Writer and Cancer Warrior's Blog: Chocolate Daydreams

Beyond Ridiculous

2011-12-27T19:31:00.000-08:00

This post will be brief. Just want to report that Christmas was fabulous in that I was alive to enjoy it. And my children and grandchildren are the most beautiful beings on the planet. And I got a wonderful surprise that I'm told I am not at liberty to divulge quite yet. (Don't you hate when people do that?)

The downside was that my main wardrobe piece included (and still includes) two very hard quadruple D domes, accessorized with rubber tubing and automotive parts and a very large sweatshirt. It is ridiculous beyond belief. But also amazing.

In case you're still curious, the domes are growing new skin which will be filled with droplets of belly fat on Thursday. This is the second go-around, and probably not the last. And as much as I go about complaining, I gotta say that literally growing body parts is the stuff of science fiction. And truly a miracle.

Christmas Wishes from the Brandster and Me

2011-12-23T09:28:00.000-08:00

Brandon has kept us on a crazy-tight schedule this holiday with some like a couple hundred Christmas performances. Or maybe a couple dozen. But it was a ton anyway, especially while trying to complete big semester-end school projects and catch a few minutes of sleep every night. So I thought I'd post a couple of the most fun here as a Christmas wish to you.

The first is the anti-Brandon, Mr. Crabby. We watched it over and over and over and I still laughed every time. Make sure you watch at least until you see his smile pop.

This second made me cry and get all sentimental and grateful that I have such an amazing reason to be here. (Oh btw, Rob did the flimsy camera work. He has some lame excuse. Good thing I love him.)

Yes, I am a Believer

2011-12-22T09:14:00.000-08:00

I have seen mention in the news lately of “Santa Wars”, with the question of whether Santa is taking over Christmas. And with our youngest now twelve, I’ve also been asked what it’s like to have a house full of non-believers. Non-believers? Santa has no place in Christmas? Hum Bug.

Many, many years ago, my oldest daughter came of the age that she began to question the logistics of Santa’s Christmas Eve journey. When she came to me with those questions, I gave her an answer that crushed her little spirit—as if I’d touched my finger to the Christmas spark in her eye.

The image of that disappointed little child caused me to ponder the appropriate place of Santa Claus in our Christmas celebration. And to reevaluate my response to my subsequent children. I doubt if any of those children recall a conversation like I had with my oldest—which by the way was fairly approximate to the one I’d had with my mother a generation earlier—because that conversation never took place again.

And here is why:

First, it’s important to remember that Christ taught in parables. He told stories that sounded simple to the simple minded. Fishermen, shepherds, farmers and widows were among his cast of characters. There was always a second and deeper meaning to his stories, understood by his faithful followers who were ready to hear and understand.

To the very young, Santa is just a really amazing guy who sneaks into their house and brings gifts on Christmas Eve. As those youngsters grow in wisdom, some of the deeper meanings begin to (or can begin to) form in their minds.
Some are fairly obvious: Santa dresses in red to symbolize the blood Christ shed in our behalf. Santa has a snowy white beard, to represent Christ’s purity.
But the correlations don’t stop there. Santa is full of cheer, symbolic of the Christ’s mission to bring joy to all mankind. Santa gives gifts, symbolic of the ultimate gift of life Christ gave to us. Both Santa and Christ dedicate their entire being to serving mankind.

It requires extreme faith on the part of a young child to believe that a fat guy they have never seen is going to fly to their rooftop with a sleigh pulled by reindeer, slide down their chimney and leave presents just for them. But it makes them feel awfully special.

It also takes faith to believe that a lowly carpenter born in a manger was actually a king who was able to atone for each of our sins and give us the gift of eternal life. This faith also makes us understand how special we are in the eyes of God.
Yes it is true that faith in Christ is ever so much more important than faith in Santa. But for those who understand the nature of parables, the difference is obvious.

At some point in time we all reach an age where we begin to see outside of ourselves to the world around us. We come to realize that Santa couldn’t possibly complete his mission on his own. He needs helpers across the globe to ensure that no child is forgotten.

Christ, too, needs helpers. While he is mindful of our needs, he can’t physically make a phone call to the lonely and harried young mother. Or visit the sick. Or prepare food and provide clothing to the homeless. Or tell a young child that he or she is loved.

Since Christ cannot do all these things himself, he needs angels. He needs us.
Just as Santa needs us to be his elves.

Santa is not just for children. He is a reminder to us all that when in the service of our fellowman, we are actually in the service of our God.
And that is why in my house we will always believe.

Brand New Sweetie-Smooshie-Pie!

2011-10-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

I mentioned in my last post that a most amazing thing happened. Last month actually, but I'm a little behind the times.

I don't know if it's possible to find anything sweeter than a brand new baby. Or if there's anything better than being a grandma. Heaven's reward for being a mom. I mean, just look at that face!

But of course, as with all things connected to me, there was a complication. My Jen is a super human momma who popped the little one out in a few seconds and was ready to go home a few minutes after that. You know the kind that make the rest of us look bad? (It's okay, I love her anyway). But when our little Raegan (cute isn't it?) was two days old, Jen took her back to the hospital to get her bilirubum (I'm sure that's not the spelling) checked.

Well, Mike was at work and I was with Ethan, so Jen was on her own when the doc listened to Raegan's little heart and said "Your baby has a hole in her heart" and then walked out of the room.

My own heart ached for her when she got home and told me the story. One of the catches of this grandmother business is that the people you worry about just multiply.

It turns out little Raegan has two holes. One is likely to close on its own, but there's a good chance the other will need to be fixed with open-heart surgery sometime in the next few months.

Of all the things I hoped to pass on to my posterity, holes in their hearts was not one.

But her parents are strong, and she is unimaginably beautiful, and God is good, so I'm confident they'll make through.

Sad and Lonely Cyber Places

2011-10-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

So I know with all my rash and rapid posting of the last week I probably gave you all a bit of whiplash. I know, it's like WHA--? She's had a wedding, she's had another surgery, and a grandbaby (oh wait, I don't think I even got that far. But she adorable. Trust me. Pictures coming, promise) AND she has a book coming out?!? But wait, is that her, or some other author?

I know, I'm confused myself.

So let me splain: my official author name is Suze Reese, and my official author blog is suzereese.com. I did this for a few reasons, mostly because there's already a fairly famous author out there by the name of Suzanne Reese. Also because I just like Suze Reese. It's how grew up and I like it. And then there's a small degree of privacy with using a name that's not my every day one. Not sure how much of that is possible these days, but it's a nice thought anyway.

So I've been working like a mad person getting all the social media set up. But it kind of stinks that I'm starting from scratch, so I've got all these lonely little pages waiting to be found. I'm confident they will with time. But for now, if any of you are visiting here, do you suppose you could go visit there and give me some cyber hugs? That's so sweet, thanks. And once again, that site is www.suzereese.com

I'm other places too: facebook, twitter, goodreads. If you're comfy in any of those places give me a shout out.

And I love you too!

Ding Dong The Bells Did Chime!

2011-10-06T17:35:00.000-07:00

Those of you who follow this blog know all about my little son Brandon. But you may not have heard quite as much about my bigger boy Daniel. That is partly because so much of my day is full of Brandon. But the other is that where Brandon is full of showmanship, Daniel is every bit as full of reserve.

I love them both dearly. But they couldn't be more different.

And I may have been known to say a time or two that the day Daniel gets married will be the happiest day of my life. So here it official is:

The happiest day of my life.

The event was made especially wonderful by the fact that he married a wonderful girl.

Catching Up...First an Idol

2011-10-06T17:27:00.000-07:00

Now that the first day of snow has arrived, and I can't find the energy to do anything but bundle up, I suppose it's high time I play a little catch up with my most fabulous summer.

First off we had a little Draper Idol competition. Odds are good you heard me hollering about it. But little Brandon totally won the youth division. He was just barely old enough to compete, and we gave him the old "it'll be a good experience" line. Which we totally believed. Even after they'd announced a tie for third place, then second...we're all just thinking, first place? No way.

But then they announced him and he walked totally cool to the podium to take the trophy. Reports are that I tackled him as he came down the hallway with the rest of the contestants. That might only be kind of true. I did try real hard to hug him. Which I think is when it hit him that he had won. He pulled away and ran up the hall in tears. Adorable. Just don't tell him I said so. So now that I've got you in complete suspence, here's the performance:

The next days were crazy and fun with a ride in a parade (singing along the way), and performing on the mainstage for Draper Nights. (Though it wasn't night and pretty much nobody was there. But it was STILL the main stage.) Thanks bishop for your support, btw.

So I guess it's official...I'm not the only one who thinks he's cute.

Introducing ExtraNormal! YA Paranormal Romance

2011-10-05T20:52:00.000-07:00

I am soooo pleased to announce that ExtraNormal by Suze Reese is about to be released! You'll find it on GoodReads, Twitter, Facebook, and its very own blog (suzereese.com).

That's right, this Suze person has been busy, busy, busy. Here's the low-down if you want to know more:

Back Cover Blurb:
Mira Johns is pretty much like any other teenage girl. Except that she knows how to harness electro-magnetic energy to communicate without words. And she's really, really far from home. Her assignment as an emissary to Earth sounds fairly simple: blend in, observe, and stay away from the planet’s primitive males. But after she finds one mysterious boy too irresistible for stupid rules, she realizes the real reason she's supposed to keep her distance: mates from her world can die if separated. But a series of serious accidents make it clear that someone wants to force her return. Mira decides her only hope is to uncover the truth to why she, the most mediocre of candidates, was actually chosen for this assignment—before the agency discovers her secret and sends her back home.

And Beautiful Awesomeness in a Cover:

So here's the deal, all those places listed above are feeling very quiet and lonely about now. Granted they were all set up in the last couple of days, but still. It's awkward just sitting there as a blog or Facebook page with no visitors. You watch the clock and wiggle your toes and try not to look too anxious. Especially as a GoodReads book with no ratings. So if you're comfy in any of those places, feel free to look around and be friendly!

Two Handed Again

2011-09-02T16:49:00.000-07:00

Here are some things that are very good to have two hands to do: Style Hair, Eat, Type. Those are what I missed most, though the list could be very, very long. Things I did not miss are washing dishes and vacuuming. But that's okay. It was worth it. As of today I am finally and officially two handed. Woop! Woop! And I am dying to catch up on all the big events I mentioned in my earlier finger-pecking post, especially before the next big event of BRAND NEW GRANDBABY occurs. Which could be any second now. Could be right now in fact. Poor Jen feels the need to start every phone call with, "I'm NOT in labor." That's only cause I hung up on her this morning while I was with the doctor getting my official clearance to use my arm again, and then I freaked when I couldn't reach her. But it's okay. I'm calm now.So anyway, I'm gonna crank it out now. A day at time maybe. We'll see how it goes. First, while I'm on the subject, is this here arm surgery. It's called lymphevocenular bypass. Not really, I just don't want to look it up. But it's something like that. So here's the (trying to be) short story. They took out my lymph nodes under my arm cause they were full of cancer. Lymphatic fluid travels around your body via lymph nodes, so with those gone, the fluid gets traffic jammed in my arm and it gets all big and puffy and ugly. I posted a pic on facebook but I'm kind of regretting that now cause it's kind of freaky so I'm not gonna post it again here. But trust me it was big and ugly. So my genius doc (the same one who is doing my reconstruction) put some new channels in that connect the lympathic system with the venous system. Since the venous system is pumped via the heart, it gets all that fluid moving. (And in case you're worried, the lymph system ends up dumping its stuffing into the venous system a little further down the road anyway, so it's not mixing stuff that shouldn't be mixed. I was worried about that.) The end result, as of today, is that my arm is still a little big at the elbow, but the hand and wrist are ABSOTALUTELY normal! And the whole arm feels soft and light and amazingly wonderful. The best part is that I don't have to wear that ugly compression sleeve 24/7. So no more people asking me about my tats. That's kind of a bummer. But I'll live with it.

One-Handed Pecking

2011-08-14T09:54:00.000-07:00

My last post was about life hitting you like an avalanche. Well I'm back to report that LIFE is still boring down in huge clouds of glorious, momentous events.

Like the event of the year: Daniel and Klea's wedding. Wow was it wonderful. Truly a heaven-made match. And you should see the pictures! Stunning!

Then there's the runner-up event of the year. THE CUTEST DRAPER IDOL JUNIOR WINNER EVER!!!! Man, what a day that was.

We also have life-changing, phenomenal surgery that I want to tell the world--or at least all lymph sufferers--about.

Finally, a fire on our mountain last night. Scary, eerie, entertaining, awe-inspiring and heart-wrenching all at the same time.

And I'm being TORTURED!!!!!

See, I have nothing but time to blog about all these things, but I am currently required to lie around full time with my arm in the air. I'm happy to do it in exchange for a skinny, light-weight arm. But like a dancer on crutches, my fingers are aching to dance across the keyboard. These few little lines of uninspired prose have taken nearly an hour of pecking, since I not only have just one hand, but the keyboard is propped above my line of sight. If you could see all the mistakes I've fixed you'd be super impressed.

So I will tell those stories eventually, in the meantime this will have to do for my story-telling fix.

The Avalanche Effect

2011-06-18T17:22:00.000-07:00

You know how it is--if you blog or even if you journal or correspond with someone--how something cool or different happens--like maybe your child does something amazing and eventful or you just feel inspired about something or maybe you notice you have an inordinate amount of toe hair--and you think, "Hmm, I think I'll blog about that."

That's how it usually is anyway. But sometimes something amazing happens, and you decide to blog about it. But before you do something equally amazing happens. But you can't blog about that thing until you blog about the other. But then something else happens. And before you know it:

You're running from all these wonderful blogging opportunities and you can't possibly slow down and write about them because there are too many and you don't have time because life keeps coming at you and coming at you so you just run and run and run.

That's how it is with me anyway.

Eventually though, I always seem to be forced into a stop. Like today. So I'm going to do my best to tell a bunch of big long mostly wonderful stories in a nutshell.

First, my job. Which isn't any more.

I was going along quite innocently thinking all was great at work. My department was breaking records like mad. Unfortunately for us another department was breaking even more records like even more mad. So the powers that be decided to do away with my department.

So in an instant I said goodbye to my nice writing job. (Blog idea!) But no time yet.

I decided the timing was fine, since I'm (this) close to getting my new novel published. It even has a brand-spankin' new name: Extra Normal. (Which did not come easily. Another blog post!)

Unfortunately, novels don't bring in money right away, and with a bunch of college kids in the house looking for work, I went looking for something that would bring in some quicker income. I came across a business a dear friend of mine is running. Which is how a person who has never even considered owning a pair of designer jeans came to sell them. Slapped an ad on my car and off I went. (Hurry, hurry, get it started. No time to blog yet! There's so much to tell!) Got my first check yesterday. Which is cool. So if you're in the market for a great deal on designer jeans, I'll hook you up.

But literally the day after my first party I left on a wonderful retreat to Moab sponsored by WBC (Women Beyond Cancer). Oh, but wait! There's more! Minutes before leaving my son and his girl sat us down and announced their engagement! (Wowzers!! The blog is screaming at me!!!) I left for the retreat flying high. One of the happiest days of my life.

The next day I was hiking delicate arch. We got to the end of the hike and were told to climb a hill one at a time, on all fours, to see the prize at the end. At the moment that I saw this view:

(The one behind me.)

