Still is.

I think the thing that struck me the most is how normal that is for us now. It used to break us both. The mere thought. Like you’ve retreated back to infanthood and have to wear a freaking die-dee again. But now it’s just another thing. Shrug it off. Ass cancer. Meh.

Friday came and Dr. Matt called with the pooptube scoop. The ulcerated cells looked off. So they are sending it off to Mayo for further analysis. The hubby was all zen. “Yea? Just crapped my pants. So?” I was all, “WHAT THE FUCK?!? WHENISTHISGOINGTOBEOVERFORFUCKSAKES?!?” Huh.

And this was only after a night of downing an entire bottle of Free Range Red at Purse Girl’s. So it could only go downhill from there apparently. (I scared JMac off. And that’s really hard to do.)

So what is becoming crystal clear in all of this is: We may never be done. Post-surgical damage. Post-radiation damage. Mental derangement. A new, skewed sense of normal. Another surgery to remove the port (IF his blood counts are back to normal by tomorrow. Fingers and toes all crossed.) Another set of biopsy results due back from Mayo in a week. Ad nauseam.

The consensus is that it’s time to just get on with it anyway. So we went out for a date night on Saturday. Catching up with our friends at The Kitchen. Putting ourselves on the wait list for their April Wine and Beer class. Eating and drinking at the bar. Laughing and feeling truly normal. No poop stops. Just a night out. Like the normal people.

So with the exception of a few things still waiting to be checked off of the medical to-do (which is now much shorter, thankyouverymuch), here we go. Time to get that boom-boom-pow(-pow). And maybe even hit the slopes. You never know.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: That Moon Song. Gregory Alan Isakov. ...and ahh that full bellied moon she's a shinin on me. yeah she pulls on this heart like she pulls on the sea. Even more beautiful to hear when sung in a barn on a cold, clear night...

The headless chicken and the zen cowboy.

Last night I dreamt there was a rattlesnake in my bed. I woke up with a panic. Then realized it was the chemo pump. Poison must all sound the same.

We go through these motions. Trying to keep our chins up. Eyes on the prize. But it gets blurry when my eyes keep betraying me with tears. It seems logical that I’d feel like we’re on the homestretch, but it feels more like on the rack being stretched limb from limb.

I’ve had no explanation for it. None what-so-ever. But as I sat with the girls at the breakfast table encouraging them through their oatmeal this morning, it was clear as a bell. For as I looked into their faces, I spied the hubby just over their heads. Doubled over in pain. Back to us. Miss-miss got up before I thought to stop her and she said, “Dad? Are you crying?” He’d taken a bite of OATMEAL and the neuropathy had attacked his eyes. Suddenly. Without warning. Straight from the jaw.

And that’s the way it goes. I see him struggle. Strain. Pain radiating through his body during the most mundane of daily tasks. (Pooping? Check. Taking a bite of oatmeal? Check. Grabbing a bottle of milk to make a latte? Check.) I see it in his eyes and my whole gut aches. His face is riddled with pain and discomfort. It’s impossible to miss when you know someone from the inside out.

It’s painful —excruciating in fact— to watch. And I struggle with keeping up the brave face. But when your chief partner-in-crime takes leave of his facilities. Well.

He tries so hard to hide it. (He’s always been such a talker.) I think of it as going inside of himself. We all have to do it when we’re in survival mode, as anyone who has gone through childbirth can attest. I remember walking down the hall to my last c-section, IV pole in tow, hubby holding my left hand, sis-in-law on my right. And she was so nervous she was jabbering away. I went completely inside of myself and my vision even narrowed. The instinct was so strong I wanted to trip her to make her STOP TALKING. And then, just as suddenly —once that baby was out and the hubby went off to attend to her— I was so thankful for her and her chatter and her arm rubs that I nearly cried from relief. Those animal instincts are so random.

I owned up to the PA on Tuesday. My crazy death thoughts (CDTs induced by SPCs). The fear of this neuropathy palpable as I conjured up calling T-Rocks to come build us a ramp because the hubby was most certainly wheelchair bound. “I went to my crazy head place,” I told her. This stopped her dead in her tracks. She took us both in and said, “Let me tell you something...” The gist was that I am in the worrying role and that means I take every bit of every worrywart inkling and carry it around. The unhealthy part is that the hubby lets me and gives me all of his too for good measure. So while I’m off running around in headless chicken mode, he’s all zen and so not going there. And one day it will hit him. And he’ll be a wreck. So if anyone has any ideas about how to coach a chronic worrywart into handing it off mode, I’m all ears. It gets kind of heavy inside this head.

Before the amazing coaching session with the PA, we had a random nurse encounter. One of the floaters was doing the rounds with us —temp taking, BP, Rx review, etc. And during the BP I distinctly heard a squeak. Then another. And I was pretty sure. Could it be? THAT WAS SO NOT THE HUBBY. She’d cut not one —BUT TWO! The hubby and I exchanged a look as she kept on her merry way and didn’t even acknowledge said in-fart-tion. When she left the room, the green cloud descended and we both were like “THAT is gross.” I opened the door. Then she happened back by and closed it again. We were trapped. Nasty.

We’ve had school closed since Monday. Today being their first day back. The weather took an odd turn from our normally bright sunshiney days. Dipping well below zero for the HIGH. So my little neuro-pathetic hubby who is in BIG trouble in cold (as I’ve mentioned) was house bound. Me left to scrape ice and keep those home fires burning. It wasn’t a big deal though. Our friend and savior (thanks Meggie) called to up the bean’s playdate from after school to all day then to overnight and Purse Girl swooped in with grabbing the miss-miss for Tuesday and we all just chilled in our various locales during chemo then back at home to rest and wait out the rattlesnake/pump and weather and anything else headed our way. T-Man threw in some food for good measure (and on her birthday, no less) and we were set.

Now we’re here getting that damnable pump removed and getting some fresh fluids into the hubby’s bod. The machine says 17 minutes to go and I am blogging instead of writing that data sheet that’s due tomorrow or getting invoices done or anything else I should be doing instead.

I’m even more behind than usual because something got me yesterday and I couldn’t stop sleeping. At least not until Purse Girl showed up and stared at me through the darkness. She’d been spooked out of her house by the sound of a piano key being hit, followed by shuffling around. (And who could blame her.) Still not 100% sure what it was, but her Robby checked it out and only found a couple of books on the floor with nothing missing.

It’s nice to keep things exciting, doncha know.

Bottom line is this: YES. The next couple of days are highly likely to SUCK BIG FAT ASS. YES. The hubby is very likely to be couch bound with very little sign of life. YES. It will take a few days until his pain subsides to bearable. YES. He will JUST be starting to come back to me when it’s time to go under again. BUT. The next one is the LAST one. And that, my friends, is the light I am going to focus my sights on even as my vision narrows, gets blurry from tears and I go inside myself where the sun don’t shine.

Thankyouverymuch.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Sunshine on Leith. Proclaimers. I will be with you while the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith. I'll thank him for his work and your birth and my birth.

Look who got beat with the ugly stick.

When it’s chemo week, Monday takes on a whole new meaning of ugh-ly. Today it’s been flat out beat with the ugly stick. My legs went to lead getting out of bed. The hubby’s head hung lower as he leaned into me for some reassuring head scratches (a proven calming action for him). I can feel the dread oozing out of him. And then he took a few deep breaths and we both got on with it. (Though pulling the covers back over our heads would be far, far preferable.)

Even though we’ve both talked about not really remembering what in the hell normal means any more, last week was almost there. I noticed that he wasn’t in complete agony with ass pain and that his trips to the poo-poo-potty were a titch less frequent. We had two meals out during the week (an all time record low for us) and he never once hit the men’s. An effin miracle in my book.

So it’s hard to avoid going all sad sack when the week of doom comes around. You start having visions of those kind, kind nurses wearing black hooded capes and carrying scythes. And damn if the hubby didn’t nearly hurl the last TWO times we walked into the temple of doom. (Okay, so there’s hope there too. I know I tend towards the melodrama. No need to remind me.) But last time we got to infusion (after the near-hurl episode walking up the stairs) there was an elderly lady in chair one of our row, eyes closed in restless sleep, head back, mouth agape, strange breathing/not breathing sounds escaping her maw as she grasped a rosary. I’m sorry, but that’s a little hard to stare at for over four solid fucking hours.

