Home Sweet Unsterile Home

I'm pleased to report that my little vacation stay at the hospital ended on Tuesday, though germ-wise the hospital was probably a bit safer than my home. Both hubby and son had developed sore throats and coughs during my absence. Hubby was banished to a spare bedroom, and son was whisked away to a neighbors. (Don't worry, he's been allowed back home.) The whole fam has been pumping themselves with vitamins. And my immune system is not nearly as fragile as it was before. So I'm just trying to relax, though the hand sanitizer is never far.

I was just reading a blog entry about first memories, written by a beautiful friend of mine. (Her blog is new and fascinating: http://thenarcichronicles.blogspot.com)

She poses the question of why our brains lock on certain events in our early years. What is it that makes one particular moment stand out above other moments? If we look at our first few very early memories, they most likely point to something that is of value to us as adults, perhaps help us learn a little about ourselves. She gives the example of a relative whose first memory is running to the aid of a little sister who has skinned her knee--and the nurturing that women has done in her adult life. My friend remembers watching her dad mow the lawn, and even as a 3-year-old noticing the careful, perfect job he was doing. She became an over-achiever who strives a little too hard for perfection.

This made me think back to my own first memories. There are three that stand out as most vivid. In the first, I was about four, playing at the bottom of a large hole behind our house. It was about the size of a swimming pool, and had been dug then abandoned by the city for some industrial reason. My mother hated that hole. I thought it was the best thing ever. On this particular day a friend and I were playing with trucks at the bottom (lady-like I know) when some "big" kids (they must have been 7 or 8) came by, looked down at us from the edge, and told us we weren't allowed to be down there. I remember standing up, squinting up at them with my hands placed firmly on my hips, and telling them that this was "our" hole and we could do anything we wanted with it. They shrugged and went on their way. I thought I was the toughest thing ever. I'm not sure what they means about me today. Except that people keep calling me tough and I always think they don't know what they're talking about because really I mostly feel scared to death about all this.

In the next, I'm 3 or 4 and my big brother (a teenager) has just arrived home after a long absence. He has swept me up and is swinging me in circles. I just remember feeling so loved and happy.

The last is with that same brother and a bunch of his friends at a party in our basement. There is loud music. And beads. Lots of beads. This was the sixties, in a suburb just outside of San Francisco. I didn't realize at the time that they were probably stoned. (Still love ya, bro. Sorry Mom if you're hearing about this for the first time.) I was about 4, wearing flowered bell-bottom pants that were the coolest thing ever, and dancing atop a card table. I totally believed them when they said I was on the table because my dancing was so amazing. The friends circled the table, dancing in their swinging hippie way, and one-by-one placed a strand of beads around my neck.

It's that memory that brings me back to my current circumstance. You have me doing my best to keep dancing, while being encircled with both drugs and a huge out-pouring of love.

As far as the analysis? I'll let you do that one.

Germ-o-phobe

I've been spending my time in this little "resort" getting caught up on my older kids latest television show craze--Glee. I find it wonderful in a disturbing kind of way, and could do all kinds of commentary on many different levels. But I'll just share that part that reminds me of my situation.

There's a scene where the character Emma walks stiff-legged into the boy's locker room, her arms held awkwardly at her sides. Her approximate words are: "I can't stay in here of course. The germs. And the smell."

The coach she's addressing nods his understanding. The woman is a serious germ phobe. She eats with plastic gloves on, just for starters.

And I'm feeling increasingly like her. Since I apparently have NO immune system for the time being, there's a sign on my door that prohibits live flowers or plants. Because of the spores. And fresh fruits and vegetables. Fortunately they haven't prohibited those giant germ caravans known as humans, but it's only a matter of time. Which is why I feel a little like Emma, standing uncomfortably in the locker room. "I can't stay here." I mean, this is a great facility, but it's packed wall-to-wall with sick people and germs. I should be anywhere but here.

I touched my NOSTRIL last night with my STERILE finger while preparing for bed. Gasped. And frantically began flushing the nose, willing back any germs that might have considered that an invitation to take a stroll. Seriously. I'm that bad.

That's when I knew the biggest difference between me and Emma is her big doe eyes. And that I know exactly how she felt when she walked into that locker room. I can't stay here either honey.

A Little Off-Course

So my little chemo buddies went the wrong way over the weekend, sending me to the emergency room with a fever. Apparently doctors like to keep you around when that happens. My white blood count is low, and they won't let me leave until it goes back up. No idea when that will be.

I was bawling when they wheeled me to my room, and the sweet nurse kindly says, "Long night in the emergency room?" I felt so stupid, couldn't even say why I was crying, so I had Rob do it for me. I was going to miss Brandon singing at church--a duet. I've been so caught up in this stupid battle that I haven't even heard him practice. Wasn't even sure what song he was singing. One more cancer robbery, dang it.

The Pacifier

Yesterday Whitney, Jen, and the grandbaby took me and my achy bones on a little walk.

(Let me apologize right up front to Jen. Since I only have one grandchild, anonymity wasn't possible. Love you Sweetie. Remember that.) Anyway, as we turned a corner, Ethan sneezed, propelling his pacifier several feet in front of the stroller. It then bounced ahead, down the hill in front of us. Jen calmly asked her sister to hold onto the stroller, then dashed after the bouncing binky. When she reached it, it bounced between her feet and kept going.

Jen apparently decided it was time to up her game--and began waving her arms wildly. When that didn't help, she started to yell. "STOPPP!!! STOP ROLLING!!!" She continued on her way, yelling and waving her arms, right past one of our new neighbors--who doesn't know us from the Addams Family. I turned away in embarrassment. But then couldn't keep from looking--like when you pass a car wreck--in time to see her trip over the binky again, arms flailing.

The binky made it half-way down the hill before she finally caught up to it and returned, triumphant. Between fits of laughter, Whitney helpfully pointed out that the pacifier probably couldn't hear her screams. I also helpfully added (while holding my sides) that it probably would have stopped on its own eventually. While she had to admit that was true, she defensively explained that it's the only binky she owns that her baby likes, so it's a huge priority to her.

Upon reflection, it's moments like that, Ladies and Gentlemen, that give me the courage to fight the good fight.

I only wish I'd had a video camera.