A text came through. It was from my future daughter-in-law, a picture of her new ring. (Sadly I can't figure out how to get that one off my phone to put here.) I saw the image and started crying. I called out to the crowd below "My future-daughter-in-law just sent me a picture of her ring!" I was expecting some kind of "awww!" but got blank stares instead. Yeah, they didn't quite get the vision. Oh well, it was still cool and awe-inspiring.

One of my favorite stories from the retreat. We went on a humvee tour with Tommy. I expect only his mom calls him that, but we were a bunch of moms and he was very cute. He was about to take a path and asked us if we wanted the hard or easy way. One enthusiastic (and amazing) member of our party called out, "hard! hard!" The path he took had a steep drop that caused us all to scream while our stomachs made our way up to our throats. At the next path, he asked the same question. Here's the path:

Miss Enthusiasm made the same call. The rest of us weren't so enthusiastic. But Tommy turned the Humvee around and backed it up the hill. The hard way? Get it?!!! Hysterical!!! Yeah, that's how the trip went.

The very best part was when we found ourselves in the Fiery Furnace on the very day the world was supposed to end. (You remember that day don't you? Can you imagine a more ironic place to be when the world ends?!) In case you don't know, the Fiery Furnace is this very challenging and beautiful hike that a bunch of women battling cancer have no business hiking. But we did it anyway. Talk about amazing. I admit I had a freak out moment. Maybe two. But mostly I was trying not to wet my pants from the laughter. Like when we were told to keep three points of contact while squeezing between two walls with no bottom. Yeah. That's the kind of stuff they kept making us do. "You just put your hand here and your foot here and you just scoot without looking down." And one of the members of our crew flung herself onto the wall and asked, "what about TEN points of contact?" Maybe it's not hysterical now, but while close to freaking out and trying not to die, trust me. Life doesn't get any more exhilarating than that.

Here's the group of amazing women, thrivers all:

Life changing. Incredible. Wow. Wish I could say more, but that avalanche is gaining on me!

Time to plan a wedding. Which happens to be in just a few weeks. Busy Busy Busy Busy. But first I was supposed to take trip to California, to get my mother to a family gathering. But while planning that, Brandon was selected to do a bridge solo the next week on a tour to California with his performing group.

We weren't planning on going. But he was so adorable. I just couldn't miss it. So I got my mom and my kids off to the trip to northern cali, and the next week I headed to southern cali. Here's probably my favorite performance:

The most cool thing (besides the solo) was performing on the Disney Stage. Talk about awesomeness.

And finally, here's proof that I was on the trip.

So there it is, my big bad wonderful avalanche of a month on the run. Now back to the wedding...and novel...and jeans....

An Open Letter to the Treehouse Zumba Instructors

2011-04-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Treehouse Zumba Instructors,

While trying to convince my clumsy feet to salsa the other day, I decided I ought to write you all a letter. But since I'm always in a frantic rush (even when I'm not in your class), I thought I could maybe multi-task and write your letter as a blog post. Hope you don't mind.

First, I ought to tell you who I am. I'm sure you've noticed me. I'm the one in the back of the room wearing big baggie clothes and going right when I'm supposed to go left, forward when I should go back, and up when everyone else goes down. Oh, and I wear an ugly compression sleeve on my arm. Yeah, that's the one—I knew you'd figure it out. And that's one reason for writing—to explain the sleeve, since I'm sure you've wondered but have been too polite to ask.

To explain, I need to go back to 2009, and with apologies to those who have patiently followed this blog over the years, let me do a quick recap: September of that year I was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer. Always the over-achiever, this particular cancer was super aggressive. My oncologist told me that when the team of doctors got together to discuss my treatment, they looked it over and decided I needed every treatment currently available.

And so began an intense regimen of surgeries, chemo, and radiation. After that I had a reconstructive surgery that failed. Plus I'm now on about five prescription meds that are pretty cruel to the body but hopefully will keep the cancer away.

The person I am in 2011 is vastly different from the fit and healthy person I left behind in 2009. On the upside I'm filled with gratitude and sentiment. Happy to be here. Happy to be anywhere. Loving my family, my grandbaby, my hubby, my friends. All of it.

On the downside, I've lost both boobs and gained twenty pounds, which gives me the figure of a pine tree. I have a hairstyle that's a little too long to be cool but a little too short and dark to be me. I have a stupid arm that swells up and requires that ugly compression sleeve (twelve positive lymph nodes). And overall I feel more like a grandma than the mother of a young boy (I happen to be both, but I used to feel more like a mommy than a grandma).

Despite all the bad stuff, my prognosis is good. Not great, but good. I have just another year and a half of holding my breath and hoping IT doesn't come back. After that I'll party.

So now the reason for writing. Again, those that have followed this blog know that even though I've been a Treehouse member for years, I've had issues with going during my treatment. Partly because I have restrictions with my arm. But mostly because I feel like a big fat blob when I'm there. I tried a few classes off and on, but mostly stayed home with my treadmill and hand weights.

Then one day I decided to go wild and crazy and try a Zumba class. Even took a friend. And it was . . . um . . . interesting. I kind of left half-way thru. Yeah, it was fun and all. But it wasn't for me. Too many ultra-fit ladies strutting their ultra-fit stuff; and me tripping over my very unfit feet.

But there was one thing the class had going for it: it didn't require me to put any weight on my swollen arm. Every other class I'd tried required I make modifications while the rest of the class did their pushups or planks or updogs. And since I seriously need to move my fanny to fight the effects of these fat-inducing drugs, I eventually decided to give it another shot. I can't say I enjoyed the class that time either. It wasn't until the third, maybe fourth time, that I decided I could actually do this thing. I think it was when I stopped worrying about my feet and the skinny ladies in class and just started moving to the rhythm. Yep, it was actually fun.

And would you like to know how I feel while I'm in the class? Well, let's see...I feel fat, awkward, clumsy, old and out of shape. Sorry, I know you were hoping for more.

But don't worry, it gets better. Because there's something else I feel: ALIVE. That's right—for the hour that I'm in that class trying my best to jump and bop and gyrate my hips in a way that somewhat resembles what you're doing, I feel truly alive for the first time since that awful diagnosis.

And something else: I feel hopeful. Not hopeful that I'll ever look or move like you. But that I'll eventually look and move better than I do now.

And that's why I'm writing. To thank you for giving me that.

Yours Truly,

Suzanne, from the back of the room (Zumba-Hey! Zumba-Ho!)

Mushy Mommy Sweet Spots

2011-04-12T02:36:00.000-07:00

The sentimental bug has bit again. It's like an infestation lately. But this time I have a good excuse. My baby boy, the one I rocked for years, well beyond the appropriate baby-rocking time; thinking every time he'd let me that this could be the very last time. I don't remember the exact last time, but I'm sure I had that thought.

Fortunately he's still a sweetheart. On the night of his birthday we snuggled next to me to watch a movie, even though there were multiple comfy spots in the room. And during the movie he grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear that he loves me. Hearts are known to melt that way.

When our kids are babies, those simultaneous heart-melting whilst bursting moments come frequently. All they have to do is say 'please' with their adorable eyes wide open and your heart goes to mush. It takes nothing more than putting a train properly on a track (like my little grandbaby on his birthday this weekend), for the heart to swell with pride. (Just ask his momma.)

But those sweet moments become fewer and far between, and therefore all the more precious as they transform into small adults. And I really do love the age of twelve: that gianted-footed awkward age of walking a tightrope between childhood and adulthood, always a little off balance, never sure their place or appropriate behavior for their age. They still want toys for their birthday, and only want boys at their birthday party, but they need the cool clothes and hair. Of all my children's stages, that age ranks among my favorite.

Which brings me to a video. First I have to apologize for posting it again, I know many of you have seen it. But I didn't include the story of why it was one of the sweetest mommy moments of my life.

The pre-story is that Brandon was chosen to be in his school talent show (this was a pretty selective talent show, no mind readers or bubble gum blowers or gifted bodily orifice noise makers). The auditions were a full month before the talent show, and while Brandon did well enough to be selected, he didn't know the words, moved awkwardly, and there was this horrible bridge in the middle of the song where he just stopped singing, leaving the audience to shuffle uncomfortably in their seats.

So I informed him he'd need to work on these things if he wanted to be in the show. But of course the show was a whole month away. As the days drew near he worked on the song from time to time, and became much improved. There wasn't much that could be done for moving awkwardly. He's almost twelve with giant feet. That's how it goes. And then there was still that horrible bridge solo. He'd attempt squawks and squeeks, but they were worse than the awkward silence. So finally the night before the performance I lay down the law and say he's got to work out that bridge. He absolutely can not just stop singing in the middle of the song.

So we turn to Youtube and watch other performances. Some of them do a dance. Awkward. Some sing. Beautiful. Some cut the bridge out. Wimps. (And since we've already turned the minus track in, we don't have that option.) So Brandon decides he'll sing. The night before.

I plop myself next to the hubby and grumble that I've been warning him about this all month. He's just got to stop procrastinating. yadayadayada.

Before I go on, I have to backtrack with the story of the video camera. Ours broke last year, which is a crisis when you have a son who performs. Last summer we borrowed a camera to record his singing performance at the state fair. But it took hours to get it onto the computer, and then seconds for the computer to crash and burn up the vids. So Rob bought me a new camera for Christmas, but it was a flip and did not have the zoom or audio for our needs, so we took it back. Which meant I absolutely needed something for this performance.

In the weeks that he was supposed to be practicing, I was hunting for the best features for the value, and ended up buying one just the night before. Of course that meant I wasn't absolutely sure how to use it. So I arrived early. Early enough, in fact, that the principal sent me to the front row. I didn't even need the zoom. I got the camera all set up on a tripod, turned on, focused on the person setting up the mike. I'm practicing the different functions when I see Brandon waving frantically in my direction. We try lip reading and sign language, but it becomes clear that I must turn off the camera and tiptoe my way across the front of the auditorium to see what he needs. His message is that he's first, not second as we'd been told. So I head back to the camera, but before I do the principal announces the student body, who are standing on the same side of the room as me. I figure I won't confuse anyone if I step forward now. I most definitely don't look like a jr. high SB officer. But I might embarrass my son if I suddenly step into the limelight. So I wait until they're onstage, introducing my son's performance, and then I stoop over and try not to step on too many toes while I rush back to my precious camcorder. I miss the intro where they say how amazing he is, but I do get it on time for the performance. Good thing he dragged me away from the camera to warn me.

Anyway, I'm frantic over the camera and nervous for him and my stomach's all full of butterflies. And then he opens his mouth and the most pure, angelic sound comes out. My heart turns all kinds of swollen up mush. Within seconds the group is clapping. They don't slow down or lose their enthusiasm, even when he gets to that bridge.

If you watch, you'll see him look my way with a bit of panic in his eyes. If you could see me you'd know that I'm holding my breath. But then he looks away and takes a breath of confidence and gets through it. Not perfect, but he ends strong enough that nobody seems to care. When he ends the song, the crowd roars their approval, with me heading up the lead. I decide not to stand--that old embarrassing your child deal--but I wanted to. This was one of those indescribably joyous moments that makes all the messes and tantrums and nagging and childbirth and expenses worthwhile.

And a quick followup, two days later I pick him up from school, and as he approaches the car a group of very tall junior high students surrounds him. My Mommy Antennas protrude. Brandon shakes his head and nods and pushes his way through. He gets in the car looking glum. I ask what that was about. Of course I'm wondering if I'm going to have to go talk to the principal. Maybe I should just go take those boys out myself. Teach them a thing or two about bullying. And then he says, "That's how it's been ever since the talent show." After more prodding I learn that the boys said: "So you're the singer." Brandon: "yeah." Boys: "Good job."

"You did say thank you? Right?" Because I always ask him that, and he always promises me he does. But I think he just does it through telepathy because I've never witnessed it. Anyway, I continue to say, "But you love it, hah?" "No I don't" he insists, with a little curl of a smile playing on his lips.

That's my cutie. Provider of Sweet Mommy Moments Everywhere.

New Pics

2011-04-02T14:31:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how I feel about this picture. It's a fine little portrait. The photographer did a good job. My hair is how it's supposed to look. Makeup is good. Outfit is a nice color. Can't find a thing wrong. Except for maybe one. The woman here is much older than the one that looks out through my eyes. Maybe that's normal? Maybe my treatment put the aging process into fast forward? Maybe it's just my imagination? I don't know. But here it is. Me in 2011. (And for the record, I'm really really glad there is a me in 2011. Even if she is an old lady.)

Signature Line - Help Needed!

2011-04-02T14:15:00.001-07:00

I realize I haven't been around much. (At least around here. I've been around, believe me.) But I'm going to do better. I must. I have two new books in the works, along with a new website, facebook page, blog, etc. I will go into details later. But for now I'm looking for a signature line. You know, the clever little sentence under your name. I do not have one, which I'm thinking is a message in and of itself. As in, this person is much too boring to have a signature line. So I'm coming to my friends for help.

I'll list some ideas here, and I'd really really like your feedback. I get so embarrassed when I ask questions and no one answers. I know, it's my fault for not hanging out in the right places, but I'm asking any way.

So here goes: (Oh, I only stole one of these. I'll be curious to see if it gets a different reaction from the others. And no, not gonna say which one.)

1. Some smiles are actually frowns being optimistic. They get extra credit.

2. When I grow up, I want to be an old lady.

3. I write fiction since nobody would believe my real life.

4. Life is so beautiful only because it is so hard.

Happy Package

2011-03-19T17:51:00.001-07:00

I'm dying to call Michigan right now. But it's kind of middle of the night there, so I'm refraining. Instead, I decided to come here and give a big shout out to one of my most amazing of friends. Well, I guess technically she's family. But she's one of those great family members that you would choose in a heartbeat as a life-long friend, if you weren't already connected by family ties.

I count myself lucky to have many of you that fall into that category, so don't feel bad if you thought for a second I was talking about you, cause I could have been. But today the shout out is just for her. Apparently my frumpy post hit a nerve, and she took it upon herself to make me feel better. I'm talking makeup, jewelry, head covers, home decor, and of course CHOCOLATE! Caramel too, with a note that it's the next best thing to chocolate. And she's right, it is fabulous caramel. Every item came with a cheery note.

The house decor has already been put into place (it just arrived minutes ago). My poor non-magnetized fridge has been feeling awfully naked. These gel gems came with a note that they make her smile. And I am so smiling now, looking at those little cheery yellow flowers sitting in their little corner and reminding me of my sister friend. Life. Is. So. Good.

Thanks Carol!

Big Huge Questions of the Universe

2011-03-07T17:41:00.000-08:00

I've been pondering some things lately. This is stuff I have no answer for. Deep stuff. Troubling stuff. Stuff that keeps me up nights. I'd really like your thoughts on these matters, so if you have any, please chime in.

First, why it is that bills and junk mail make it to the mail box in an absolute and timely manner; but checks, packages, and letters get all kinds of lost and take all kinds time? Seriously, I don't think it's my imagination.

Next, why is it the human body can't figure out when it has consumed one of those fast-food salads with 20 million calories? I mean, if calories are just an equation for the amount of energy food has provided, why doesn't the body stop half-way through the salad and think, "Hey! I am sooo stuffed. I know this is just a salad, but it feels like I just had a 1000 calories, so I think I'll quit." No, that would be too easy. Instead it's saying, "I only had a itty-bitty salad for dinner, so I think now I'll have some cheesecake." Seriously, the body is an amazing thing, why can it not figure this out? Why do we need books and calorie charts to tell us these things?

And finally, why after a round of hair-losing meds, have I had to trade my eyebrow tweezers for an eyebrow pencil; but at the same time my toe hairs have multiplied by about a thousand? Again, I would really, truly like to know. I'm thinking maybe hair follicles are affected by gravity? But it's just a theory.