After various half-made plans went awry on Friday, we landed at the Robbins-aas-es for some of that spontaneous weekend fun we used to all know and love. Two of our dearest friends and we never-ever seem to be able to gather. So we reminisced over a bottle or two of wine and good food and pledged to do better. I always know that once the little-littles are big-biggers it will come full-circle. And we’ll all just do our best until then, right?

Saturday morning was the pre-chemo-week-errand-running-fest. Finally picking up one of Mima’s chairs I took in to have recovered over three months ago (or more). I also appear to have acquired a small obsession with a certain dog breed (I can hear the collective uh-ohs from here) and —as luck would have it— Tim the upholsterer happened to have one right there on hand. Huh. So after some consultation, I realized that I would really have to write back to the breeder and let him know that, while I am unfortunately not planning to use her for HUNTING, I do promise to take her on various adventurous pursuits in the wildlands of the Rocky Mountains. (After I wrote back to tell him we were looking for a family pet, I was greeted with a full day of complete and utter silence. Breeders and their snobberies. :) He wrote me back right away after receiving the adventure reassurance and it was settled. I had made the cut because I was southern and get it. And who knows? Maybe I’ll take up huntin me some a dem birds...(that dog’ll hunt.) Is cow hunting legal?

The hubby-jury is still out, but he knows when defeat is growing nigh. And the mama dawg isn’t even preggers yet (mr. breeder guy is going to write me after the vet visit and ultrasound this week) so he can relax for at least a few more months...

After running around to pick up stuff and buy stuff and recycle stuff, we cooked some stuff and headed out to Cure Farm for the Slow Food potluck. I was supposed to be on hand for set up and greeting people and didn’t quite make it. I’m lucky that most of my fellow board members there and with BYBA have accordingly lowered their expectations of moi after I pulled out my cancer card and flashed it around.

The girls had a ball running around the farm with Anne and Paul’s little girl, petting the Berkshires and ducks, and riding the toy tractor. We very much enjoyed the delicious eats with our fellow foodies and were happy that we could bring a taste of South Cakalaky —with chicken BBQ cooked in homemade mustard-based sauce and some apple fennel coleslaw. It was all gone. No leftovers.

Sunday brought us back to food. (Really. Why try to escape its inherent goodness?) We headed back to Lakewood with some finishing touches to Union Brasserie. Our dear Profts are finally realizing their dream of opening a restaurant and it’s hard to not be excited by a decorating gig that requires me to shop with someone else’s money. This is my first ever time moonlighting as a decorator, but the Profts had ultimate faith in me because Vancy-pants and I bonded many times while he tried to work out the hundreds of kinks in our circa 1968 POS house. He usually started a project in his contractor days by helpfully suggesting that we “just tear the piece of shit down” albeit with a stronger Czech accent then I could ever muster. And even though he thought my color choices were sometimes suspect ("baby-shit-brown” or “Czech-army-green”), he appreciated my keen eye and design sensibilities. Or something like that. And Eve obviously agreed because she is the one that sits behind the long table and makes decisions “like a fucking communist regime.” (Another Vance-ism.)

But over the course of 15-some-odd years, we’ve thrown around ideas, designed basements, plotted out pergolas and patios and decks, figured on fences and enjoyed more amazing meals together than should be legal. So as I barked orders out to the hubby who was dangling from a sky-high ladder, I had a glass of fine champagne in my hand and some fresh calamari, a crisp wedge salad or plate of oeufs au plat, jambon et pommes de terre nearby. (Okay, I let the hubby come down every now and then and have some too.) The girls were in heaven and it was one of the finer days I’ve spent.

Waking up today to the dread was not what I had in mind. And when you add in a hubby who is entirely resistant to cold at any level on chemo in the face of -6 degree temps this week. Well. Hells. Bells. You see, one of his most difficult side effects of the oxaliplatin in his chemo cocktail is chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN). It’s the one that had him throwing ice cream at me after the very first infusion. (No, I really didn’t deserve it that time.) So the moment cold air hits his airway, he has an instantaneous spasm that’s like what I imagine water-boarding must feel like. He actually can breathe, but it feels like he just swallowed a sword. So today I’ve been trying to think through the logistics of getting him into the car after infusion tomorrow so he, a. doesn’t puke on me and, b. doesn’t spasm out and choke to death. But, seriously, no pressure. Mmm-kay?

I also do not savor the inevitable shoveling and ice scraping each morning as I try to herd the screaming mimis into the car. But. This too shall pass.

I keep reminding myself that I am here for HIM no matter what. My selfishness can come again another day. And no matter what I am facing, I am so not the one facing the walk of doom to the drip-drip-drip that turns you into a ball of pain with a body of mush and a spasming bronchial tube. I just get to watch.

And? After tomorrow, we only have ONE EFFING MORE TO GO. That makes me want to run out in the street buck-naked in the negative-below-tundra of this week’s Boulder and scream happy-happy-happy. Really. So be glad you aren’t one of the lucky few who calls me howdy-neighbor.

My friend, Bubble Girl, said it best. “60 degrees on Friday, 0 degrees today. Colorado's bipolar.” But aren’t we all?

Here’s to keeping the hubby breathing and out of a wheelchair this week while not sliding the car into anything and getting groceries and girls to school. And so forth. Then it’s on to the next one.

Last up: February 15th. Mark it down and meet me outside. Be there or be square. Clothing optional.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Marry Song. Band of Horses. Lighten your load. And see how I killed the wheel barrow I borrowed.

The Cancerville 100

I’ve been moving through the days. Broken. Battered. Heart rather tattered. I started writing almost two weeks ago and am just getting back at it. The weeks race by in a blur of living in the moment. Something I’ve gotten much better at. I used to live forward. Always. But when your life suddenly upends with cancer, you realize that each moment is what you have. Sometimes ALL you have.

So before I go back to the week before last to recap and update and remember, I’m going to start with the now. Because now there is an empty spot in my lap/by my side/on my leg. After 13 years of not getting a solitary moment of down time without a purring ball of fluff joining me, I’m empty. It’s a heartache piled upon the heartaches and feels like the breaking point. I can’t picture going forward without Pearl for solace. Her little kitty kisses have gotten me through all of the hard parts. She knew when I needed her even if I thought I didn’t. I could call to her, “Pearly-pearl! Sweetest kitty in the world!” And there she’d be in a flash. Meow. Up on my lap. “Here I am.”

In the last year especially, I’ve found my knees out from under me. Sadness overwhelming me like a dank, dense fog. And she’d appear. Purr. Head under my hand. “I’m here.” And when I had each of the babies in my big, round belly. And growing. She’d hop up on the couch with me and spread her long, furry body across the bump. Thrilled by my stillness and restful state. Willing me to please slow down and just sit a spell.

When Tuesday came and the hubby was loading up to head to California for a couple of days I said, “I have a bad feeling. Pearly-girl doesn’t look right.” It took a bit before he fully agreed. Trying to dismiss my maternal worries. But I just knew. I was at the vet within two hours — x-rays, temperatures, pokes. And even as she had that thermometer rammed up her butt twice, she barely flinched. Wouldn’t look at me. My heart started to crack.

The kind vet. (So kind.) Said, “She’s barely middle-aged. Don’t give up hope yet.” But I saw it in his eyes. They even went through the motions of “have you been away recently on a trip?” No. She isn’t depressed. She is NOT herself. Not my kitty.

It wasn’t until noon on Wednesday — when the blood tests came back — that my fears were confirmed. She was in full kidney failure. A blockage out of nowhere. And she was done. Suffering through. I tried to keep her on my lap. Hold her. But the ultimate lap cat was stiff. No idea where she was. Yeowling in misery. My heart cracked open. And I had to help her.

The vet was willing to come over in the middle of the night if I needed him to help sustain her — just so I didn’t have to deal with this without the hubby. But I couldn’t do that to the one who had always been there for me. Always. It was something I had to go alone. I got a plan in place with Purse Girl and Lady Lou and True Blue and L-Rocks and Nanner’s mom. My own mom was crying so hard that we knew we were of no help to each other. The hubby was in meetings in San Jose and I went inside myself. Prepped to break the news to my two broken-hearted girls. (My friends, you have no idea how much you saved me.) Then after pictures, many kisses, and hugs, carried her to the car and made Purse Girl drive.

Even though you know this little being may only have hours to go. Even though you know from the sweet, sweet doc that those hours will be full of suffering. There is nothing on this world like carrying your sweet, innocent little kitty-baby into that room. Knowing that this is absolutely it.

I find myself wanting to go back. Take it back. Pick her up. Bring her home. I keep looking at websites for Manx (even though she was the pound kitty version). But you can’t replace a love like that. It will just take time.

We had a theme song for her. It’s something we do with the family members — both human and canine. And Lady Lou posted it on her Facebook status with the RIP. “Pearl, pearl, twist-n-twirl. Jump around like a flyin’ squirrel. Don’t you cuss and don’t you swear. Jump right out and form a SQUARE.” (Yes, we lifted a bit from Bugs Bunny. I doubt they’ll mind.)

And then today would’ve been my Mima’s 90th birthday and also is the 9th anniversary of my uncle Stu’s suicide. Oh Friday full of heart break. Here you are.

It’s with those sentiments that I take you back to last week...


SOMETIME LAST WEEK IN THE KINGDOM OF BOUL-DAY:
There comes a time in cancerville when you become a ghost. The initial fire and fame drawn from a diagnosis of the dreaded c-word becomes a distant memory. The cross over can be all but imperceptible. The calls slowly trickle away. The go-tos stop remembering that you have further to go. “Shouldn’t it be over by NOW?!”

Damn, but it should be.

One of my friends called it a marathon. I think of it as an ironman. The CANCERVILLE IRONMAN. And you may even get the added bonus of a century run just as you’re crossing the finish line. You just never know what lucky surprises and prizes may await around the next corner. Not to mention that the main even consists of a bike ride through quicksand, a swim through crocodile-infested waters and then a sprint across hot coals.

But I didn’t even know about the invisible part. Life goes on. People try, try, try. But it’s impossible for someone to KNOW what it’s like unless. Unless they have been taken to a room and told by a kind doctor that you have something growing deep inside you that is intent on kicking the shit out of you. [Pun intended.]

Pity party barely contained, I woke up today with a renewed sense of gettin er dun. After a day of tears and outbursts and a heart-pounding anxiety breakthrough of my drugged Lexapro state, I faced the sun. It was a new day. A new year. And a new round of chemo.

Thing is, we were lulled into complacency by over two weeks of nearly normal existence. No more spontaneous poop combustions (aka SPCs). The hubby was able to go for a hike even without having to race home. We both took off as much work as we could and savored mornings snuggled on the couch — sipping lattes, reading the paper, playing angry birds and letting the girls watch Disney XD until their brains started to leak from their ears. Some days we'd head out for an adventure. Other days we could be found eating dinner still in our PJs.

One day we even hit the gym. The girls swam in the heated pool outside while the hubby and I switched off with workouts. Another day we hit the gym and let the girls play in the kid center while we got massages. Uh. Yes. (Love my new gym.)

We made palettes on the floor in the living room and watched movies via Netflix streaming and on in demand by the bucketful. We had spontaneous gatherings with good friends we happened to run into on the fly. We ice skated and went for gelato. We hit a new favorite pizza place more than once. (Along with the new favorite ice cream spot next door.) And we hit the town for Christmas eve. Got all gussied up and had a ball at True Blue's annual bash. Then, on the way home, had an extra burst of energy and dropped by TRPL TRBL's for a final toast to the evening.

But my favorite part? Being together. Not many appointments, no email and lots of cuddles. And the hubby getting a nice long taste of medical freedom.

Just before Christmas — as we prepared for a few long weeks of bliss — I had a scare that almost caused a SPC in me. I’d dutifully completed my 40-years-old booby squashing. (I’m such a rule follower.) Then I got called back in. It seemed like no big deal. Something about dense tissue. Yadda-yadda-yadda. So I made the appointment without giving it much thought. It wasn’t until I walked into the room and saw the scan with the bright spot circled that I paused. “This is the area we are concerned about.” Oh.

I bellied up to the squasher. It was a spatula-sized one for squashing that bright spot that was now causing me to dim. And I went back to the waiting area with the rest of the shirtless women and texted the hubby. “This may take a while.” Sure enough, they called me back again. “The radiologist is still concerned. We need another. This is going to hurt. We recommend Advil.” So while the hubby and the girlies are home baking cookies, I’m starting to fade. “Just tell me. I’ve been through this already. Don’t take me into a room. Just level with me.” I think I scared her with my fierce tone. But she faced me and said, “I truly think it’s okay. But we just want to be sure.” And they weren’t sure until after one last squash that made me think perhaps that one may just be ripped clean off. To hell with surgery.

The wait was beginning to be painful. My armpits started to squirt water and my face was the color of a beet. The hubby texted back, “WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?!” I started to let my mind race. Surely no. Could the universe really be this cruel? I jumped back to the story of Bill and Mary. Friends’ of Nanner’s fam. He was fighting Stage IV colon cancer and she got breast cancer. Seriously.

They finally took me to the room. But it was all okay. I took a big gulp of air and went into the little room to dress. Swabbing at my sweaty pits with the supplied wipes and feeling really sorry for the next sap who got stuck with that sweaty booby top.

Then on New Year’s Eve we headed to the Rock-es and partied like it was 2010. Beat the hell out of the pinata Amy G sent us that was labeled with 2010 all over it. I was so, so sure that we were turning a corner. Starting fresh. Even with the chemo ahead. There was no possible way to prep myself for losing more of my solace within a week or so. No more furry, purry beast. Tail-less wonder cat to the rescue.

So now that I’m down two key pieces of my support net and my husband still has more cancer fighting ahead, I have to stop. Think. Wonder. Cry. Then pull myself up and together. And get on with it yet again. (Though this time I may be limping a bit.)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Losing my Religion. REM. I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try.

Happy Humbug.

Twas 17 days before Christmas. The tree lights were twinkling and the girls were dumping ornaments onto the branches in big, non-decorous clumps. We sipped our Allegro Organic Mayan Spice 73 Drinking Chocolate and the Christmas tunes pumped through the speakers via iTunes. (My carefully cultivated Christmas mix is now up to over 9 hours of play time. Thankyouverymuch.) And the hubby ran back and forth to the potty with near-clockwork-precision. Pooping in time with The Waitress’ Christmas Wrapping and Pottery Barn (A Cool Christmas). [insert needle-scratch.]

Yes. Reality impinges. There I sat, on the couch, still in my PJs. Not having showered since — er — SUNDAY. The hubby has poop running down his leg. And I can’t seem to muster the energy to hang even one effin ornament. Holly-jolly-holy-moly.

All I can say is: WE’RE TRYING. SO. I may not make it to Sturtz and Copeland for the prerequisite 20-feet of genuine evergreen garland made of fraser fir, blue-berried juniper and incensed cedar. It’s DECEMBER 8th and I still haven’t bought a single item for the advent calendar (the girls have taken to putting their own random things in the pockets). The Elf on the Shelf has been officially tainted because the girls pulled him from the box themselves. And I just went along, “Yep. You’re probably right. If you touch him, he loses his magic. That’s what it says.” Mother-of-the-Year yet again. But I’m thinking self-preservation because who SERIOUSLY has the TIME and the MEMORY to move that damned thing around EVERY SINGLE STINKIN’ NIGHT FOR 17+ SOLID DAYS?!

Why do the holidays have to be so HARD? When did celebrating PEACE ON EARTH become a race to the finish? That we get so busy running to recitals, concerts, parades, parties, drop-ins and plays that we don’t have time to just sit and stare at the $50 tree we just hauled home on the roof of our car from Whole Foods? (The LED lights alone added at least another $50 to that total.)