Answers are welcome - as are any of your own deep unaswerable questions.

Progress

2011-02-20T18:23:00.001-08:00

I feel much better today. Not that I'm settled, or even close. There are still rooms that are downright scary. But the major rooms are coming together nicely. And seriously, how can you not love this room?

I did say major remodel, right? That is seriously major. Life is good.

The Answer is No. No. No. Any more questions?

2011-02-18T21:15:00.001-08:00

The question of the day, the one I am asked by pretty much everyone I see is, "So are you all settled?"

Sigh.

This is what I want to say: You betcha. Not a box in sight. It's all good. There's a place for everything and everything's in its place.

But I stink at the lying thing, and that's a bold-faced lie.

So no. I am not settled. Boxes are everywhere. It's a mess.

Thanks for asking though.

Time for a Re-do

2011-01-24T16:19:00.000-08:00

When we sold our home a little over a year ago, cancer wasn't in the plans. Of course cancer is not the kind of thing anyone plans on. But this was especially bad timing, getting the news just days after selling the house. It would have been devastating, except that we could feel the Lord's hand in it all.

So the house we moved to was not intended to be permanent. Just a place to re-group and heal. And we felt the Lord guide us, so that was good.

And while it's done the job nicely, we've been left in a bit of a quandary. It has felt like time to move on for a few months now, but the thought of packing up and moving again is just way too overwhelming.

So I have a plan.

And it's a good one.

You see, Friday morning we are going to wake up, strip down the beds, and proceed to do a complete home makeover. Each and every room, including the kitchen and the bathrooms, are going to be totally remodeled and updated, on that very day! Even the yard! Even the neighborhood! Every last detail will be new (to us and least). Well, except for the neighborhood thing. That will be old, as in our old one. It's going to be the easiest large-scale remodel in the history of the planet. By the end of the weekend the entire house will be redone.

I realize this might sound suspiciously like a move. But as I said, I can't even think about that.

But a remodel? One that only takes a weekend? One that plants me in the same neighborhood as a whole bunch of my favorite people? Yeah, I can totally do that.

It's gonna be a good weekend.

Frump Girl...

2011-01-11T20:31:00.001-08:00

Other contenders for titles to this entry: Sweatin' to the Oldies, Verklempt, Cleavage Envy, Wardrobe Problems or (drum roll) My Brain on Drugs. Obviously this has the potential to be a rambling post. But it all makes sense in my brain (which I have to warn you is on drugs), so we'll see how it goes.

First, I have to say that I would blog about how my Whitney had surgery last week. Wisdom teeth, which is nothing to get excited about, except that it's the fourth patient to recuperate in our living room lounge chair in two months time.

I would also tell the story about my Jen, who was on her way to pick up Whitney for the surgery when she hit a patch of black ice while trying to avoid a stupid car that ran a red light, and then spun out of control into oncoming traffic but miraculously avoided all of them and hit the barricade on the far-side of the road, totaling her car; but that she and the baby are just fine.

This is the same girl who miraculously came through with just bumps and bruises after a near-fatal four-wheeling accident this summer; and ended up in a coma after surgery a couple of years ago. I would tell all about that, but it's almost too much to believe. I mean, honestly, who could have that many near-miss events in one family in such a short amount of time? So I'm not going to say a word about any of it.

I will talk about how I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding over the holidays. (How's that for a light-hearted change of subject?) If you've never seen it, you just have to, like right now. And then watch it again, and again, until you've seen it enough times that you laugh out loud just BEFORE the funny scenes, like when the dad is about to pull out a bottle of Windex. Good times. Anyway, there's one scene where the heroine is explaining that she used be "Frump Girl". "It was a stage I was in," she says. "Until now."

I'll get back to that in a minute. But first there's my wardrobe problems. This is nothing new. The last year has been a challenge for my wardrobe, to put it mildly. A couple months ago I went to Old Navy and bought myself half a dozen extra large, long-sleeve scoop neck shirts that do the trick for hiding what I don't want to be seen and allowing extra room for the things that need it. It was a slick solution. But then two things happened.

First was the drugs. I won't name them. Partly because I can't ever remember the names, and partly in case some poor soul does a search for them by name and find themselves here expecting accurate information. But in my very layman's understanding, I was put on two drugs intended to shut down all of my hormones, since my cancer thinks hormones are like some kind of candy.

One of the drugs shuts my ovaries down, like you'd expect. But apparently the brain produces some hormones as well, so the other goes there and whispers sweet nothings that tell it to stop producing hormones. Unfortunately, this confuses the brain tremendously. In fact, it's so messed up that it can't even tell if I've had enough to eat. As if turning down that big piece of cheesecake with chocolate sauce isn't hard enough when you know you're full. But when you think you're hungry? Forget about it. My hips didn't stand a chance. Ten pounds before I could blink.

The other problem was my surgery. I've been calling it reconstructive, but it was actually more like deconstructive. Basically they just took out the expanders and laid down the muscle, preparing me for real reconstruction in a few months. Let me be clear, I am not complaining. I'm more than happy to get rid of those awful coconuts. But the result is...well...disturbing. Not just flat, but concave, especially on the side with radiation. Think of a hundred-year-old man eating a lemon and you have a pretty good idea. And the wardrobe restrictions. Well, let's just say those scoop necks aren't working for me any more.

But I'm not so excited about buying a bunch of new clothes to fit this latest round of odd body shape, especially since it'll probably be totally different in a few months. Which brings me to the word Verklempt, which I learned is Yiddish for great amounts of emotion, in case you were wondering.

And it also brings me to the gym. Obviously. I haven't been a regular for the last year, but decided that now is the time. Obviously. So I put on what I usually wear for exercising: my sweats. Okay, so I might also wear them for relaxing, and cooking, and shopping and any time I want to be comfortable. Which is always. They are, after all, the only thing I can put on without worrying about all the things I have to worry about. So I love them.

But then I was at the gym, spinning on a stationary bike, and the words "Frump girl, frump girl" started in my head. Like a chant. "Frump girl, frump girl, frump girl, frump." I was, after all, surrounded by a serious amount of skinny women with tight clothes and cleavage. Seriousy tight. Serious cleavage. And me in my baggy, oddly-shaped sweats. Frump girl. Frump girl.

I've found myself in various stages of frump in the past, usually corresponding to the births of my babies. But I've also been a far cry from Frump Girl at times. Specifically in high school, when legend has it (my husband's legend) that I spent four hours a day styling my Farrah Fawcett hair. Truth is that was only for dates. It was really closer to an hour.

But of all my stages, I've never felt this far gone. This frumpy. I tell myself every day to be patient. In fact that's my new battle cry: patience, patience, patience. And while I'm waiting patiently for my veluptuous new body to emerge from this mess, I think I'll have some ice cream. Cause I'm starving. Just ask my brain.

A Christmas Wish to Friends and Family

2010-12-25T14:05:00.001-08:00

As the hymn says, "Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh..."

It's not exactly night right now, but the holiday is definitely winding down. The presents are unwrapped; the ham, potatoes and yams are in the oven; wrapping paper and bows are strewn across the house; and the kids are all occupied with either naps or their Christmas treasures.

It's a good feeling.

I admit that there were moments leading up to this day that I doubted I could pull it off, what with two surgeries in the last two weeks. And in fact some traditions had to be put aside. The family picture that was supposed to grace our Christmas cards was scheduled to be taken the day Natalie planted her face into a tree. Various new ideas for a clever card never turned into a finished product. Same with gifts for friends and coworkers.

I did manage to purchase and wrap enough toys for under the tree to keep the kids happy, and bake enough goodies to keep their bellies full. That in itself is a small miracle. But over the last couple of days my mind has repeatedly gone to the greetings I didn't send; and the people I love who didn't receive them.

And so I'd like to take a moment before setting the table and cleaning up that gift wrapping to send a wish to you all, I just hope I can put my thoughts into proper words.

I'm sure you've heard the wish that every day could be Christmas. That's not the wish I have for you--but it begins the explanation. I know this will sound strange, but in one way this past year has been like Christmas every day. Not that there's anything festive about cancer treatment. Or something I'd wish to do every day. But I don't think a day has passed in the last year that I haven't been the recipient of at least one act of kindness.

Some days I'm overwhelmed by the number and amount of good things that have been done for my benefit: tangible gifts like jewelry, flowers, home decor, and of course food. Lot's and lot's of comfort food. Then there's the messages--by phone, by mail, by foot, by text, by email, by Facebook they come; offering encouragement and love. And I can't forget the prayers. I could never forget the prayers.

I remember one friend apologizing for not calling me when she got the news. "I didn't know what to say," she said. But then she continued, "And so I just prayed."

"You did exactly the right thing," I told her. And it was true. I can't explain the feeling of knowing that hundreds of prayers are going up to the heavens on your behalf. But it truly buoys you up at a time that you know you should feel your very lowest, but instead it feels as though the hands of God are literally cradling you.

And so, with that explanation, this is what I wish for you, my friend: I wish that each of you would take a moment this season to realize and appreciate your magnificence. Yes, yours--not your children's or your spouses or your neighbor's, but yours. And I'm talking about the person you are today--not the one you hope to become after you figure out how to organize your time or lose a few pounds or stop getting mad at the kids. That person might be fabulous too, but the person you are on this day is truly amazing.

I can say this with assurance because I have witnessed and felt your truly caring nature. I know from experience that you carry the light of Christ within you. You are not only born in the image of God, but you are a beautiful emulation of Him. Your love and concern for your fellow man is as tangible as the gifts given on Christmas day.

I can never say thank you enough to those who have been helpful to me throughout the course of my treatment. It boggles my mind to even think about it. And maybe after Christmas I'll get around to sending out a proper greeting. In the meantime, this wish will have to do.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends! And Happy New Year!

Speaking of counting

2010-12-21T15:41:00.000-08:00

I am not one to shy away from confessing my age. At least not since my scare with heart failure while still in my twenties. But now...well let's just say I'll be doing the happy dance on each of my birthdays. One of which happens to be today. Yes that's right. My 48th. Happy happy 48th.

And while I need to go join the family celebration, I want to quickly share my philosophy.

First, when it comes to birthdays in general, they are very good things. Waaaay better than no birthdays. I have known way too many people who no longer have birthdays, and I'm not voting for that plan.

Second, there's this whole deal of pretending you're younger than you really are. Frankly, I don't get it. If I were tell someone I was, say, 29; chances are good they'd either flat out know I was lying, or wonder what the heck happened to me. SHE's 29? Are you kidding me? She look's HORRIBLE!

But if I tell them my real age, there's a chance they'll think I look a lot older than that, but if that's the case, just imagine what they'd think if I told them I was 29? Odds are better, however, that they'll think I'm holding up pretty well for someone of my advanced years, especially one who's been through the ringer. (Besides who but a 48-year-old would even think of the term ringer?)

In sum, I'd much rather have folks think I've held up well than wonder what the heck happened to me, so for that reason I always tell the truth about my age and take my chances.

I guess I'm weird, but that's what I think.

Not that anybody's keeping score

2010-12-21T15:28:00.000-08:00

Just in case someone besides my insurance company is keeping track...yesterday makes three in two months. Four in fives months. Reese family surgeries that is.

After three weeks of studying and taking finals with her collarbone shifting around more than the San Andreas Fault, we finally got a plate put onto Natalie's bones to hold them steady. Last night, after a full day at the hospital complete with IV lines and nausea and vomiting and all that good stuff, she called it the best day ever. Not because she's into that kind of thing. Because she was able to lie down without the bones shifting, which apparently feels really good.

I feel bad for waiting the three weeks, except that we didn't know the bones wouldn't stay aligned so it would have felt like overkill at the time. So we take the "lumps" as they come (in this case literally) and try to stay grateful for the blessings - like having a daughter who's enough of a trooper to take finals while in excruciating pain. Bless her little heart.

The Race Is On...

2010-12-07T21:39:00.000-08:00

Wow, was my last post really in October? Thanks to those of you who nudged me back here. One good friend even used the word verklempt. As in she gets verklempt when I don't blog for a while. I have no idea what that means, but it does not sound good. And so I must write.

I have begun kind of a marathon existence, running from one activity to the next with barely time for mundane things like eating, let along blogging. This life on the run began a few months ago when I started a part-time writing job. Just a few hours a day, enough to get me up and dressed and out of the house every day. Or so I thought. And in theory it should work fine. But I'd literally only been on the job a few days when my Daniel needed that inconvenient emergency surgery. Between the new job, hanging at the hospital, and regular life stuff, there wasn't time for anything else. Once he was healed up, I started this new distraction:

Not the best picture, but as you know, I'm in a hurry. Anyway, when I wasn't at work I was helping my oldest learn to sew this adorable outfit. Yes, I failed as a mother and never got around to teaching her when he was still at home, so it was the least I could do. Awesome slam dunk for a first time sewer wouldn't you say? Yeah, it was ambitious, and kept us busy, but Jen learned a ton and I got to spend all that time with both my girl and grandbaby.

Things should have slowed after that, but two things got in the way. First my book group asked if they could review my book. Not my current one, but my new one, Perfectly Normal. Which of course meant FINISHING it. That was incredible by the way, with rave reviews, so watch for news on that. Working on the book took every spare second, at least it would have if it weren't for Thanksgiving.

This was possibly my last chance in a long time to get all the kids together, so we decided to spent the holiday at a cabin. And that meant gathering food, including a holiday feast, for over a dozen people. And even though I had a couple of weeks to put it all together, it still seemed like a marathon getting us all there.

During all this rush, rush, rush, I kept thinking that I could blog about all these great things while sitting by a fire at the cabin. First though, I did this:

That's me at the top of the hill, and again near the middle with my hubby, trying not to wet my pants. Good, good times. Oh the blog posts I had planned. They were hysterical.

But then this happened a few minutes later:

I stepped into the cabin for just a few minutes. Just a few. And when I came out they were in the trees. Stupid, stupid trees. We are so very happy she is alive. The collarbone is broken, and you can see the face. The worst part is that she's in the final weeks of her first semester of college. She is back at school as of today, but hurting like crazy.

Which leads me to my next activity...surgery!!! For me!!! Just two days away. A coconut-ectomy. Basically just preparing me for the real reconstruction in a couple of months. And honestly, I'm looking forward to the forced rest. Not to mention losing the coconuts.

And yes, the medical bills are staggering, both in number and amount. Let me go on record as saying I am so grateful for insurance. We're thinking they may just ask us to move into a hospital wing, to save on paperwork and such.

So there it is, my two-month marathon in a very fast nutshell.

If nothing else, while rushing and running and reminding myself to eat I am constantly reminded of what a rich, and very full life I have. Despite all the stress and pressures of day-to-day, I wouldn't trade a bit of it. (Well, okay I could do without broken collarbones and pancreatitis and cancer. But I'd keep the rest in a heartbeat.)

Boys being Boys

2010-10-24T13:03:00.001-07:00

Our house has become a lot more masculine since all three of our girls have moved out. We're down to just the two boys, and despite their age gap (23 and 11) they manage to find something to argue about pretty much constantly. The latest being Halloween costumes.

As you know if you've followed this blog, Brandon is an actor. Big time drama, drama, drama actor. He sings, he dances, and he plays pretend. He's also a planner. Birthday plans for April start in about May. Christmas starts in January. As a result I've made a rule that I don't want to hear a word about Halloween costumes until October 1st. So, of course, on Oct. 1st, it became VERY urgent that we come up with a Halloween costume THAT DAY!!!! All other activities and interests ceased to exist until a costume was figured out.

And it was no surprise that the costume theme was SPIES. Because SPIES are the biggest, most important thing in the entire world. There is a piece of paper taped to the door that leads under the stairs that says SKI CLUB. In tiny (I'm talking so tiny you need a magnifying glass) letters underneath the big SKI, it says 'spy kids incorporated'. I once asked Brandon what his SKI club was about, and he was delighted that he'd fooled me. Behind the door of this club is every gadget he's managed to finagle from me or his dad or Santa or his grandma, which means tons. Spy glasses, spy spears, spy cars, spy cases--you name it and he's probably got it.

So come October first, otherwise known as Costume Day, we did a search for spy costumes to get some ideas. I noticed one spy who was wearing a tan leather jacket, and pointed out that his sister has one just like it. He found the jacket, and also found a hat that matched. He stuffed the jacket with all his spy gear, made himself a mustache, found one of my old wigs and voila! a spy was born.

He proceeded to put on this outfit on the 2nd of October, and the 3rd, and the 4th. You get the idea.

But after several days of exuberant spy-costume wearing, Daniel lost his patience. "You don't look like a spy. You look like a girl. Those are girl clothes."

Brandon came to me, deflated. "Is it true? Are these girl clothes?"

I confirmed that yes, it was his sister's jacket. But he knew that. And it was my hat. And wig. But he knew that too. But it didn't really matter, as long as when you put them together you look like a spy. Which he did. And he shouldn't listen to mean 'ol Daniel anyway. I did this while leering with all the loathing I could manage at Daniel. But it was too late. He discarded the outfit and began plans for another one. I told Daniel he could pay for whatever a new outfit cost, but that didn't go over too well. He said he didn't care what he wore, as long as they were never seen together. Mean Daniel. Mean, mean Daniel.

The outfit stayed in a heap just outside his bedroom door for a couple days. But then one day he put it on again. When I asked about it, he told me he'd talked to his friend, who is also going as a spy, and they decided together that it was perfect, no matter what mean ol' Daniel said. Because, he continued, his eyes bright and enthusiastic, this wasn't just one costume, it was two. He then ripped off the coat and hat (dramatically of course) to show me his "blending in" costume.

"Blending in?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. As if I was born yesterday. "All spies have blending in outfits. Haven't you watched anything on TV?"

That is obviously one brilliant kid. Now if I can just figure out how to keep him from growing up.

A fine day for a walk...

2010-10-24T12:38:00.001-07:00

My daughters (well, two of them, one was too far away and busy with college) and the grandbaby took me walking...for a cure.

Couldn't this be a poster for the American Cancer Society? Jen has another picture, after it popped, where he looks a little like Eeyore. So adorable.

It was a beautiful day. Ethan made it half way. But when we saw a marker that said we'd gone two miles, and he was out of the stroller wanting to walk, and it was a five-mile route, we knew we were in trouble. But he was a trooper!

We're not sure what blue chips (they were passing them out on the route) have to do with a pink cause, but the red hair (supposed to be pink) added to the blue tongue made for...I'm not sure what. But we it was hilarious at the time.

I didn't get the picture with Jen, she was behind the camera with this one, but she was there, carrying Ethan most of the way! Thanks girls!

Party Crasher

2010-10-13T10:41:00.000-07:00

Today was supposed to be my big, huge, final day of treatment. After a full year of Herceptin by IV every three weeks, today was supposed to be the last. I've been talking about it and looking forward to it for weeks. Even had a party planned.

But instead, I'm doing this:

Yes, there is something wrong with this picture. And no, that is not me in the hospital gown. Note to my children: The next time I spend the night in the hospital, I want to be the one in the bed. I really do prefer it that way.

This turn of events started on Monday evening. Daniel was in stomach agony when he arrived home from work. As any parent knows, there are plenty of times that you have to go with your gut when it comes to kids and illnesses. There are three basic options when they come to you with a complaint. You can tell them to toughen up and ignore it. (Without really letting on that that's your plan of course. "Oh I'm so sorry your tummy hurts. I bet you just need some rest. Why don't you go lie down? wink wink") Or you can turn to the medicine cabinet and start playing Doctor Mom with whatever drugs you happen to have on hand. Or you can load up the car and head to the doctor.

Normally I start with method one, go to number two if the complaints continue, and only move on to option three as an absolute last resort. But lately my gut instinct has been a little out of whack. I won't embarrass myself or my children by listing the minor issues that have sent me to the emergency room in the last year. Let's just say that they probably roll their eyes when they see me coming. My recent brush with the dramatic has made every little bump and lump seem like a good reason to panic.

So I didn't hesitate to tell Daniel to get into the car when he came upstairs pale, sweating, and in extreme pain. It wasn't until I was sitting in a dark parking lot so he could throw up into a bush that it occurred to me that once again I'd skipped right over steps one and two and headed straight to step three. I hadn't even offered him some of that amazing Earl Grey Tea that had done wonders with my nausea during chemo. But when he climbed back into the car, slightly green and moaning, I doubted if he'd be pleased with the idea of going back home for some tea. So we forged ahead. To heck with medical bills. And sleep.

Well it turns out (several hours into the night later) that it was his pancreas. Pancreatitis. Who would have thought?

For the record, I am totally patting myself on the back for making that emergency room call. Apparently the pancreas is a really important organ. And it hurts really bad when it's inflamed, which happens (very rarely) when a gall stone travels in a totally wrong direction and blocks it. But the good news is that he's out of surgery and doing great. The doc expects a full recovery. So tomorrow we can get back to normal things like my big last-day-of-chemo celebration.

Some Kind of Normal

2010-09-15T21:03:00.000-07:00

I received a call today from one of my nurses. There are two of them who call to check up on me every couple of weeks. I can't keep track of which is which or who they work for, but they're both nice and so I try to make time to chat with them when they call. Today's nurse pointed out that today was my one-year anniversary.

Apparently I had my biopsy a year ago today.

WooHoo. Break out the party hats.

I wanted to verify the date so I just went back and read the entry I wrote a year ago. Don't think I should have. Living it once was good enough. But I'm glad it's behind me.

My last few posts have been kind of downers. And I've been intending to post something a little more upbeat about how I'm doing. Then I had the friends with cancer trauma that foiled that plan. But now that I know it's my anniversary, I guess it seems appropriate to post a one-year-mark entry.

So...as of Sept. 15, 2010, my life has gotten back to some kind of normal. I have a new job doing freelance editing for Papercraft magazine, which it turns out is a really sweet gig.

I also have a new head of hair. It's surprisingly dark, and looks like this:

On the day I took that picture, Maura Tierney was on the cover of Parade Magazine styling a similar do:

If you don't recognize her (I didn't), she used to play a nurse on the television show ER. At the time she had long hair, kind of light brown. Kind of like me. Then she played a patient in real life, also like me. Personally I think she looks way better with her short locks. Kind of inspires me to maybe keep mine this way. Except the only way I'd look that good is if I had a fortune to spend on a stylist. And then got hit hard with a pretty stick. Plus I have this huge desire to run my fingers through my long hair. But I don't know. I guess I'll decide when and if the hair gets to a point that I decide I liked it better short. That's a luxury most of us never dare try. So score one good thing from this cancer.

Another part of my life that's totally different a year out is my arm. It's hard to be upbeat about that. But there's some good with it. In case you don't know, shortly after my mastectomy it swelled up like a balloon. It's called lymphedema, and sometimes happens after lymph nodes are removed. In my case, the arm just kept getting bigger.

They gave me a compression sleeve to wear during the day, and taught me a massage to do at night. At first I tried to just wear the sleeve during exercise, like a lot of people do. But it was obvious that wasn't enough, so I started wearing it for a couple hours, then a few, and eventually I realized I just had to break down and wear it all day. It's a pain, but less of a pain than having a swollen arm. And for a while that was good enough, but eventually it wasn't. So then I got to start wrapping my arm at night. Every other night actually, just to keep it under control. It's pretty ridonkulus. I don't even know how many layers. Three rolls of gauze, two rolls of styrofoam, three different wraps. Takes like half an hour, and another half hour in the morning rolling everything back up. Here's the pic:

I know. Seriously, who thinks up these things?

But the good news is I've been able to take the sleeve off for a couple of hours every day. Which means I don't usually have to wear it to places like church. And I'm doing some weight lifting. So maybe some day I'll get back to just wearing it for exercise. I know that doesn't sound very impressive as a dream, but for me it sounds huge.

Let's see...what else? Oh, there's hormones. Or lack of hormones. They've all been shut off. Every last one. It's called chemopause. My cancer happens to be a kind that feeds off of estrogen, so that's part of the treatment. Amazingly it hasn't been too bad. In fact the doc was worried for a little bit because I don't even have hot flashes. But I guess I just lucked out that way. Don't get me wrong, I do have issues. Mostly aches and pains and kind of wild, random mood swings. And dry skin and acne. But that just keeps life from getting boring I guess. Besides, I now have a boat-load of excuses for being forgetful and irrational.

And finally...there's the whole reconstruction thing. If you've been following this blog, you know what a huge disappointment that was. And how anxious I am to move forward. So here's where those hugely miraculous blessings start to kick in. I've kind of been afraid to talk about it, like I might jinx it or something.

My plastic surgeon told me about a procedure he's been following with interest. The results of a study were just released, and in my humble opinion it is beyond impressive. It's amazing. Incredible. Exciting.

Long story short, he's actually offered to fly to Florida next month to do a training, and then use me as a guinea pig. Which I know sounds really crazy. Except that he knows how to do the basic procedure, it's just a particular way of doing it that he has to learn. This has the potential to be the next big thing in mastectomy reconstruction. And I'm really, really excited to be bringing it to Utah. If you're interested, here's a video that talks about it.

Exciting, isn't it? I'm sure I'll be talking about it more in the future.

But for now, that's me, one long icky year after diagnosis. I'm not sure how to type out the sound of a party horn, but just imagine it with me: Pllllbbbbblllll!

Fighting Mad

2010-09-15T05:16:00.001-07:00

I've been angry for almost a week now. In the traditional stages of grief, anger is the one I tend to hang out in. Which I realize isn't a great testament of my faith. But there it is. I can't usually place my finger on where my anger's directed. But I know this time. I know exactly. It all started with horrid news about this lady:

Beautiful, isn't she? Her name's Karleen. Her role in my life started way back in the seventies in The Year of the Move. My parents took two big-time California girls (who kept our vinyls on a constant loop with songs like 'California Dreamin', 'Wish they all could be Californian', and 'Surfer Girl') from the Awesome and Cool place known as Hacienda Heights, California; and transplanted them entirely against their will to the dinky little cold place known as Logan, Utah. No one ever wrote a song about Logan, Utah.

To make matter's worse, I was going into the ninth grade, which was high school in California, but only middle school in Logan. But that wasn't as bad as my big sister's situation. It was her senior year. It is hard to imagine a more cruel thing to do to a senior in high school.

Karleen lived just up the street from us in Logan. She was a year older than my sister, which I just learned, but makes it even more remarkable that she rescued Sis by bringing her into her circle of a friends--a circle that included my future husband, who also lived in the neighborhood. I'm quite certain Karleen was the one bright spot that made that year tolerable for my sister. Karleen had a glow that attracted people to her like bugs to a porch light. Everyone she came in contact with felt like a good friend. She even made me - a puny little middle schooler - feel loved and accepted.

Karleen went on to teach kindergarten. And from what I hear she was a natural. Made every one of her students feel like her favorite. She had a daughter too, who was the light of her life.

On Friday I got a call from my sister (who by-the-way promptly moved back to California after graduation and stayed. I, on the other hand, developed a fondness for that Logan place.) Carolyn gave me the bad news that Karleen had passed on. She knew little beyond that, a possibility of cancer. But we learned from the obituary that Karleen had started the school year, taken on a class of bright-eyed kindergarteners, so obviously she hadn't planned on leaving this world quite this soon.

My husband and I scrambled to make plans to get to Logan for the burial the next day. He happened to be fishing with his brother in Yellowstone, which is north of Logan, and I was home in Draper, south of the place, so I gathered up respectable funeral suits for the both of them and drove up to meet them.

At the cemetery, I asked a mutual acquaintance if she knew more about Karleen's story. She confirmed that it was breast cancer. She'd gone through treatment, and everything was fine. The woman placed her hand over her chest, near her shoulder. "And then she found another lump," she whispered. "It was mean and fast and aggressive."

At that moment, the funeral director stood and announced the dedication on the grave. Karleen's father--eyes red-rimmed, looking weak and beaten--stood to offer the prayer. Karleen's women - her mother, her daughter, and a sister - sat under a green canopy, clinging to one another for strength.

For just a split second my mind's eye saw my husband standing in that man's place. My beautiful women sitting under the canopy. And I gained a new appreciation for the term 'weak-kneed'. The prayer was beautiful. But I had a wedding to go to afterwards, and I hadn't thought to bring makeup, or even tissues, so it also became an internally-frantic attempt to keep my composure. Keep the tears from flooding my face. Keep those knees holding up my body.

That's when the anger started to build. A put-up-your-dukes kind. It hadn't diminished in the least when more news came that very same day. This time one of My Girls. I didn't give birth to her or raise her. One of my good friends gets to take full credit for that. But I was her church leader for nearly six years. From the time she was nine until two years ago, when she started high school. And in those years her bright smile managed to weave it's way around and through my heart. She's a senior now, same as my sister in her challenging year. That year of vulnerability and possibilities. She's beautiful, brilliant, and cheerful. Take everything you know about stuck-up, snotty, flighty teenagers and throw it out the window with this one. She's nothing like that. Everything a young person should be.

While on my way to that wedding, I learned through Facebook that Tiffany was in the hospital. Through a friend I learned they were thinking maybe leukemia. After a couple days of tense waiting, it turns out leukemia would have been good news. It is cancer. But they don't know the source. And since cancer's behave in unique ways depending on their source, they really have to know that in order to fight it properly.

So now we wait some more while they run test after test on her young body. A body that should be worried about math tests and boys and what to wear to school, not blood counts and pic lines.

And that's why I'm mad. I want to put my fists in the air and shout at that cancer: HOW DARE YOU!?! HOW DARE YOU THINK YOU CAN INVADE THE BODIES OF THESE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN?!? GET OUT RIGHT NOW AND LEAVE THEM ALONE!! LEAVE US ALL ALONE!!

Of course I'd just be circling around waving my fists at nothing. Tipping at windmills. Fortunately we have prayer, and a belief that there is a purpose in everything. That God is in control. And I do feel so blessed to have that faith. The prayers that have been offered up in my behalf have been unbelievably tangible. God's mindfulness of me is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Yet I still dream that some day cancer will listen to demands like that. That it will get out and stay out. That the angels in heaven will have to find new ways and reasons to minister to us.

In the meantime, please join me in praying for Karleen's family, and for my girl Tiffany.

An Accidental Summer

2010-09-01T15:12:00.000-07:00

So apparently there are people besides my mother who worry when I don't blog. And while I'm touched and grateful, I'm also sorry for any undue concern my recent silence has caused. And I guess I partly didn't write because I wasn't feeling up to it, but mostly it was because I had to prioritize.

I'd planned my summer very carefully: from the day of my surgery on there was a big black line drawn through every day for a full six weeks. That's what I was told to expect. But when that didn't work out, no one was really sure what to tell me in terms of recovery, especially since it was my spirit that hurt worse than my body.