I used to stare —open-mouthed— at my Papa when he’d mumble, “Bah. Humbug.” Thinking: “How can you possibly be ANYTHING BUT EXCITED about CHRISTMAS, for pete’s sake?!” But now that I’ve reached a year where sugarplums seem to be replaced by hard liquor and magic highjacked by too many days in the same smelly pajamas. Well. I think I’m starting to get it.

Yes, yes, this year may have sucked a bit of the life out of me. It may have officially turned me into that curmudgeon that’s been threatening to come out for years. But, give me a break already. I DID buy a LIVE tree, did I not? Even though the ease and eco-friendliness of that Target, pre-LED-lit 100% artificial Virginia pine held a certain thrall. There’s some hope in THAT.

I know. I DID sit there at Jeff Jewell’s memorial on Monday night. Tears streaming down my face (along with snot once the real sobs kicked in). Listening to story upon story about his joy of life. His wide-open embrace of every minute aspect of LIVING. It made me want to learn the names of each person I meet and actually remember them the next time I see them at Southern Sun. It made me toy with the idea of getting up and taking a shower. Or, better yet, just GETTING UP.

I watched the slide show of his Rocky Mountain High with his chest emblazoned with hundreds of various race bibs. His tight little ass glued to bike seat upon bike seat for the many thousands of miles he rode through the mountains. His face fierce with concentration as he scaled yet another peak on his skate skis. (Some of this WHILE he was undergoing rigorous chemo and the after-effects of multiple brain surgeries.) And, yes, I’ll admit to training for that half-marathon this past spring with him as the inspiration. “You really need to MOVE YOUR ASS. JJ did this with a LEMON-SIZED TUMOR IN HIS SKULL.”

But what now? I’m all fought out. Christmas spirit draining out of me like the poop draining out of the hubby’s ass every five seconds. (I warned you: HOT MESS.)

I’ll get it back. I’m sure to. Hell, I might even get up and walk outside for a sec. Channel me some JJ and maybe even make it to the end of the street.

For now, we celebrate the end of that damnable radiation. Wait, with baited breath, for the hubby’s rectum to shrink back to it’s un-ulcerated/passable-shit size. (I did read that putting things into your rectum can cause this same condition. Just sayin’.)

We also celebrate having a break from CANCER. With the exception of one appointment on the 21st with Dr. J, we are FREE from happy-cancer-thoughts until January (when chemo starts back). So, for that, I may walk to the kitchen for another doughnut.

Instead: kudos and BIG BOOBIE STRENGTH to AG, happy official potty-pooping to KD, love, love, love/strength/props to SJ, <3 to RR and maybe I’ll bake some crescents for the love and memory of Mima (and so the girls don’t give up on me completely).

2011? Can you please hurry? Give-a-bitch-a-break? Eh? (The Veuve Clicquot just arrived on the Liquor Mart truck. Don’t make me get it out...)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Father Christmas. The Kinks. Father Christmas, give us some money. We’ll beat you up if you make us annoyed.

Please. Don't. Forget. Your. Pants.

I think it was only two days after I last wrote that my days went from sad, sad, sad to one really big happy. That’s how this works. One day the hubby is DOWN so low I just can’t even remember the last time he was up, to being so up and almost back to normal that I catch a glimmer of hope and stick it right in my pocket for safe keeping.

But today I spent mostly working on getting an obit submitted for JJ. Helping Heather help Sherry with plans for the Colorado memorial next Monday. My suggestion of the Chautauqua locale worked, the deal was sealed and now I have T-Man on the program layout (she’s a genius), the printer on stand by and just need to get these newspapers to charge less than $1800 so that we can get the word out to his many friends here. YES. I DID SAY $1800. Un-frickin-believable. For an OBITUARY. Whatever happened to someone so young, so beloved dying being NEWS?

Then the hubby and I went to Tuesday Cancer Club. It’s been an okay ride so far, but today felt contrived. Like I was supposed to feel and share when all I really wanted to do was feel a glass of wine in my hand and maybe share the rest of the bottle with you if you come over.

Other than that, we’ve lived. Adopted a needy family for Thanksgiving. Got haircuts. Took our amazing friend, Michael, up on his offer to photograph our crazy family. Then spent the next 2 or 3 hours walking around the lake and acting like the goofy people we are. The hubby even took a flying leap off of a boulder and said, “Mikey! Watch me!” Can’t wait to see that shot.

All of a sudden, school was out and it was time to fetch the brother and sis-in-law from the airport. You see, a few weeks back I sent out a text. It was to each of the hubby’s brothers. And the gist was, “he could use a pick-me-up. please come.” They all responded in the affirmative, but schedules wouldn’t synch. So Gary was the first to book and and come. (He’s always been a brown-noser. :)

It was great having them here. The girls LOVED every minute. And I was thankful for the company and extra hand in getting the sleeping babies from the car. It’s weird how even those small things that you used to have help with before cancer take on this bigger meaning when you’re down two extra hands. Sometimes I just want to walk straight into the house and have someone else carry in the sleepy lumps. But when you have a hubby who has to make a beeline for the b-room or risk I-Zheet M’Drursz...well. It’s me, myself and I.

We loved having them here. The hubby got a much-needed diversion and we all just enjoyed the time together. We cooked and spent T-giving at True Blue’s. It was a great day. Then cousin Charlotte came up for a night out before they left. The Rock-es donated their empty house to the cause and a good time was had by all. I hated to see them leave.

On one particularly windy night while they were here —Thanksgiving eve I believe— I woke to hearing the world blowing apart. So I race out of bed —sans pants— and run to the front door to see what we’re losing out there. I notice that my newly re-created dried arrangement in the antique french flower bucket has blown down AGAIN. I already lost a set of $12.99 dried chinese lanterns from Whole Foods and was damned-and-determined to not lose the replacements. A quick glance at the clock shows 2:19 am, so I think, “no one’s up anyway” and dart out the front door in my too-short-t-shirt and bare ass. I grab the bucket and shoosh back inside. Whew. Bucket and dried shit saved. Close the door. And see my next door neighbor pull up into his drive. Damn. That was a little too close. Because, really, no one needed to see that.

But since I was up, I took a look out back and saw the umbrellas that we really needed to already have stored in the garage had blown down. I was envisioning our whole pergola being beat to shit by the stupid metal umbrella. So I run grab PANTS and head to the back door. I open it a crack and WHOOOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH. I close it back right quick. I think my head may have just blown off and I can hear all sorts of shit blowing around back there. Shit-damn. I could be killed. But. No. Stubborn streak kicks in and I’m out there. Wrestling umbrellas and oil lamps to save them from themselves. Proud of myself and my bravery, I reach for the door to head back to bed. LOCKED. Seriously.

I think about spending the night in the garage with the mice. And shudder. It’s COLD. I try a couple of other doors —hoping against hope that we were neglectful. No dice. WTF. I hear a tree splinter and something go WHAM against the fence. Oh crap. I’m about to be be-headed. So I go back to the door and PULL. It snaps open. Wasn’t locked all the way. OMFG. THAT WAS CLOSE.

About this time, the hubby emerges. Sleepy eyes. Boxers. Scratching his hiney blisters. “What are you DOING?” I just shake my head and lead him back to nite-nite time. And a quick check of Weather Bug on the iPhone shows 96MPH winds. I really could’ve been killed.

And with the departure of the bro and SIL, the hubby bottomed out again. Like magic. Or a magic tablecloth trick. He held it together and then Saturday, Sunday and Monday he disappeared again. He was so sick that his legs gave out. He couldn’t go more than 15 minutes without racing to the porcelain throne. Pooping like nobody’s business. I’ve never seen such. My heart started to ache with empathy. And I felt my ass start to clench and quiver each time he ran for the tile. I mean, the poor guy’s blistered, radiated ass was just ON FIRE. And pooping every five seconds through the screen door that his swollen rectum had become. Uh. Yea.