And I suppose I might still be in bed today if it weren't for that family reunion. I hadn't planned on going, since it was near the beginning of my black-line phase. I was really bummed about that too, especially since family members who NEVER come to Utah were going to be there. So when the surgery failed, and I was feeling kind of human a week later, I sort-of happily dragged myself there, happy meaning happy to go, but not exactly happy or ready to get dressed and leave the house. But I went, and was glad I did. This is the crew, at least the stragglers that were still there when someone thought to take a group picture. I'm the one sitting down (looking like an invalid) in black. My daughter has the picture of just me and my siblings, but if you see faces that look an awful lot like mine, they're either my kids or my sibs. And the sweet older lady who looks like she's doting over me? Well I guess she is. She's the reason for all the fuss - my mom - who's turning (yikes!) 90 in a few months.

After that day we had family visitors, racquetball tournaments, swim lessons, band concerts, acting gigs, birthdays, outings with the grandbaby, school starting, kids moving out, and before I knew it I was back in the world of the living, ready or not. There wasn't ever a point where I decided I was ready to spend more time in bed than out of it. Certainly never a time I decided I was healed. I'm still not sure how to answer when people ask how I'm doing. I think I tell them I'm plugging along. As if that doesn't make me sound like an old geezer.

But stuff just kept happening that I didn't want to miss, even if I didn't feel up to it. Cancer will do that to you, you know. Make you want to live. Big time. The other things--cooking, cleaning...and blogging...kind of got second billing to the fun stuff. (Gotta reserve that strength you know.)

So here in a nutshell are some of the highlights of the summer that I didn't think I'd get to have:

Me and the girls celebrating Whit's birthday at 'Erin's Slumber Party'. They'd just gotten their nails done. Mine are still too weak from the Herceptin to be painted. Frowny face. (Which I know will make the birthday girl laugh.) I did get a massage, which I swear was twice as long as it should have been. One perk of being a cancer patient.

Here's my adorable little Ethan touching a donkey for the first time at the petting zoo.
And here he is AFTER touching a donkey for the first time. He really didn't mind the donkey so much, it was those goats that kept trying to eat him that really got to him. Not that I can blame him.

Private swim lessons sound really impressive until I admit that I've been too distracted to give Brandon a chance to keep his skills up and there weren't any classes at his level for boys his age. But his teacher did wonders with those numchuck...I mean swimming skills.

And here's the little Stud Muffin doing his modeling gig. (I didn't get pictures of the commercial or movie he was in, but he's been a busy little actor.)

This is Natalie on her first day in the dorms at BYU. I also missed pics of Whitney who moved out the day before. Losing two girls in two days is a little too much of a shock to the system. And below is Brandon, excited for his first day of middle school. More system shock! And finally, below that is a horrible video of an adorable performance Brandon did a few days ago with his band, Prodigy. Yep, I'm the totally lame and unprepared parent who only has her phone to record her son's solo performance. He also had a couple duets with a cutie girl that didn't even get recorded. And I don't even know if this one will work because I've just been getting errors for the last hour. But it was really cute. I'll do better next time - but at least I have all these bonus memories!

Lessons on the Hill

2010-08-13T11:20:00.000-07:00

I live on the side of a hill. Okay, I guess it's a mountain. It's called South Mountain, so that must be what it is. Either way, it's steep. And I know--from a scientific engineering-type point of view--that when walking on this hill/mountain, one must go both up and down. But despite this knowledge, and vast experience, I can't seem to get past an urge to find a level path for walking.

Which means that every time I set out on a walk, I go in a new and different direction, one that most surely--I decide at the last minute--will lead to a level path.

But what really happens is that I spend about 90% of the first part of my walk going downhill, (because the downhill option ALWAYS looks better than the uphill option). But then eventually I decide I'm just going to have to go home, and since there's no level path in site I decide to just turn around and go back, which means of course that 90% of the homeward journey is going uphill.

This morning, grunting and groaning on that uphill part of the journey, I decided maybe, just maybe, there's a lesson to be learned.

I'm still thinking on it.

The Big Step

2010-07-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

So as many of you know, last Monday was THE big day. The one I've anticipated throughout this entire journey with a whole range of emotions. A little fear, a little excitement, and a lot of anxiety. Reconstruction Day.

I had planned to write something before Monday about the surgery and my decision to have it. Because it was a crazy, big surgery. Ten hours long. Five days in the hospital. Six weeks of recovery. And some people (*cough*mom*cough*) kind of questioned if I should really put myself through all that. But of course a generation ago women didn't often get the opportunity of putting their bodies back together again. I consider myself very fortunate to have had my plastic surgeon on my team right from the beginning. It has never been a question of whether he would do anything, just what he would do. He has always been respectful of the second-place position of his role to my care. The first concern is always to save my life. His job is to give me my life back - which is never allowed to interfere with the first, but both jobs are way important in my opinion.

I love this quote from PJ Hamel on HealthCentral:

"Outwardly, reconstruction is all about looks–which doesn’t mean it’s all based on vanity. Any guilty thoughts you have about making this decision purely for “vanity’s sake,” get rid of them right now. Reconstruction (or no reconstruction) is really about feeling normal and healthy...It’s about being able to take your life back because you feel good about yourself, both emotionally and physically. It’s about looking in the mirror, and not wanting to look away because you see a wrecked, disfigured body, a body that makes you feel sad and ashamed."

PJ goes on to say that any decision - whether to reconstruct or not reconstruct can be the right one, as long as a decision is made and the patient feels good about it. So I made my decision, with my plastic surgeon's help, to go for a diep-flap, which is considered the gold standard in reconstruction. It is a biggie upfront (as I mentioned) but when you're done, you have all your own tissue - since they take your abdominal tissue to form breast mounds. Sweet, isn't it? The reason for the length of the surgery is that you are both a tissue donor and a tissue recipient. And frankly, what woman doesn't like the idea of donating her belly fat to a good cause?

In the days before the surgery, that ring of fat around my belly started to really bug me. Like a house guest that had worn out its welcome. And those expanders I've been wearing for the last eight months? You know, the ones I refer to "fondly" as my coconuts? Let's just say that my first thought upon waking, every single morning for the last forever, has been "one day closer to getting these out of here."

I'm not sure why I never got around to blogging all this before my surgery - I kept thinking it was because I was too busy getting things organized for me to check out of life for a few weeks. But also, I think I hadn't quite put my thoughts in order - I was having such a pull of emotions.

If my life were made into a movie, the last few weeks could be a cheesy montage of me growing my hair, growing stronger, and getting ready for the re-do. I felt so confident going into the hospital. I knew it was going to be a rough few weeks afterwards, but that after that I would be so grateful I'd done. I joked with the doctor when he drew lines all over my body, told him to make me beautiful. And it would have been a beautiful montage--I could just picture the ending, with me and my smoking hot new body running of into the sunset, my inch-long hair waving in the wind.

But sadly, the music came to a screeching halt Monday afternoon. One o'clock to be precise. I remember because the scene was with the patient in a hospital gurney, struggling to wake up from sedation, and trying to focus on the clock. It looked like it said one o'clock, but that couldn't be right. The surgery wasn't supposed to end until closer to six or seven o'clock at night. The patient (me) called to somebody walking by, "what time is it?" When the answer came back, "one o'clock", I grabbed for my belly, and realized it was still intact.

"What happened?" I croaked. "What went wrong?"

"What makes you think something went wrong?" The poor, naive little nurse-person said. "Everything's fine."

Well, I happen to be known for getting a tad bit emotional when I wake up from anesthesia, even when everything has gone according to plan. And this was NOT according to plan. I'm pretty sure I did my reputation proud.

Another nurse came rushing over to tell me that my doctor was in another surgery, but he would come talk to me when he was done. ANOTHER SURGERY??? My doctor is in ANOTHER surgery? This one was supposed to last all day!!! He CAN'T be in another surgery!!!! The nurse rushed off and returned moments later with the news that she had read my chart, and all she could tell me was that they weren't able to complete the surgery as planned, but that I still had the opportunity to go back another time, and in the meantime they had reinserted my implants.

Did you catch that? Because I did. They had reinserted my coconuts. Just put them right back in. As if that was okay!!! As if I wouldn't mind that they put them back again! As if that was even a possibility!

I'm not sure exactly everything that happened after that. I do remember being extremely unhappy that they not only couldn't produce my surgeon, but they couldn't even provide my husband. Something about rules. And I remember the nurse lady saying, "You do realize don't you, that your body is full of narcotics and that you're not behaving rationally?"

And I remember thinking right about that time that if my incisions were still fresh, maybe I could claw them open myself and take out those stupid coconuts.

That's about the last thing I remember. Apparently they decided I didn't have quite enough narcotics in my system.

The next thing I remember was waking up in another room with my husband sitting sheepishly in the corner. He explained as best he could how the surgeon had tried for hours to make the surgery work, but I had too much scar tissue from my open-heart surgery. The doc had warned me that might be an issue, but there was a back-up plan, which was blood vessels on the side. Turns out mine are unusually small, too small to graph with the bigger ones down in my abdomen. It's a fluke, The surgery almost never fails like that. But as you know, I tend to do fluke. My anger was gone, but I cried piteously.

The nurse in the room gave me this pep talk about how I needed to keep a good attitude. How's it's all in the attitude. I ignored her as best I could. After she left, Rob just sat quietly. He'd had a stinky day. Maybe not as bad as mine, but he could remember it all. And he's been through enough of my waking up from surgery's to know that the best tactic is probably just to stay quiet.

Only problem was, this was now officially my pity-party, and sitting quietly wasn't in my script. I wanted to him to fall all over me telling me how sorry he was. And he was just sitting there.

So I asked him to leave. He didn't even question me, just got up to go.

That wasn't in the script either, so then I asked him where he was going. (Don't you love drugged, disappointed women?)

"You told me to leave."

"Only... because...only because you're being... judgmental."

"Judgmental? I'm not saying anything."

"Exactly. I can see it in your face," I continue, partying hard. "You think I should be strong. You think I'm being a baby."

"I didn't say that. I didn't say anything."

"Exactly."

The conversation went on like that for several minutes. I'd write it all out, but then some soap opera writers might just rip me off and use it in an up-coming episode.

I do owe my sweet hubby big time though. Poor guy.

The pity-party continued into the night and most of the next day. I was not a good patient. I am usually the queen of good patients, but I ripped off my leg-squeezers and my oxygen tube. I ignored my breathing exerciser. I even slapped an orderly who tried to take blood pressure on my bad arm in the middle of the night. One nurse did her level best to shake me out of it. Kept holding up a picture of my grandbaby. Telling me I had to keep up the fight. She kept the pep talk going right up to the moment that she loaded me in the car.

But I showed her. Showed 'em all.

They think they can send me home with coconuts and have me smile about it? I don't think so.

Funny thing is, I did know she was right, even while she was talking. It just felt like I would be a failure if I admitted it before I was ready. Now that I'm at the end of the week, most of the pain has gone, and I'm ready to start talking about my other options. I'm still not wild about the coconuts for three more months, but it could be worse. It could be way worse.

Sisters in Battle

2010-07-20T21:14:00.001-07:00

In the last couple of days I've been introduced to two different women who are related to old friends of mine. Women who are battling this breast cancer beast--not that I've met them personally, just that I've learned their stories.

And while I've heard a lot of moving stories of people touched by cancer, tonight I'm thinking especially of these two. I'm told that once you get the diagnosis, you become part of a pink sisterhood. I'm just starting to appreciate that.

One of the ladies is on her second go-around with the disease, and it's not good. She's resigned herself to the horror of it all and is just happy for the year with her family that she didn't think she'd get.

The other just got the news and is still grappling with how to make sense of the insensible. How to accept the unacceptable. She doesn't know how to tell her children. Or her father. Or how to say goodbye to a part of her body that she really wants to keep.

I look back on my own experience of gradual acceptance, and I want to cry for that woman, for what I know she's going through. I look ahead to what the other has had to accept and pray I'll never walk in her steps.

The best I can do tonight though is to pray for them. For all of us girls in pink.

And the Losses Continue

2010-07-12T10:44:00.000-07:00

This week I have learned that the loss of a trust-worthy fifteen-year-old washing machine is not anywhere near as traumatic as the loss of a beloved dog. In fact, the two shouldn't even be compared. BUT when both losses occur in the same short span of time. And when a bunch of other crud (that I don't think I have to re-hash) is going on at the same time, well...one can begin to feel severely picked on.

Especially when there are six people living in the house who all wear something like three outfits every day and all those outfits are piled in great smelly mounds in the laundry room so you pick the first repair person who can make it to the house and spend over a hundred dollars to get the machine fixed only to learn that isn't really fixed and you'll need to spend a couple hundred more to get it fixed right and then you'll end up with a very used machine that cost about the same as a new one and you have to decide whether to pretend you threw that first investment out the window and buy a new one or keep throwing money into the wind to fix the old one and you don't have time to give it a whole lot of thought because people keep poking their head into your room saying in a panicky voice, "No washing machine yet?" And then they laugh at you in that way that means they think you've really lost it this time when you remind them that we have running water and sinks. Whew. It makes for a really stinky day. Or several days, as it turned out.

Don't get me wrong. I haven't lost sight of how truly blessed I am - I have an amazing family, a wonderful husband who has a steady job, we live in a comfortable house surrounded with beautiful trees that sway in the breeze all day, I have wonderful friends who truly care about me, and most of all I get to be alive to enjoy it all.

However, I have also learned this week that it is possible to feel utterly picked on and utterly blessed at the very same time.

By the way, I picked door number two: the new washer. And I love it.

The Thing About Support

2010-07-05T11:56:00.000-07:00

One of the questions I am asked most often, when one learns I'm battling the Big C, is if I have a good support network. Which seems like an odd question to me. I mean, what would they say if I said no, I ain't got nobody. Would they volunteer to be my friend? That could be scary, volunteering to befriend a person who hasn't managed to make any on their own. Or would they just shake their head and say they're sorry and leave us both feeling awkward? I for one have made a mental note to never ask that question, just to be safe.

Fortunately, I have a great, overwhelming, phenomenal number of people who support me and cheer me on, so I get to say that yes, yes I do. And then they get say that's great, because that's so important.

To be honest, whenever that question comes, before I make that mental image of all those fabulous wonderful examples of support, I always think of the one glaring example of lack of support from someone who should have been close. Funny how that works. The thing you want to put behind you most just sticks around like a big ol' elephant in the room. (And by the way, if you heard the one about how I just made up the cancer for the attention, well...yeah. Sometimes it makes me laugh, sometimes it makes me cry.)

Anyway, after that little rumor comes to mind and I brush it away...again...I then picture all those other faces. Even packed in tight together in my mind they take up more space than that stupid elephant. There are so many that they make me choke up and I can barely say yes to the person asking about my support system.

And today I've been thinking about how I don't thank them nearly enough. By them I mean you.

There's the person who sends me a text every once in a while to see how I'm doing. Or comments on my blog. Or sends me an email. Or calls. The many, many who have brought meals. And treats. Sent cards. Made hand-made happy-thought books. Bought me hats. Stopped by for no reason. Driven my son to school every day. Had him over for play dates. Met me for lunch. Helped clean and organize my house. Listened to me whine. Lied to me about how good I look bald. Hugged me. Cried for me. Cried with me. Prayed for me. Taught your children to pray for me.

See how many there are? How they fill up that space in my brain to the point that it pushes the tears out of my eyeballs?

And if you didn't see yourself in the list that was my fault, because if you're reading this I bet anything you belong there. So thank you for helping to make such a big, wonderful net. I don't know how I could have gotten through without it.

Missing My Little Guy...

2010-06-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

For the first time in eight years, the house is quiet when someone comes to the door. And I don't have to watch where I put my feet when I stand up. And no one prances with joy when I get home.

Toby's last day was too gruesome and sudden for me to recount yet. The tears are slowing, but they still come often. Like right now.

Sometimes it seemed like his spirit was too big for his ten pounds of body. Like when he'd leap so much with excitement that he'd land on his back, even after he became a "senior" dog.

Sometimes he'd try to talk to me by sneezing, and would seem so frustrated when I couldn't understand him. His favorite time of day was family dinner, because he knew he'd get his chew treat. Sometimes we'd confuse him by having family breakfast, but he'd be so persistent that he'd usually get two treats that day.

One day when he was just a puppy, I got a call from a neighbor asking if we had a little white dog, because there was one in the street yelping in pain. I stepped out in the yard and saw that he was there, so I assured her that it wasn't our dog, ours was fine. He tried to run to me when he saw me, but collapsed before he could reach me. Turns out he'd crawled under the fence after getting hit by the car. Or maybe the bike. Nobody actually saw the accident. And it was a wonder he lived. He was only about 4 pounds at the time. But the doctor said he had road burn, so something must have hit him. He broke his leg, and had two subsequent surgeries. His back never was the same, but he didn't let that slow him down, until Thursday, when his body came to crashing halt.

And if there really is a doggy heaven, I'm sure he's tearing up the place.

It's Official!

2010-06-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

Today I decided that (drum roll please!) I am officially no longer bald! Or even mostly-bald! Or even partly-bald! Eccentric-looking maybe, but not bald. And I love, love, love hair. I love that I no longer feel like an invalid when I leave the house, or wonder what people are thinking when they look at me. And I totally love the way it keeps my head shaded in the heat and warm in the cold. Great invention this hair stuff.

This new crop is darker than my original light brown, and for some odd reason has less gray. It's also very straight. I've been told over and over to expect curl. And at this point curl would probably be nice, since what I have is growing straight out and totally ignoring my attempts at giving it a part or lying flat. But I've vowed never again to complain about hair. I figure there's no such thing as a bad hair day, as long as there is actually hair involved. So cheers to hair, bee-u-ti-ful hair!

Getting Emotional...

2010-06-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, this chemopause I've been thrown in to has given me cause to fight my emotions in a way that brings back not-so-fond memories of my teen years. I read about one woman who says she's learned to look forward to these out-of-control because she feel victorious when she overcomes them. And I agree, once I figured out WHY I was freaking out over the littlest things, it became much easier to stay in control. And then I get to pat myself and the back and say "Good for you Suz for not stomping out of the room like a two-year-old in front of the whole fam because you burned candied nuts." Yeah I know, it doesn't sound like that big of a victory, but trust me, it feels like it.

So...one of my author friends Anne Bradshaw put this on her status on Facebook, and I was moved. I did have to wonder whether it covered chemically-induced temper tantrums, but I suspect it does:

“Almost every emotional problem can be summed up in one particular bit of behavior: it’s a person walking around screaming, ‘Love me.’ Love me, that’s all. He goes through a million different manipulations to get somebody to love him. On the other hand, healthy people are those who walk around looking for someone to love. It’s hard to learn, but it’s good when you learn it.” ~ Thomas P. Malone

Wow - how simple is that? How profound? From babies to hard-to-deal-with family members to chemo-brained cancer patients - just love me. And if you're the one acting bad? Go find somebody to love. Easypeasy.

Just when I think I've got this living thing figured out...something new comes along.

Getting There

2010-06-09T07:13:00.000-07:00

Monday I went to the Draper Temple parking lot--which is really big and totally empty on Mondays--and Mags and I zoomed around for close to an hour. (That's what I've been calling her, now that we're on a less formal basis.) I imagined intersections, semis, traffic jams with stop and go traffic; and got pretty darn good, if I say so myself. But then, imaginary fears are never quite as effective as the real thing.

So Tuesday I gathered up all my courage and headed off with good 'ol Mags to the hospital in Murray, about a 20 mile drive. I got onto the freeway without a hitch and traveled along writing the rough draft to this blog entry in my head, how I'd say that I didn't have so much as a shoulder shrug, let alone a shake fist, pointed in my direction for the entire trip.

But then I get to the hospital, and there's a guy in the toll booth in the parking lot. I've been going to the hospital almost daily for about six months and there's never been a guy in the toll booth. But this time there was, and he waved me down to stop, which took me totally by surprise. He asks me if I'm a guest. And I'm wondering if he means guest in the way that restaurants call their customer's guests? Like, "Here, let's roll you inside this big tube and fill you full of radioactive material! But don't think of yourself as a patient, think of yourself as OUR GUEST!!!"

Or maybe he means a guest like someone who is there to visit a patient? The only thing I know for sure is that I'm not an employee. Maybe that's what he wants to know. Maybe he's just trying to make sure the employees go wherever they're supposed to. So I say, "I'm a patient?" (As if he can't tell, with the hairdo and all.)

That seems to satisfy him, and he waves me on, turning his attention to the car behind me. But I'm so distracted that I forget about Mags and her needs. And when I try to go on my way she promptly dies. Start, die. Start, die.

By this time there are a couple of cars behind me. Panic sets in.

The guy looks back at me and says, "You might want to try putting it into first gear."

I laugh, the nervous kind of laugh you do when you feel stupid. "Oh yeah, that's a good idea," I say. Silly Mags, so full of needs.

Then last night I took Brandon to the library. As he climbed into the backseat he told me he was kind of scared. I told him there was no reason to be scared. Embarrassed maybe, but not scared. When we got home he informed me that I was much improved. "All you have to work on now," he says, "is the clutch."

You here that Mags? That's all we need to do. Work on the clutch. I'm glad he cleared that up.

Me, Menopause, and My Magic Car

2010-06-06T18:56:00.001-07:00

This is my new Honda Fit. I decided it's a car that needs a name, even though I don't usually name my cars. But this one has too much personality to not have a name. So I call it 'Magic'. It was called a magic car in one of the reviews I read, and it really does feel like magic. Even my hubby says so. See, it's this tiny little thing. Only takes up about half the space of a regular car in the garage (or it seems like it), but you forget that when you're inside. It just feels like a regular car with plenty of leg room, head room, and storage space. It's not till you get out that you go, 'oh yeah, this thing is tiny'.

So I absolutely love love love this little car. Except for one tiny little problem: I can not drive it.

Yeah I know, that's really a big problem.

The picture above was actually taken with the intent of posting it in the classifieds, which I haven't done yet. Because I really don't want to get rid of it. What I want is to love it unconditionally. But I think I have to be able to drive it for that to happen. If you remember, it's a manual. Which I don't exactly know how to drive.

So here's a bit of news, in case you're wondering. A 47-year-old woman who has just been put into chemical menopause with subsequent wild mood swings is NOT a good candidate for learning new tricks like driving a stick shift. Who woulda thought?

I'm really surprised there haven't been news headlines about this little red wanna-be car causing traffic jams at intersections around the city. Because that's what's been happening. The thing is, I do just fine in parking lots. I can stop and start and putter and all those good things. But get me at an intersection and well...it's kind of like the time I played a piano solo in church.

Anybody who was there knows exactly what I'm talking about. For those who don't, the story goes like this: I knew this song inside out and backwards. My fingers knew it better than my brain did. When I was at home, I could play it like nobody's business. But when I sat down in that church meeting to play, I went one note, two notes, crash. One note, two notes, crash. One note, two notes, crash. At that point I decided that my fingers were just not going to go beyond those two notes. So here's what I did: I walked up to the microphone at the pulpit and asked everybody to leave. Really. Not even making that up. I then explained that I was having serious stage fright and could do much better if they were all out in the foyer. I then begged their forgiveness and tried one more time. I made it through with just a couple minor flubs. One of my friends told me it was the first time she'd wanted to give a standing ovation while in church.

So now that you know that story about me and my quirkiness, this next one will make more sense. I've been telling this story for days, because when anyone asks about the car, someone in the house says, "Tell them The Story, Mom." And I proceed to tell them The Story. So I guess I need to blog about it. And THAT story goes like this:

After some serious parking lot practice sessions, I took my little new car out on errands, and was feeling pretty cocky about my stick-shift driving abilities. Until I get to an intersection that is on a serious hill. Anybody who knows stick-shift driving knows that getting started while on a hill is the hardest part. But I hadn't learned that yet. Not until I took my foot off the brake, the car rolled backwards, towards the car behind me, and then died. I tried again, and again, and again. But every time the car threatened to roll into the car behind me. Eventually that car went around me. And so did the next. And the next. All while I started and restarted the car. I eventually came to the conclusion that the car was not getting off that hill with me driving it. So I did the only thing I could think of. I got out, walked to the car that had just pulled up behind me, and asked the driver if he knew how to drive a stick shift.

Well, it just so happens that the driver was in his mid-twenties, and cute. The kind of cute that makes you forget for a few minutes that you're an old lady. An old mostly-bald lady. He also happened to be driving a very nice car. The men in my house can't believe that I didn't notice the make and model. But I didn't. Just that it looked very valuable, with lush leather upholstery. He (the cutie) was also very kind and did what his mother taught him to do with a lady in distress. He jumped out of his fancy sports car and told me to follow him. Yep. The poor kid told the crazy mostly-bald lady who was causing major traffic jams to drive HIS very expensive and beautiful car. I'm sure that later on he was whacking his head wondering what on earth he was thinking. But I jumped in and I drove behind him, muttering to myself, 'Don't hurt this car. Don't hurt this car.' He got me to a parking lot and was still very polite, but couldn't get out of there fast enough.

And now even though I've mastered hills, I still go into a panic at intersections, even when they aren't on a hill. I haven't had to ask any more strangers for help, but I've annoyed plenty of them.

And that's the story of me, menopause, and my magic car... still waiting on the happily ever after.

Proud Day

2010-06-06T10:54:00.001-07:00

I've taken to going out in public without a hat - which is both liberating and intimidating. Nat's graduation was my first dress-up day that I dared go ala natural. But I sat through Jen and Mike's graduations with a hat one day and a wig the next. (or was it vise versa?) Anyway, both options were long and hot and itchy, and that was in the winter. So I left the hat at home and braved it. And since the day was about my girl and how proud we are of the young lady she's become... (have I mentioned she's headed off to BYU?)...it really doesn't matter what I was wearing!

Redefining Myself

2010-05-27T19:32:00.000-07:00

The world-renowned breast cancer specialist Dr. Susan Love (as far as I can tell that's a real name, how sweet is that?) says that it is almost impossible to go through cancer treatment without becoming somewhat of a new person. And that it's typical to get to a point that you begin to wonder who you have become.

I remember similar feelings after my open-heart surgery. Except that time I had a house full of babies, and the only thing I really could do was get back into the thick of being Mommy. Plus, there was no sense of being part of something bigger than myself. Apparently heart disease is a big problem for women, but I literally knew of no other young mothers whose hearts had failed due to a birth defect. While I certainly had a new appreciation for life, I was an army of one. There was no one to rescue, no new generation that needed saving.

And while I have no delusions of changing the world, I do feel enlisted - into what I'm not sure. I just know I have a sense that I need to do something worthwhile with this experience--something that will have made it worthwhile. At times I feel like the old me is emerging - but then I notice the hair in wrong places, the odd bumps and lumps, the aches, and worries about those aches, and realize that the old me is gone for good.

I've done little things like change my car. The new hairdo is a given. But the biggest changes are yet to come - like the question of where we'll choose to live out the rest of our days. And what I'll finally decide to be when I grow up. It's a big question and I don't have an answer yet.

But there's another question that maybe you all can help me with: what do I call myself? My blog has me listed as a "cancer warrior". That felt right at the time I wrote it. But every soldier reaches a point when the heavy fighting is over, and they have to retreat and lick their wounds. That's me now. Still a fighter, but no longer a warrior.

The accepted term these days is 'survivor'. And maybe that's what I'll use. But it brings to mind a half-starved person strewn on a desert island. I heard of one lady who calls herself a 'thriver'. I liked that, and maybe I'll use it. But Rob gave me a thumbs down. There's always 'victim'. Ha. As if. Maybe 'Cancer Conquerer'? I've always liked 'Conquistador'. That was the mascot of the high school I was supposed to attend in California--before my parents stole my whiny teenage self to Utah. (For those of you who have read Where Hearts Prosper, that happened to be the mascot of Paige's high school as well.) Anyway, back to my dilemma, 'conquistador is a bit of a mouthful, and little pompous. I've thought of 'Cancer Advocate', but pretty much anybody could call themselves one of those.

So there you have it - I started to set up a poll, but that got way too technical. So if you'll just go to comments and tell me your favorite for my new title? Or give me a new idea?

Here are the choices: survivor, thriver, conquerer, conquistador, advocate.

And maybe after I get that figured out I can start working on that big question of what I want to be when I grow up.

UPDATE: Since comments don't always make it through (I had to tighten things up to stop the flow of junk comments) I wanted to add that there have been to votes for the new suggestion of 'cancer champion', in addition to the to votes for warrior and one very persuasive vote for conquistador. Keep 'em coming! =)

Snowy Tulips

2010-05-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

My Momma called last night and told me that when she checks my blog and it hasn't been updated, she assumes I must be too tired to do much of anything. So I guess for Momma's sake I'd better post something. (The woman is pushing on 90 and doesn't need any more stress than she currently has) The truth is I'm beginning to feel like some kind of normal--not a true everything-is-like-it-was normal. But a new kind, one I suppose I can live with.

Sometimes I feel like the tulips and glads in my garden. At times they're standing up tall, facing the sun, looking new and fresh and like they totally belong here. Then suddenly a storm will come in and dump snow on them, and they look rather confused and and pitiful and out of place.

I'm getting my energy back, able to exercise for real and not just with the slowest pace on the treadmill. I've gotten Brandon back into his music, though it's still just hit and miss. In the last week I actually (drum roll please) interviewed for a job. It's part-time editing work and from my home. Don't know if I'll get it, but just the fact that I feel like I can do it is wonderful. AND (longer drum roll) I bought a new-for-me car! It's got a few miles on it, but it is beautiful (at least in the pictures). Bright red and sporty. Rob asked me if I was going through a mid-life crisis, and I told him it's more like a post-cancer celebration. It's on its way from Texas as we speak, and I am sooo excited. Oh, and it's a manual transmission. And I kind of don't know how to drive those. But I figured it's time I learn. (I'm sure there will be more on that to come.)

So you see - I'm back in the world of the living, doing normal (well, normal for me) living things. Of course I also have three scans in the next two weeks. They're not looking for cancer, as some have assumed, but watching for problems that my meds could cause - my bones, my heart, and my blood vessels.

The changes they're making to my hormones cause some wild and wacky things to happen from time-to-time (like snow in May) but nothing I can't live with. I keep getting reverse hot-flashes (as I call them) which are just deep internal chills. (Weird I know, especially in the summer, but I'll take them over hot-flashes). And I grew a beard then broke out in a rash when I tried to get rid of it. (I warned you it was weird stuff). My bones scream at me when I stand up, like I'm even older than my mom and have no right to be forcing them to move. But it only lasts half-a-second and then I feel fine.

So there you go. I guess you could say that I'm not quite out of the pool, but swimming much closer to the surface than I was before.

It's Finally...HAIR!!!

2010-05-18T10:32:00.000-07:00

After long last and lots of obsession, I finally have what my Nat calls "a full head of hair." Brandon isn't so sure. He was a little uncomfortable when he learned that I didn't bring a hat for our shopping trip yesterday. But after a few minutes in the store he informed me that no one had stared yet. I told him it was okay if people stared, it just meant they were trying to figure out if I'd been sick or if I just liked really short hair. He shrugged and mumbled that it's still best if they don't stare at all.