So the girls and I did what any good, loving family would do. We left. We hit the hot brunch spot in Denver, Snooze, and then headed to see King Tut at DAM. Then we came home to watch the GAMECOCKS kick some kitty ASS. Next day, we went to the Merriwinkles for dinner. Life almost as usual, but without my sidekick. I mean, the Great Pumpkin Bellini was SO DELISH, but drinking alone at 1pm in Denver with your two kids in preparation for the crowds at the museum. Pathetic.

Back at home, we talked and decided that my booked trip to Ohio with Purse Girl and Joyful for the annual purse-a-palooza was a no-go. There’s no taking kids to south Denver to get casts off, to singing performance concerts, to piano recitals, to Christmas parades, to volleyball and to birthday parties when you can’t stand upright without a poop-shoot going ready-aim-fire down your leg. Eww. And ouch.

By Monday, I was DONE. I wanted to cry and yell, “MERCY” to whatever older neighbor kid was doing the indian rug burn on my arm. I watched him disappear into a ball in the guest bed as I raced out of the door to a meeting. I knew he couldn’t drive himself to radiation, so I raced back home and got him there myself only 10 minutes (or so) late. And as I dropped him at the door to park, I said, “Can’t you ask about ibuprofen? I mean, a swollen colon? Anti-inflammatory? Right?” Turns out, I was.

Fast forward to Monday night and there you see him. Back upright. Me cautiously optimistic. And he only shitting about 4 times vs. 14. I’m a frickin’ genius.

So today we worked and went out to lunch together. Mulled over a return to the Ohio plan (for me). He drove himself to radiation and we went to Tuesday Cancer Club. I think I wasn’t as dialed in because I just couldn’t be. I was ready to shout from the rooftops, “World! Hey WORLD! Looky here! See who has re-emerged?” Up, making coffee, packing lunches, laughing at my jokes, smiling at me like he loves me again. The Tuesday miracle.

Then the minute I start to do my happy dance? He says, “Not so great. Bed.” And it’s only 8:15. What’s a girl to do?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Comin’ Around. Steve Earle. My heart's a little ragged but it's all that I got.

Get the FUNK OUT (of my face).

I just sat here making a spreadsheet of the meds the hubby has been prescribed over the last five months. That it literally takes a spreadsheet to decipher and track what he is putting in his body. Well.

I am so, so bone tired right now. My mind and heart are heavy with sadness. It seems like just when I think I can’t possibly ever feel more tired. Well there you have it.

It’s been a few weeks since I last took the time to sit down and write. I sorely needed to catch up with work and give my stupid old lady arm a break from the computer before I get carpal tunnel. Damnation. Instead of a kitchen re-model, I’m thinking we should blow out a wall to install his and hers built in medicine cabinets.

So even though I was poised to write up a full page of no-complaints-here. Well, we’ve hit week four of radiation/chemo cocktails. And a friend of ours died on Monday. Which means this week FUCKING SUCKS.

The friend, Jeff Jewell, was one of the most positive, happy and full-of-life people I’ve known. You’d think that his passing after fighting a valiant fight against stage IV brain cancer — for 21 months — would light a fire under my ass. Make me so GD thankful for highly curable stage III rectal cancer. But instead, it took my slippery slope of mental stability and coated it with a solid sheet of arctic ice. The super thick solid kind. You feel me?

Sunday, we gathered on the tarmac at Jeffco airport, watching as the ambulance jet taxied towards us, with the waiting ambulance at our backs. Sixty of us. Huddled in the cold. Waiting for Jeff to come home. Back to his beloved Colorado after over three months at UCLA Med Center. I could never have prepared myself for seeing his wife, Sherry, emerge from that plane. Seeing her face. Anguish so clear it was palpable. Then watching her make her way through the crowd as the tears gushed forth. She looked so little. So alone. And there was not a dry eye on the runway.

When it was my turn? Well. She gave the head tilt. Said, “Oh girl.” And we exchanged our secret husbands-with-cancer mental handshake. I thought my insides would become my outsides. Inside-out-ness. I managed to thank her for their recent emailed support. Especially in light of all they were facing. And after a moment she said, “I never thought I’d be here.” Yes. I know that thought too too well.

After all of the equipment and paramedics were done doing their thing, the stretcher with Jeff’s prone body emerged. Head bandaged from way too much tinkering. Silent. Not Jeff. Everyone fell quiet though our intention had been huge cheers of WELCOME HOME. WE LOVE YOU. I think seeing someone who’d inspired us all to LIVE LIVE LIVE now lying there lifeless...well.

The plan was hospice at Balfour. Then hospice at home. We were waiting for the home phase to go visit. And it never happened. He arrived home and then left again within 24 hours.

Even though they are friends that we know mainly through friends, he always had a big hug for each of our girls. Always remembered their names. I don’t know how he did it. But that was who he was. We weren’t in the main circle, just outside of it. Sharing probably eight BFFs in common. Close enough to be painfully aware of what the world just lost.

Friends arrived at Balfour just after his departure. Sherry-baby had just placed a note in his hand. During their two minutes of alone time all day. And then he flew away. The planned beer for his lips was still in Jamie’s hand as he walked in, so they decided to do it any way. Then sat there and toasted him and laughed and told stories until the wee hours. While Jeff rested at long, long last. That moment is one of the most beautiful I’ve heard in a while. A celebration of a life well-lived by some of those who loved him most.

One of my favorite repeated stories is from when he was in the hospital after one of his 4 or 5 brain surgeries. He’d just been watching television when the doc came in and asked him his name. He looked at the doc and said, “Mr. Kibbles.” I guess he’d just seen a commercial for Kibbles and Bits.

Fond farewell, Mr. Kibbles. I’m not quite sure what we’ll do without you. Don’t you know that 41 is far too young to leave when you clearly had so much left to do?

If you have $20 extra in your pocket, I know that Sherry could really use some help paying for the parking fee at DIA that stretched over three months without anyone realizing it. Or for the two months of Marriott stays that haven’t yet been funded by friends. It’s amazing how expensive it gets trying to save someone’s life. Visit the Jewell Fundraiser page for more info. Jimmy-hat set it up. (We love us some Jimmy-JR.)

PART TWO
So back to us and our sad-sack-story. We’ve been trudging through the ritual of daily radiation and mountains of pills. Though the hubby still maintains that oral chemo is so much more preferred over wearing the poison-spewing-but-oh-so-fashionable fanny pack. He takes about 13 pills on a good day and shoots foam up his ass to ease the blisters from the radiation about four times a day. He has been shitting about every hour and sometimes through the night (on a good day), but that seems to be easing off now that I went to the white bread and canned fruit aisle. (They make that shit in ORGANIC form. What an oxymoron.)

He spends a lot of time cocooned on the couch in the Cronin’s afghan that we never returned (I used to think that word was African and it seemed really odd that people would wrap up in an African. But what did I know?) or crouched on the toilet. It’s like having a newborn at times. Like I should really try to nap when he does. But someone’s got to mind those kids.

We also have at least two doctor appointments a week (on a good week) at which we usually receive at least one or two new prescriptions for some new ailment that has cropped up due to the treatments. So my usual gameplan is: drop the hubby off at home so he can jump from the couch to the potty, head to Pharmaca and hang out while they fill the new Rx (usually shopping for more makeup that I never wear), then head to Little Whole (the smaller Whole Foods closest to our house) to shop for anything that doesn’t have beans, grains, skins, nuts, fresh ingredients, or taste in it. Most likely I then go back to Pharmaca again for whatever new thing has cropped up since I left for the store. Then it’s home to decipher the new drugs, unpack all of my new makeup and grab a can of something to slop on white bread for dinner.

Early on he felt well enough for us to bike to Cafe Aion for a date night and dinner (after a one night delay). But that was only the first week and by the next day, he couldn’t get off of the couch long enough to participate in Halloween with the angel and Spiderman/Dash/Eeyore (bean was all three at some point in the day). Suck-tastic.

Since then, it’s been minute to minute. We’ll go. We’ll do. We’ll be. Then we won’t. Just like that.