I actually did get a few stares from some tiny kids, but they smiled back when I smiled at them, so I don't think they were traumatized. Just confused.

For any of you sick-os who are just dying to know the details (sorry to call you sick-os, know that I dearly love anyone who cares enough about me to want to know the details, I just feel kind of silly giving them, but since I keep getting asked...) In the last couple of weeks I've had to dig up tweezers for my eyebrows...shave my legs more times than I can count (those leg hairs are in some serious quest to make up for lost time)...the eyelashes are nice and short but I can find the little stubs with mascara...and anything I haven't mentioned is doing nicely too.

This was me watching my boo-ti-ful grandson on Monday, May 6, my last day of radiation, with my ouchy burns still fresh and raw:

And this is the two of us baldies today (two weeks later) with the wounds all healed up. He's a little too mesmerized by my web cam to smile, but I promise we were having fun. Can you just STAND all that hair? I even put gel in it today (as if you couldn't tell.) ;)

Woot! Woot!

He Ain't Heavy...

2010-05-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday night dinner with the whole fam, and someone mentioned the word the heavy, which prompted my husband to say, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother." That's just what he does - names songs or movie lines or whatever that fit the conversation. All six of the young folk at the table gave him a blank stare. "What are you talking about?" one of them asked.

He repeated the phrase, waiting for some recognition from this group -- who are typically on top of the music scene -- but none came. "Oh you know the song," he said. And of course I started singing it, cause that's what I do --- sing pretty much any song I'm reminded of.

But they were still blank. And I was shocked. I thought the song was as much an american icon as Yankee Doodle. Rob found a computer, did a search on Youtube, and played it for them. They all agreed it was a beautiful song, but it still didn't ring a bell with any of them. Huh.

The song has stayed in my head since then, and taken on all kinds of significance - like reminding me of all the people who have supported me through this road I'm on. And the little boy who was recently discarded by the very people who should have been guiding him on his journey. And most notably my brave nephew who just left this weekend to serve our country by rappelling out of helicopters to rescue injured soldiers.

After a little research I learned that while the Hollies did the original version way back in the 60's, it has since been remade by Neil Diamond and the Osmonds. And while they're all great musicians, I guess they're not really top of charts with the younger crowd. So I can hope Glee or American Idol or maybe even House picks it up and makes it new again. But in the meantime, I thought I'd post this nice version of it here.

UPDATE: This is what my sister said about her boy after she saw this, "Early into the pre-deployment in Texas, Tom told me how much he was working out and building muscle. I asked why... "I want to be able to pick up any wounded soldier, throw him over my back and get him out of danger." War is Hell - but they're there with their brothers."

Nobody plans for this...

2010-05-15T11:04:00.000-07:00

NO ONE looks forward to the day they get to join the ladies in pink. We're a reluctant group, if ever there was one. But here we are. The women who are being celebrated at the Susan B. Komen Race for a Cure. Alive, and happy for it.

I have to say it was...what? Awe-inspiring? Amazing? Heart-breaking? A combination of many emotions I guess, to stand amidst this many women knowing that at some point in their lives they've all had the same kind of cruddy year I've had. They're all intimately familiar with terms like Diep-flaps, node counts, aromatase inihibitors, and tamoxifen.

Some had hair dos or shiny scalps to prove they were still in the midst of it (like me), though most sported sassy short styles of varying lengths. One women was clearly embarrassed by her beautiful locks that went to her waist. She had a unique type of chemo that doesn't cause hair to fall out. I'm thinking I better find out that particular treatment wouldn't have worked on me, or my doc is gonna be hearing about it. But she said NOT losing her hair was the hardest part for her. It made her feel like she wasn't legit or something. I guess I get that, and I certainly don't want to discount anyone's feelings, but I think I could live with it.

Then there were the women with tiny kids. Those made me cry. And also the ones in white shirts with papers on their backs listing aunts and sisters and mothers who had been victims. I couldn't help but cry for those girls who live waiting for the time bomb in their own chests to go off.

And that, I guess, is why we race.

This is the actual race, with me and my girls. Jen (right) actually ran the whole 5K. Woo-hoo you buff thing! (Little Ethan watched with his dad). Whit (bottom right, in the middle) was game for the run, but we couldn't find Jen in the crowds, so she walked the sissy version with me and Nat. And that top left is...yes...me running. Well, okay, sort of running. And, yes, it was a re-enactment. But only cause my awesome and supportive son-in-law didn't have the camera ready the first time. Of course even if he had, he wouldn't have expected to see us running (which we did for TWO WHOLE BLOCKS. If you ask Whit is was like two seconds. But what evs...I was sweating.)

Here we have the Pink Parade. After the run they sent us to the "pink cafe" to find our group of survivors (1 to 5 years, 6 to 10, etc.) We chatted tentatively as we waited at the end of the line - us newbies - finding out all our differences and similarities in this game we've been thrown into. And then they marched us past our families--all the beautiful people who don't want to be playing the game any more than we do...whose lives have been put into turmoil just as much as ours, but who have much less control. All they can do is cheer from the sidelines and pray. Not just on this day but every day. And mine do a great job of it.

And finally, all the Pink Faces. They played music that made us cry. Sent up a flock of doves that made us ooh and awe (yeah, I know, white homing pigeons, but it was way cool). And then called us all kinds of nice things that made us cry some more. We're a beautiful group, aren't we?

Somebody Help Her!

2010-05-06T17:05:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when you try to do too many things in too little time and you suddenly turn into a klutz? If you don't, bully for you. If you do, imagine adding a therapeutic glove to your right hand and instructions not to lift anything over a few pounds with it and you have the recipe for true klutz-dom, which is becoming an all-too familiar scenario for me.

Today I went to Costco after my lymph appointment, then had to pick up Brandon at his school at 4:15, get home and unload the car and then drive to 7-11 to meet a photographer with Natalie at 4:30 for her senior photo session. I called ahead and asked the kids at home to be ready to help. I didn't arrive until 4:25, but Dan and Nat came rushing out, as instructed. We made a great team, until the last load, which included a giant bottle of orange sauce, which I dropped onto the floor instead of the counter. It was not a shatter-proof bottle. It was 4:30.

I snatched up the bottle and got it into the sink, about half full. Then I decided to do the same thing with the kitchen rug, since it contained about half the orange goo. But in the process, I sent a huge streak of the goo up the cabinets and across the counter. It was 4:32.

At this point I'm just trying not to swear. Orange goo is everywhere, (did I mention that I spent the entire morning cleaning just yesterday?), I'm supposed to be gone, I haven't even had a chance to go to the bathroom, and I'm wearing a blasted glove that doesn't allow me to just grab a rag and clean up the blasted mess.

The three kids are all frozen, waiting for me to explode I think. Nat, of course, doesn't want to come anywhere near my mess, since she's just dolled herself up and is supposed to meet with the photographer ten minutes ago. So she calls out, "Somebody help her!"

Then my little, loveable Brandon steps over the mess, his arms outstretched, and gives me a hug.

And who could ask for more help than that?

Rad Grad

2010-05-03T14:23:00.000-07:00

Today was my last day of radiation. I got a diploma and everything. The staff members, who have been my friends and confidants over the last five weeks, all asked me what I was doing to celebrate. But I didn't have an answer, since I haven't really planned anything. I said lame things like the hubby will take me out to lunch, and I'm watching the grandbaby, and my daughter is being honored by the principal tonight (way to go Nat!) so we're doing that instead. But I think the reason I haven't made real plans is that I'm feeling strangely ambivalent about the whole thing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm more than happy to stop going to the hospital everyday to get baked. (Which has kept me so busy I haven't had the time and/or focus to write about it. More on that later, I hope.)

It's just that I'm not really feeling like this is the end of anything.

For one thing, I've been told that the burn I'm feeling right now is from treatments of a couple weeks ago, so I'll continue to fry from within for a couple more weeks. And the fatigue will increase for a month or so while my body tries to recuperate. 'The End' was a lot more exciting before they told me that.

Then there's the lymphedema. I'll get back into weekly treatments for that this week. And in three weeks I get to be put back into menopause with the first of monthly (or so) injections. I'll also have another of my regular heart exams which requires an injection of radioactive material ("don't worry, it's perfectly safe"). Plus there's the chemo drug Herceptin that I'll be getting every three weeks through November. And in four weeks I'll start heart tests and blood work for my reconstructive surgery, which, if all goes well, will happen in six weeks.

So you see why I'm not feeling exactly...done. More like Mark my tech called me when I finished the treatment today: "Medium rare." Ding.

Racing for the Cure

2010-05-03T14:03:00.000-07:00

So I've decided to Race for the Cure this Saturday at the Gateway, despite the whole Colonel Blunder. My girls wanted to form our own team, so we're (appropriately) called 'Just Keep Swimming'. I was asked to ask ten friends to donate ten bucks to the cause. If there's one skill I totally don't have it's raising money (just ask my hubby). So I'm counting this as asking ten friends, since I know a whole bunch more of you than that will be reading this. If you feel so inclined to help the cause, you can find our team website at: http://www.komenslc.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.team&eventID=501&teamID=5812.

And if you happen to be at the Gateway this Saturday, please look for me. I can use a hug or two. I'll be the one in pink. And if you need another clue, I'll also be the one with about 1/4" of black stubble all over her head! =)

Say it ain't so...

2010-04-26T18:48:00.001-07:00

I'm really big on cancer research. Especially breast cancer research. I'd really like to make this bad guy go away. I've got my pink ribbon on the right to prove it. And I've been planning on participating in the Susan B. Komen Race for a Cure in a couple weeks.

But when I got an email with this picture today, I thought it must be hoax.

So I did a search and found out it's for real. Here's the link:

http://www.bucketsforthecure.com/

I just don't know what to think. Buy deep-fried, hormone-laden chicken to help cure cancer?

And it's working. Money is going to the cause. So that's good. Isn't it?

Oh the Drama

2010-04-26T18:33:00.000-07:00

Guess what happens when you cry off and on for three days while on the chemo drug Herceptin and undergoing radiation?

Your EYELASHES FALL OUT!!!!

Yep, that's right. After surviving six rounds of chemotherapy, the lashes finally came out. Not all of them. Just about a third on the top. And all but one (for now) on the bottom.

I really don't know which of those things--the emotions, the radiation or the Herceptin (the most likely candidate) is the culprit. I guess it doesn't really matter. Except that I'll be doing this Herceptin for a whole year.

But it's funny how something that seems outrageous and incomprehensible at first, can become something to shrug off by the time it actually happens.

The good news is that those emotions have stabilized and we (the family) are feeling ready to move onto the next challenge. (And if you're wondering why the tears - I removed my last post for the sake of a certain family member who requested privacy. But call me if you know me, and I'll give you all the dramatic details.) =)

Voice Trouble

2010-04-14T18:52:00.000-07:00

If I were better at self-promotion and blogging, I'd have one blog just about writing and books and another about my journey with cancer. But since that's more than my meager brain can handle, allow me to apologize to the reader who came looking for a good cancer story and instead finds one about writing. Because most of the time these days I'm just a cancer fighter. But sometimes I smack myself on the forehead and remember that I'm supposed to be an author too, which is what happened big time a couple months ago.

It started with an offer from my publisher to publish my manuscript Perfectly Normal. Which is really nice. I'd almost forgotten that I'd sent it to them - way back in the days that I was just a writer and a Mom. Before the big diagnosis. They gave me a month to make up my mind, and most of me wanted to say yes, but I just couldn't feel good about it. Mostly because I don't have the energy or frame of mind to start promoting a new book. I can't even get around to promoting my old book. But also there was something about the manuscript that just didn't feel right.

So I opened the dusty, neglected file and started reading it for the umpteenth time. And realized that my problem is all in the voice.

My other books have all been in third person, with point-of-view changes in most scenes. Where Hearts Prosper has two voices: Carmen, the mom; and Paige, her teenage daughter. This worked well since the two spend most of the story on different ends of the country.

But this new story, Perfectly Normal, is only seen from the point of view of the main character, Mira, which makes first-person a logical choice. Especially since it's written for young adults, who tend to like the intimacy of first person. But when I started writing, I just couldn't latch on to Mira's voice while in first-person. I fussed and changed and changed some more, and finally decided I was just a third-person writer. I then tried to add other points of view--her parents, her boyfriend, her trainer, the villains, but didn't like that either. Adding other voices gave away too much of the mystery.

The end result was an 80,000 word young-adult science-fiction novel written in third person with only one point of view. And it just felt wrong.

So on a whim I changed just the first page to first person, simply by using the find and replace feature in Word to change all the pronouns. I took both versions to my daughter. She's read this page at least a dozen times and so of course groaned when I handed her the two pages. But after reading both versions she informed me that the story had to be first person. In Mira's own words.

They were there anyway, I just hadn't realized it. So I went through the entire document and changed every "she" to "I", every "herself" to "myself" and every "they" to "we." And it's finally the story it should be. Mira's story. The girl who considers herself a perfectly-normal human being, and hates being called an alien, even though she is--technically--from another planet. The girl who falls in love with a boy she's not even supposed to talk to, and quickly learns that the only way to keep him safe is to leave him--if only she could.

Now I just have to work on finding a publisher again. But I'm thinking I might until my hair grows back.

My Boy Brandon

2010-04-13T18:57:00.000-07:00

I had planned to write a post that starts "eleven years ago today," but for the past few days I've been dealing with the side-effects of new medication and a hand that thinks it's a balloon, so I'll have to settle for "eleven years ago last Friday..."

At the age of 37, with four tweenies in the house, and almost two weeks over due (I'd developed a lot of patience by then), I gave birth (with no epidural thank you very much) to a beautiful little guy with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. Life could not have been better. The entire family reveled in this new little person who turned our household upside down with diapers, cribs, and booties that had long-been put or given away.

Little did I know that in the decade to come this fifth child--so different from the other four-- would make a habit of taking me out of my comfort zone - turning me into a stage manager, vocal coach, dance coach, acting coach, cheerleader, and sometimes even performer (a Pick-a-little lady no less, on stage singing and dancing, complete with old-time gym uniform and giant feathered hat).

I also had no idea that just a decade later our roles would often reverse, and he'd become my chief cheerleader and sometimes caretaker. Or that he'd become my major source of strength for putting up the good fight. Sometimes I think this whole excursion would be easier if I didn't have him to care for or worry about. But then he says something adorable and innocent like "Do you want me to go to that madderation program at my school?" (maturation if you hadn't figured it out) and I'm beyond grateful that he's around to keep me motivated.

I would say something about how a no eleven-year-old should lose his Momma. Or even have to worry about losing his Momma. But that would make me cry. And we have enough drama in this house without me being in tears all the time. So I'll just leave it at that.

Speaking of Tired

2010-04-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

It's been spring break, which followed our family vacation, so the kids and I have spent more time together than usual. The other day Brandon suggested I go take a nap. I asked him if I looked tired. He said no. Hesitated. Then said, "But you're kind of mean when you're tired. So you probably ought to take a nap before you get that way."

Humph. And I'd been living under the delusion that I'm the perfect mom.

But I thanked him for his observation, which I'm sure is fairly accurate, and went to take a nap.

Big Aspirations

2010-04-03T13:22:00.000-07:00

It has recently come to my attention that my very favorite place in the world is my bed. And my favorite thing to do is--hands down--sleep. I wonder if this has anything to do with why I can't seem to get anything done?