This week, he hit bottom. Even though I had JJ Strong songs dancing in my head. I kept trying to impart that to him. “Remember when Jeff spent the weekend cross country skiing while he was on chemo?” So not helpful. I’d hoped to inspire. Ignite. Instead, I bottomed out too. Jeff was strong, positive, hopeful and, well, HEROIC. As was Sherry. Throughout their entire ordeal. They both beamed out to us as role models when we got our diagnosis. Facing cancer with dignity and grace. And I was trying to figure out how they were possibly able to maintain that. Heather reminded me that he didn’t have any side effects from any of the treatments (and they sometimes wished he would so they could know it was WORKING). But still.

And I guess what I thought of is with a diagnosis as dire as theirs was, hope is all you have. You can’t AFFORD to wallow in self-pity. It’s chin up or go down in flames. Because for us, there is a tangible end in sight. Once we are through this shit-pile of treatments, once we get a few weeks’ break for the holidays, once we get through January and February of chemo. Once THAT is all over. THEN we can be done. Really, truly DONE — with only five more years of doctor’s appointments while we hold our breath and pray-pray-pray that it hasn’t come back to go.

They would have a surgery and get a nugget of hope back. A treatment and another nugget. For us, it’s heads-down and get through this for seven months straight. No breather or hope nugget. Just DO IT. And no soup for you.

But you can’t really compare. We all get dealt a hand. No matter how shitty. And we deal the best way we can.

What we can learn from all of this? The Matthews are a HOT MESS. We’ve been dealt a hand that reeks so badly that I often can’t breathe for many days in a row. But we have so much optimism mixed in with our realism, that it balances out from time to time. And, for us, getting out all that’s true and hard in this makes us feel stronger.

Besides, now we have this new angel up there with Mima keeping an eye on us all for extra luck.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Hot Mess. Uncle Kracker. I like tequila on my sunrise. A little black around my blue eyes. Walkin’ on wire. Let it ride.

Making Chitlins...

Ready, aim, spew...

Bean woke us up last night. Not once. Not twice. But THREE times. Since the break, this has become rather commonplace. It can’t be easy having a big ole fat-ass cast on your arm. So even in my exhausted haze, I TRY REALLY HARD TO BE NICE. (The hubby? Uh. Not so much.)

But he started his daily-double-down of the oral chemo yesterday. AND the daily ass-zap also known in some circles as radiation. So I get it. He’s tired. And grumpy. (This is where you should ask me whether or not I’m jumping up to grab bean and let him sleep. My answer? [insert crickets].) I get really tired watching him be tired. Seriously.

So last night he got up twice. Got her back to bed. Agreed to lie down with her FOR ONE MINUTE. And the second time he was more than pissed. So when I heard a really sad-sounding cry, “Moommmmyy?!” at around 5ish, I bolted from my bed like it was MY ass that was on fire. I raced to her bedroom door (still closed) and gently pushed it open though I could feel her right on the other side. I started my, “Time to get back in bed” speech. Then smelled something. Decided to switch on the light. And looked down to see that I was standing in vomit. OH-GOD-ALL-MIGHTY-YOU-CAN’T-BE-EFFIN-SERIOUS.

She shrugs. “It’s just stomach juice.” And then, “I got some on my cast.” Shitdamn. I quickly assess. And decide I need to put on some pants and call in for back up. Two reasons: 1. I was dangerously close to adding to said mess as I was already going into dry heaves (did I mention I have the weakest stomach on the planet?) and 2. Pants are key in a crisis.

I tell bean to stay where she is — DON’T MOVE — and race to the bedroom to grab pants and rouse the hubby. He’s up in a flash, feeling sheepish for his last round of anger. “I should’ve known something was up.” That boy is positively black-and-blue from beating himself up.

We whip into cleaning mode. Find the bed is also covered. I grab Clorox wipes to clean the cast and get her into the bathroom so she can heave again. Hubby cleans the floor and strips the bed. I sit with Bean on the bathroom floor, waiting for the next Vesuvian eruption and she says, “Why is there purple and red on my feet?” Oh GAWD. It’s vomit splatter.

And she has flatly refused to let me pull back her hair, so there she is now — on the couch, puke bucket at her side, vomit crusted in her bob. THIS, my friends, is THE LIFE.

The hubby just left for his second radiation treatment and just took his 3rd dose of oral chemo. And I am praying that the house doesn’t turn volcanic with more spew from the other orifices in residence.

After the canceled trip to SC last week (following the multiple ER visits in quick succession and dire warning from Dr. J), we made the most of our time before the next treatment. In between trips to south Denver for the bean surgery follow-up and to the vet for suture infection checks that is. And after the big radiation simulation where the hubby finally broke down and got his ass tattooed. (He’s like cancer kid gone wild.) Though the little marker dots don’t really give me much fodder in reality. Miss-miss says they look like little swords.

On Thursday, I went to a benefit for the School Food Project with Steph. Sipping wine while listening to great stories from Ann Cooper about her prior life as chef for the Grateful Dead — among others — while Chef Eric Skokan of Black Cat cooked up tasty eats in the kitchen of the private home where the event was hosted. Then Chef Eric blew us away with an explanation of his conservation efforts — including the reintroduction of heirloom varietals of many veggies and mulefoot hogs. I was in — er — HOG HEAVEN.

By the weekend, we were ready for revelry. With miss-miss off at a playdate until after dinner, we scooped up bean and headed out in the rain to hit the Tap Room at Avery Brewing. Then it was over to Pizzeria Basta to satisfy my craving of over two weeks. We ran into the Lewtanos and had a great catch up dinner with them. And, later, crashed in on the Rock-es for another round of catch up. Grand.

Saturday had us up early so the hubby could meet a friend who recently battled cancer. The girls and I hit the Farmer’s Market for eggs and apples and then we all reunited for soccer. And the rest of the weekend was all about catching up on laundry, trying to use up our CSA with some kitchen time and mundane-ness. All good.

By Sunday night, my nerves were jangling so loudly I felt like the jail keeper on watch. I could feel the anxiety enveloping me like a heavy, wet blanket working in defiance to gravity. I had to walk outside and pace and take big gulps of windy air at least twice when it reached my chest. Once it had swallowed my head (like that stupid boa constrictor song “oh no, oh no, he’s up to my toe...), I realized that I needed to shift. Nothing can hold back a tide hellbent on going high. Especially when you’re talking a high beam of radiation that simply must be aimed and shot at your hubby’s arse. EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR SIX WEEKS. Or else.

It’s just that he had been BACK. With the one exception of that in-the-ER-almost-croaking-because-of-azoles thing. Cooking, making up songs, running the dog to the vet, making plans. THAT GUY. The one I’ve missed so achingly. And, now, I have to watch him slip away again and I. DON’T. WANT. TO. [stomp both feet]

But away we went. Vet (Ruby-Tues) then dentist (me) then radiation run-through (both of us). I lingered, hovering even though the sign said to WAIT IN THE MAIN AREA. The nurses noticed and took pity. Let me go back and watch. They apologized and said, “Well, this is the one place where another woman can ask your husband to take off his pants and it’s okay.” One later added that she felt badly asking him to take them off and not offer him dinner afterwards.

I watched them position him. Get the lasers just so. Then they wrote something on his butt cheeks with a Sharpie, pulled out a camera, and took pictures. Just like a frat joke. (I’m waiting for it all to pop up on YouTube.)

Yesterday, for the real deal, I went in again and filmed it all on the iPhone because he wanted to see for himself. Seems that he can’t see very much from the face down/ass up position. We mused that it was something like going in for a massage. “We’re going to have you start face down...”

It also reminded me of the crop marks on a press-ready brochure. Line up the crossmarks and GO. I asked him if he felt crunchy on the way out and someone working there overheard. Should’ve seen that look. I seriously think it was the first time he’d heard that. And I’m not really all that original.

So after that, and then another round of support group/cancer class, I think we have shifted. Square into ‘old salt’ category. No longer wide-eyed and searching. Just on the mission and determined to finish.

And here we go. On to the next one. Vomit or not.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Fee Da Da Dee. The Guggenheim Grotto. All you dreamers wishing for tomorrow. Life is elsewhere only brings you sorrow.

Boring is for losers.

I flat-out jinxed myself. I had to go and post right on Facebook (for the world to see) that I hoped for a full week of boring. I had even started to think about footwear — which is always a good sign of normalcy returning. The last chemo and IV combo had gone swimmingly. He did quite well in spite of neuropathy and some fatigue. So even though the still-not-100-percent-but-close hubby was taking leave of Boulder for a business trip to Northern Cali, I was calm. I would have time to SHOP and go out to eat and do whatever I damned well felt like doing for a few days. None of the old crazy business of being stressed out by only having one set of hands. Why, I’m pretty sure that practice has made perfect in that realm by now. (And we had meals coming for three of the nights. You people ROCK.)

So off he went after a day of miss-miss home with the croup (and yet another doctor visit) and our very first cancer support group/class. Ever.

By the end of that day, I had cried so hard in front of a room full of strangers that I couldn’t speak and had to pass my turn. (VERY odd for me, as anyone who knows me can attest. I am NEVER at a loss for WORDS.) I’d driven to the same hospital TWICE and was sure my car could do it without me in it. I’d felt my heart crack open hearing the hubby’s eloquent speech about what had lead him to come to such a group. I’d felt that crack widen when I heard the plight of a very young woman who couldn’t decide if she wanted a double mastectomy. (We cried together during the break.)

I thought I was ready for anything that week had to deal out at me. Shoulda put on the kevlar.

Tuesday I had one of those wondrous days. And by wondrous I mean I was able to work ALL DAY LONG WITHOUT INTERRUPTION. I got shit done. Kicked some ass and took a few names.

By Wednesday I felt caught up enough to join Purse Girl for breakfast at Southside Walnut. I’d gone to the mall. Found some cool boots. Gotten caught up a little with work. Gotten the girls off to school with no stress. I was ready. Bring it. We wrapped up the day by having dinner with the PG fam and heading home and to bed at a decent hour.

At some point, the hubby called to say he had a weird rash. Pinpricks that sounded like bed bugs. Shitdamn. He’d called the doc on call and he said to stop taking the pills he was taking for thrush (that had developed because of the chemo) and grab some benadryl before he hopped on the plane home. He came in at midnight, gave me a quick kiss and we went to sleep.

Next morning, I got up to let him sleep in. Start lunches and girls-gone-crazy morning. I was soooo hoping he’d wake up in time to run them to school so I could get to work on my deadlines.

He walks in the kitchen. Wobbly. What tha—? Plops on the couch. Full of irritation, I say, “What are you DOING?” Can’t remember the answer. Proceed to finish breakfast, ask him if he wants to eat. Keep making lunches, clean the kitchen, make lattes. “What the hell is wrong with him?” (Fully thinking that it was the late night flight and that he should effin SUCK IT UP.)

So when I glance over and see him about to roll straight out of the kitchen chair, my antennae finally goes UP. “Kenny? Are you okay?!?”

“I think I almost passed out.”

“Are you kidding?” Not kidding. So I drop what I’m doing and follow him to the couch. Finally getting a good hard look at his face. He looked like elephant man. Upper lip out to HERE. Eye swollen shut. Hands about 3 times their normal size and BRIGHT CHERRY RED. Whelps covering every inch of him. Holy shit on a shingle.

Then he started to shake and I started to FREAK. I said, “You’ve gotta go in. But I need to take a shower first.” Uh. Yea. Who they hell knows what the eff I was thinking. I ran downstairs, took off all my clothes and called Purse Girl. “I need help. I think something’s wrong with Kenny and I need you to come take the girls to school. Oh. And I’m totally naked and don’t know what I’m doing. Should I take him to the ER? Am I over-reacting? Am I losing my mind?”

She said, “Glad you told me you’re naked. Just don’t tell me if you’re touching yourself. Get in the shower. Yes, he needs to go in. I’m on my way.”

I took the fastest shower of my life (only truly necessary because my hair was greasy enough to fry french fries and I have a strict policy of never showing up at the hospital or doctor’s office looking less than ravishing. You just never know.)

I got dressed and called the RMCC. The triage nurse said, “This is too urgent for us. You need to take him to the ER.” Well. Guess the shower could’ve waited. Just this once.

Purse Girl ran in and said, “Let me see your tongue.” It was still kind of normal-sized. Good there. Took the girls and said, “Call me.” Then I got a text from Lady Lou and I called her back, “I’m taking Kenny to the ER. Something isn’t right.” She said, “I’ll meet you there.”

We race over like bats out of hell. The hubby says, “Don’t kill us.” I think I was just over-compensating for the fact that I took the time to shower. Ugh.

We get there, Lady Lou has already scoped out the scene and shows us where to go. They check vitals, etc. He’s shivering like a chihuahua. And the morning goes forward. Him hooked to an IV. Being poked, prodded and studied like a strange specimen of “what tha—ness.” They gave him steroids, benadryl (though suggested we just give him more of our stash to avoid the $100 a pill charge) and two bags of IV fluids. Then when we were about to leave, he spiked a fever of 100.4. So they took blood cultures which had to come from his hands because his veins had withered. Then his hands turned a gorgeous shade of BLUE. And I look at the nurse (who had just tripped over the cart and dropped the needle) and said, “What in the HELL is wrong with him?!?”

I was very sure they were going to admit him. The ER doc looked at me and said, “Are you okay with him going home?” And I said, “How the hell should I know?!” And then, “NO!” But took some breaths, consulted with Lady Lou and said, “Okay, sure. Tell me what to do.”

The gist was: if he turns blue, stops breathing or bleeds from his ears (Purse Girl’s wise addition)...call 9-1-1. And I’m thinking I shouldn’t take a shower before next time.

Home we went. Completely shredded. Already trying to puzzle out the next day’s required oncologist follow up appointment that was to take place right about girl pick up time. Sat on the front porch and stared up at the sky. For like — ever. Lady Lou had bean. Miss-miss was at soccer and had a ride home. Steph was picking up our new Rx and CSA. And dinner was being delivered by a mom friend from school. So we just sat. And I watched the hubby’s face start it’s slow return to normal.

Next day we hit the oncologist and she walks in and says, “I’m sorry. But WHAT THE H-E-DOUBLE-L?!?”

Our sentiments exactly. Turns out that he is one of less than 1% of the population who is allergic to azoles. I shouted, “Me too!” (And I’m pretty sure most people are if they stop and think about it.) Is there any drug that doesn’t align perfectly with a cuss word? Seriously.

And, the thing is, he could’ve died. Dr. J said, “I was really surprised that they let you go. This could be fatal.” Uh. Yea.

She decided to keep the prednisone going and the antibiotics and the histamine blocker (pepcid) and tylenol. With a half-life of 5 to 6 days, he wasn’t out of the woods. But we decided to go whoop it up with our friends and keep the babysitter anyway.

This is another one of those times that I should’ve known better. But we went. And I drank wine by the gallon-full and then proceeded to cry and sob and make a general ass-mess of myself for most of the night. Ruining everyone’s fun (and my make up).

Woke up the next morning with a good old fashioned hangover (emphasized by extra crying and swollen eyes) and wondered, “Why is it that I can’t ever just cry alone and in private???”

But no time to lick the wounds of over-imbibe-and-diarrhea-of-the-mouth-and-get-sloshy-and-overly-emotional-ville. It was time to take the dog to the vet.

I barely made it. We waited while I swooned and ate chocolate candy from their Halloween dish. By the time they called us back, I was just hoping not to vomit on a varmint. He put dye in her eye and I closed my eyes in the dark room. Was abruptly brought back to life with the bright light’s return and to, “Well, she’s allergic to the sutures from last week’s surgery. We have to put her under and remove them immediately.”

OMFG. They did the deed and called me back because she wouldn’t wake up. I bent down to pet her and almost passed out. Then decided to plant it right there on the nasty vet floor and hang with my girl. She’s almost 12 and anesthesia just isn’t what it used to be. She stood up, fell over on me. I looked at the clock. Almost soccer time for miss-miss. Shit.

We consulted and they decided that they should just keep her for the day so she wouldn’t be alone while we traipsed down to Broomfield for soccer-palooza. Okay.

Game happened, we lunched at Chick-Fil-A with some of the team members and I dropped off the fam to go get my hair cut. (And colored though bean calls it “painted.”) As I sat in the chair with the foil on, I saw a picture of Michelle Williams in a pixie. And, newly inspired by G (therepublican), decided to go for it under the capable artistry of my highly skilled Edward-Scissor-Hands (aka Holly). Newly hair-free, I headed to the mall.

About an hour later, I happened to pull out my phone and saw four missed calls from the hubby. I thought, “Crap. He knows I’m at the mall and he’s PISSED.” Luckily I’d already completed my Forever XXI stop, had all of bean’s choices made and only had one more pair of pants to try on at Old Navy.

So although I called him back and heard the words, “Bean fell. I’m taking her to urgent care. I think she broke her arm.” I stood there. Went effing numb. Turned to the dressing room and proceeded to try on the pants for which I had come. (I did hurry.) I then headed to the line, found the shortest one and stood there. Waiting to pay for my purchase. It wasn’t until the woman ahead of me started to pay that panic started to set in. I shifted weight from foot to foot. Thought, “I should throw these clothes and RUN.” But waited. Got the cashier into a tither. Paid and then RAN to my car. (Delayed response anyone?)

It wasn’t until I was in the car and on the highway that I realized, “I have no fucking idea where he took her.” I made some calls. Lined up miss-miss extend-o-care (thanks Theos and Rock-es — you kept us UPRIGHT AGAIN. Time to MOVE). Asked the Rock-es to pick up the Tues at the appointed hour. And tried (again and again) to reach the hubby. As I closed in on Boulder, I took note of the Buff flags and the increasing traffic. It was 5pm. Game day. And I was headed straight into the yawning maw.

I thought, “I will NEVER make it to my baby. NEVER. I will pay FOREVER for those stupid wasted minutes in fucking OLD NAVY. And I will NEVER EVER win mother of the year.”

Exit to Foothills. Navigate traffic. Find the number for the hospital. Wrong place. Find the number for Urgent Care. Score! Navigate more traffic. Call mom. Call Purse Girl (sheer habit). Exit on Pearl. Hit 20th. Left on Alpine. More L-Rocks talking. (Mostly me, off of the cliff.) Jump over to Balsam. See the Volvo in the lot. Run in. (Ah, yes. Panic. You’ve officially arrived.)

Then. There was bean. Little face. Full of brave. (Daddy, not so much.) Another day. Another ER. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them both.

We had x-rays (excruciating and hubby had to be excused due to his treatment). She said she had to pee, but did NOT want to be moved. We waited some more. The nurse asked if I needed a box of wine. (Head reeled just a little, but...) The hubby overheard and saw the x-ray. Came back into the room. “It’s really bad.” And he started to cry. Very. Hard.

Then, the kind, kind doc explained it all. (Including the fact that he was a prostate cancer survivor who had a Gleason grade 9 diagnosis five years prior. Fist bumps and LIVESTRONG bracelets exchanged.)

Seems she hadn’t gone half-assed. In her effort to exit the death-trap-trampoline-that-we-shall-soon-torch to report that the big kids weren’t being safe, she over-stepped. Fell. Broke her arm just above her elbow. A serious, level three displaced fracture. Requiring surgery. Now.

Thing is, the local ortho surgeon felt more comfortable sending us to Children’s Hospital. They would be waiting. I asked if we had time to run home. He gave us 10 minutes. Then bean wet her pants.

So off we raced. Got dry clothes, tooth brushes, etc. House, injured dog, hysterical miss-miss in the capable hands of the Rock-es. Theos for back up (but we decided on a reprieve since they were in the midst of a dinner party.) The 45-minute drive took hours. We made calls, double-checked bean in the back and focused on getting there. Nearly silent. I repeated to the hubby, “This is SO NOT YOUR FAULT. It was an accident. Kids break arms. It happens.” He was starting to return a bit.

They got us back fairly quickly and then we sat. Waiting for ortho to get there. They wouldn’t let her eat or drink. Just. In. Case. They had movies. She wanted me on the gurney with her. And we waited more. Around 9:30 or so she said, “Mom? I think they forgot about my bedtime.” I agreed. They must’ve.

Then I looked at the hubby and noticed his lip was starting to swell. Swell. “I hope you brought your prednisone.” He had.

At around 10pm, the surgeon came in. Agreed with the prior diagnosis and said he’d book an OR and Dr. Chang for 7:30 am. We were free to eat and would be moved to a room.

That hospital is frickin’ awesome (in spite of the excruciatingly long wait). They’ve thought of and anticipated each and every need of families in crisis. 24-hour cafeteria, a long queue of movies on demand, Xbox in the room, futon for 1.5 in the room, linens, towels, razor, laundry room, full kitchen. It was heart-breaking to realize just how much time some families really end up spending there.

Just after midnight, we finally won the no IV for the night battle, made up our futon o’cardboard and snuggled in. Maybe two seconds later, it was morning and it was time to get her to the OR. She’d whimpered a lot during the night. Was clearly pissed at the temporary cast and the pulse-ox and, well, EVERY SINGLE OTHER THING.

We dressed like lightning and even managed to brush our teeth. Then we were holding her hand as they wheeled us down.

At this point in the game, I ceased to exist. Sure, I was cracking jokes and being my smart-assed-self. But I FELT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Nothing. Vacant. Nada. Rien. Nichts. I nodded to questions. Yes, yes, I understood that my baby was going under the knife. Yes, yes, risks associated. Laughed when the surgeon asked if she’d rather have medicine or be knocked over the head. And then kissed her bye and followed the hubby into the waiting area.

I made a few calls. Texted. Watched Hope Floats on the flatscreen across the room. Sipped bad coffee. Noted how similar the waiting room was to the one at Lutheran. And almost felt surprised to see the hubby next to me. Instead of behind those doors.

About an hour later, Dr. Chang and his cohort came out and sat down with us. (Which freaked me out for a second. Surgeons. Don’t. Sit.) But all went perfectly. She was in recovery. We could go back soon.

Two pins in her elbow now hold her humerus back together. Her arm is all swollen and the cast had to be cut to keep her circulation from being cut off. We go back to the hospital on Thursday to have it re-sealed. Six full weeks of cast life ahead.

When we got back there, she was already making demands. “Mom, you said I could have a popsicle.” One appeared. “Mom, I want a smoothie.” The nurses made do with a chopped up popsicle.

And that was nearly it. A few more hours back in the room with one grouchy bean while she came back to us. Yelling, “No cast!” And fighting with the nurse to “Take OFF!” the pulse-ox.” “I don’t want this ON ME!” Pulling at her IV. My happy girl was NASTY on anesthesia. Nasty, I say. “I want to sit UP!” “Don’t SIT me up!” “I want you to HOLD ME!” “NO! Don’t hold me!” I started to think I was becoming schizo. (Maybe I am.)

Around noon, we loaded her into a hospital-provided red wagon and headed home. Purse Girl brought lunch, prezzies and some cast bling. True Blue brought dinner. Rock-es and Theos gave us more love. De-LISH stopped by with cards and gifts. And she has officially been crowned QUEEN BEAN.

So now I can’t really say anything. I just keep thinking of all of that bad ju-ju that must be lurking around us. Saying, “I’ll GIVE YOU BORING, sister.” Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.

Spent? Empty? Hollowed out? Drained? Why yes. Yes indeedy.

Tomorrow we head in for the re-scheduled radiation simulation. Then we’re supposed to review the oral chemo regimen with the oncologist. (Though it hasn’t yet arrived in our mailbox as promised.) We also have another eye dye doggy appointment to see if the ulcer is going away in between that.

I think that Nanner’s Mom summed it up well, “We all agreed you needed a break, but...” Uh. Yea. The gods have a sick sense of humor.

And I am pretty sure that no one in our amazing group of supportive friends will be able to stick around for much more. And neither will we.

Drama is the new black. Matthews style.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: No Complaints. Beck. We are aimless. And the target is an empty wall. We're out of patience. With smiles that cut across her face. No complaints. But I wish I had my top of my brain.