Catching Up

2010-03-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there are just so many things to report that it's easier to post nothing. But I'm going to try anyway.

First, the trip. I don't why it is that we had three cameras that got almost no use. But there is the one pic to prove we were actually there. It was the first time we've managed to stay together as a family the entire day, and I have to say I loved every minute of it. We had talked about getting me a wheel chair, but there really wasn't any need. Probably the best part of the day was the Golden Horseshoe Corral, and the mile-high chocolate cake. If you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it. It's the perfect way to unwind at the end of the day, with a really reasonable treat (assuming one person doesn't eat all five layers of that cake.) An example of the show, which is put on by Billy Hill and the Hillbillies: "We wrote a song that combines Disco and Country. We call if Crisco. We also wrote one that combines Rap and Country. We don't know what to call it."

Bawaaaaaa!!!!!!

I wish I could give the same glowing report on Six Flags. But if there's one thing I learned, it's that I'm a roller coaster wimp. I've always "volunteered" to stay behind with whatever child was too young or nervous to want to go on the big twisters. And sure, I did have a great excuse to keep my feet on the grown this time. But the truth is those feet had no desire to do anything else. But since the vast majority of people there were between 15 and 25, I don't think I'm alone. But I did enjoy my time in the kiddie land with my little grandbaby.

I also had the little problem of turning into a living, breathing water balloon. I'm doing much better now, but for a while there I think I was in danger of going splat if I fell down too hard.

Now that I'm home, I've had two rounds of radiation. And I guess my overwhelming fatigue is caused by the trip, not the treatment, because the doc assures me I shouldn't be tired for a couple weeks. And the doc wouldn't lie. But tired is tired no matter where it comes from, so I'm off to take a nap.

But first, the really, big, major, huge, news. I have a shadow! Like men get in the evening on their faces? I have one on my scalp. You have to really squint to see it, but since my Rob was the first to notice, I'm pretty sure it's legit. And a week ahead of schedule too.

It's almost enough to make me forget that there's a layer of SNOW outside on the day before April! Talk about major ickiness. Makes me want to go back to California. Anyway, that's the news for now. Off to bed.

Road Trip!

2010-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

So here it is. We leave in the morning. One ten-year-old. Five (technical) adults. One car. Ten hours. Each way.

Yikes.

I need to hang onto good thoughts. This is a vacation after all. Mickey and roller coasters and sunshine. It'll be good. It'll be good. It'll be good...

Comebacks

2010-03-21T07:32:00.001-07:00

Brandon woke up with a fever and stuffy nose yesterday. This is dreadful for two reasons. Well, three if you count that he's miserable, but besides that: my immune system isn't at its greatest, PLUS we're leaving on our big trip on Wednesday and can NOT have people being sick.

My first reaction was to head to the doctor and demand he make him better ASAP. But then I came to my senses and realized that's not the thing to do on the first day of a low-grade fever and stuffy nose. So I loaded him up with all the things you can load a kid up on: water, vitamins, saline sprays, humidifier, etc. I watched him even more closely than I usually watch my sick kids. Probably took his temp a dozen times. And grilled him repeatedly on his symptoms.

By dinner he was getting just a little bit cranky. Okay, he was way cranky. But Dad made him eat at the table, since he didn't want chili spilled on the couch, which made him even crankier. He said his head hurt whenever he moved.

During dinner I observed out loud (in my worried voice, does this mean something? should I take him to the doctor now?) that one of his eyes was bloodshot.

That's when he made his comeback line, the way his big siblings do, ever since Napoleon Dynamite made 'YOUR mom goes to college' popular. Except he hadn't quite heard me right. And he was in a really fowl mood.

"YOUR eyes are bulging," he told me in the most sincerely cranky way possible.

After we all finished laughing (which he did not find amusing at all) his sisters decided that is the best comeback line ever.

An Upside

2010-03-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

This morning I got some tortilla stuck on a hot burner. While I was scraping it up, my Whitney says, "That's ok. Nobody can get mad at Mom, even when she messes up."

Gotta love that while it lasts.

Chemo-lite and Arm-Heavy

2010-03-20T09:43:00.001-07:00

Wow, I just published half the title of this posting on accident, so I guess I'd better hurry and get the rest posted. I'm such a genius when it comes to this blog thing.

Anyway, back to my point. I announced three weeks ago that I was done with chemo, but that was only partially correct. I had six doses of what's known as TCH, which is a combination of three drugs: Taxotere, Carboplatin and Herceptin. And you'll never catch me complaining about Herceptin, because I'm convinced it's saving my life. But it does require a full years worth of doses, not just the six.

So Thursday I went back to the hospital for my seventh dose of Herceptin. It's administered by IV, the same as regular chemo. But I've been told that it'll be so easy compared to the other chemo that I'll be amazed. And the nurse on Thursday told me that the only side-effect she's ever heard of is fatigue. I usually research these things, but I was so eager for it to be true that I didn't. Well, Thursday night I hurt everywhere. I'm used to my legs aching, and my arm of course, but this was everything: neck, fingers, back, toes, rear end, everything. Rob said it must be the Herceptin, but I told him no, they said that would only make me tired.

Then I looked it up, and it turns out that 40% of people who get Herceptin complain of flu-like symptoms. 40%! I guess none of them complain to my nurse. But they were right that it was way easier, and I'm feeling better today. Though that nasty cough came back with a vengeance.

But that's not the real bad news. The worst part of Thursday was my appointment with my lymphedema therapist, where I learned that my arm has gotten even bigger than the last appointment. She called it "unfair" since I'm doing everything I'm supposed to. But then unfair is kind of the theme of this whole ordeal. My therapist has a few more things in what she calls her bag of tricks. The first was an even bigger and badder compression sleeve. And I'll tell you, nylons on steroids for the arm is perfect for summer. But here we go. The battle is on.

The Worst Part

2010-03-17T13:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I asked my Rob if he knows what the worst part of having cancer is. The way he looked at me, I realized how stupid the question was. I quickly added that I meant besides that cloud of maybe dying hanging over your head.

"Yeah, besides that whole maybe dying thing, what's the worst part?"

And then I had to correct the question again, because there's a whole stew of icky stuff that could be considered the worst part: the constant pain, losing the hair, the fatigue, feeling sick to your stomach, and so on.

So I modified the question to: Do you know what ONE of the worst parts of having cancer is?

And here's the answer:

It's how constant it is. How it's always there. From the moment I wake up in the morning, to the clothes I choose, the hat or scarf I put on, the makeup I wear, the food I eat, the errands I run, the activities I choose, to when I go to bed, and even when I without fail wake up some time during the night--it's all influenced by the fact that I have cancer.

I can't think of a thing that happens during my day that isn't in some way touched by that fact. Even when I do something normal, like go to the movies, I have to pick an early show so I won't fall asleep in the middle, and carefully choose a head cover that looks semi-normal and won't itch after two hours or slide around when I lean back on the seat.

Everything's a process that, frankly, makes me weary.

Then there's the chance that I'll see someone I know, and they get that look, the one that's so full of concern. And even if I've been feeling fine, all of a sudden when I see that look I get all choked up and want to cry instead of saying that I'm fine.

I'm sure anyone who's been through a major illness knows what I'm talking about.

Taking a vacation next week will be good. I'm certainly ready for a break. But I worry that the little details (like how do I keep a hat on while riding a roller coaster?) will dampen it. Hopefully I can let it all go for a while. Or at least let it mostly go.

I doubt if I'll be able to let it all go for a few years - when that whole cloud of maybe dying thing has passed. Maybe I can let it mostly go when all the treatments and surgeries are done, which isn't for several months.

For now, I just look for diversions wherever I can and keep hoping for small fleeting moments of normal.

So how's this for a plan?

2010-03-09T18:45:00.001-08:00

The cough in my chest is hanging on, but my energy is slowly increasing. I had the treat of tending my adorable grandbaby today, and was mostly able to keep up with him, though I am looking forward to bed even more than usual tonight. The fam is just hoping I improve enough for our trip in a couple weeks.

When I asked the nurse what to expect as far as energy during the radiation, she said, "You know how it is after a big day in the sun and you're just worn out and need a nap? That's what it'll feel like every day."

So I've been thinking, maybe if I wear beach attire to the hospital, and put Calypso music in an I-pod, I can trick my brain into thinking I've really spent the day on some exotic beach instead of a metallic radiated tube. That way, I can think of it as an awesome five-week vacation instead of cancer treatment.

I realize there are some flaws in the theory, but it's a work in progress.

Taking Stock

2010-03-06T15:13:00.000-08:00

Well, a week has passed since that last chemo, and I'm now (hopefully) on the upside of the after-effects. I'll supposedly be strong enough for radiation in another two weeks, but I don't know how long it will take for me to feel normal again. I marvel at how much the medical world has done to battle this beast cancer. And how much easier chemo has become. And while I'm more grateful than I can put into words for the gift of life, I still sometimes get caught up in wondering what happened to the person I was a year ago, and if I'll ever get her back.

As of right now: I do have some hair. Probably a couple hundred of them. They poke out about an inch in a comical fashion on my shiny scalp. I haven't worn my wig in weeks. I feel quite self-aware while I'm in it, afraid of it slipping out of place. And I've resigned myself to looking like a person who has lost their hair to illness, since that's what I am. So the scarfs that I never thought I'd wear have become my mainstay. About half of my lashes and brows have held on like troopers. My legs are surprisingly hairy, and I can't bring myself to shave them. How weird is it to say I'm too proud of those valiant hairs to shave them off?

My skin has held up fairly well, though it is like wrinkled tissue paper around my neck and eyes.

My nails are also in fairly good shape, though they are thin and short and the pink portion has a rainbow of varied colors. My stomach is sensitive and now considers dairy a poison. I can't get past the craving for all things salty and sour. My hubby tells me I'm scaring him with my fondness for hot dogs. Scares me a little too. Especially that potato chip thing. That just has to stop.

As far as energy, I have to catch my breath when I get to the top of a flight of stairs. I nap every day, sometimes for several hours, and my legs regularly feel like noodles. My favorite part of the day is bedtime, and I hate that about me.

My biggest focus of concern right now is my arm, which is both swollen and achy.

I hope to improve in all the areas in the coming weeks and months, even my arm. And while I'm getting a little on edge about the radiation, I'm feeling like it's time to get back to the act of living. Brandon auditioned for another musical this morning, so I guess life will happen whether I'm ready or not.

Bad Playmates

2010-02-28T13:37:00.000-08:00

Chemotherapy and bronchitis do not play well together. I was successful at repelling a whole swarm of germs that seemed to be everywhere through fifteen winter weeks of the chemo, so I shouldn't complain at finally catching a bug at the very end. But I will anyway. (Hack, Hack.)

The Bell Clanged

2010-02-25T20:27:00.000-08:00

When the nice nurse took out my IV drip for the last time (well, sort of the last time. I still have a full year of Herceptin by IV every three weeks, but I'm told that'll be a breeze) she presented me with a bottle of sparkling cider, and told me to clang the bell on the wall when I left. Me being me, I clanged the bell in the wrong direction, leaving a mark on the wall, which only seems fitting. I did finally get it right, while clutching my sparkling cider, and the nurses and staff members cheered and gave me a fitting goodbye. The fam toasted my finish at dinner (which happened to be an authentic Peruvian dish prepared by a dear lady.) Now I just have a few days of some icky symptoms, and I'll be home free!

In answer my most-asked question: How will we know if it worked? Well, they won't run any tests, they'll just take the wait and see approach. I'm supposed to call if I have any odd symptoms that last for at least three weeks. If I call before that they'll tell me to keep watching. The doc explained that running extra tests just causes extra anxiety and has them chasing after false leads. Plus I guess there won't be a big rush if it does come back, since they'll only being treating the symptoms. But that's all stuff I don't like to think about. If (when) I'm cancer-free in three years, I can celebrate.

Those three years happen to fall around my 50th birthday, so my family has been put on notice that I'm expecting a BIG celebration. All of you who have been cheering me on are invited. Details, obviously, to follow.

Out of Order?

2010-02-25T12:49:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in the chemo room getting my very LAST ROUND OF CHEMO, and decided to finish and update a blog a entry that I started a few weeks back. But I didn't realize blog entries are posted for the date you start them, not the date you post them. (Seems a bit lame to me.) So there's a NEW entry dated (I think) the 4th of Feb. entitled 'Lymphedema and Me' that is written today, which makes the whole thing a little confusing, since I wasn't getting my VERY LAST ROUND OF CHEMO on the 4th of February. I'm sure there's a way to fix it, but I'm just not that sharp. Oh well, good things my friends are. Did I mention that this is my LAST ROUND OF CHEMO?!!!!

Tattooed Lady?

2010-02-23T16:45:00.000-08:00

I pulled out my wallet today and caught a glance at the picture on my driver's license. It made me very sad. The lady in the mirror looks nothing like that.

Tomorrow marks another "I never thought I'd be doing that" event. I'll be preparing for radiation, the highlight of which will be the tattoos. Yes, you read that right. Tattoos. They'll consist of a blue ring of dots around the area to be radiated, ie. my chest. And yes, I asked the doctor all the questions you're thinking, "Do I HAVE to?" "Can't I...?" "What about...?" But there's no way around it. Tomorrow I'll not only be bald, but tattooed. Permanently. Kind of sounds like a circus side show. Sigh and sigh again. I seem to do that a lot lately.

It's been suggested I turn them into flowers. Hmmm. Maybe.

On the upside, I am soooo ready for my last round of chemo. Just two days! Not exactly my choice of parties, but I'll be so glad to be done and done with this part of my life. Six weeks from that is when the hair is scheduled to start coming in. Happy Days!

A Good Day for My Daughter

2010-02-17T08:41:00.000-08:00

So yesterday my Nat stopped at Coldstone on her way home from school and learned they're hiring. She was told she'd "probably" get the job if she could get a recommendation, which she can since one of her best friends works there. Then she stopped at at tutoring center, since that would be an even better job, and learned that they need someone who knows calculus, which is the one smarty-pants skill she's missing, but that they can "probably" use her this summer.

We called her brother--a mechanical engineering major-- with the news of a job for calculus smarties. He stopped by on his way home and believes he "probably" has the job.

To top it all off, when Nat got home she checked her email and learned that she's been accepted to BYU! If you're not in the know, that's one huge accomplishment. (She's still not totally decided. Another "probably".)

Assuming she does go, it will make us possibly the state's most non-loyal University parents. We've been Aggies through and through. Not only did both my Rob and I graduate from USU, but all four of our parents attended, with three graduating. And our oldest just got her masters there. But in the years since we've had one at UofU, one at UVU, and now one at BYU.

Our new motto is: Go ... Universities in the state of Utah!

Catchy, don't ya think?

Anyway, it's all good, and Congrats Nat!

When A Plan Comes Together...

2010-02-15T12:09:00.000-08:00

As you probably know, I just have one round of chemo left (hoo-hoo-ray!) and then its on to radiation--which is daily for five weeks. Ug. I'm supposed to get a three-week break between the two, but the radiation oncologist suggested I might want to consider postponing it by a week in order to take a vacation.

I sighed. Then laughed. There are so many reasons not to take a vacation.

But on a whim I asked about the kids schedules (obstacle number one) and learned that my college boy has spring break the very week I'd be able to go. The other kids are all flexible.

Of course, that still leaves the question of what to do on a budget of close to zero.

I started noticing those commercials--you've probably seen them too--with Muppet characters helping to build a house in exchange for a day at Disneyland. Sounds great, but it's not like I'm in any position to help build a house.

But never one to let things die...I went to the website on another whim. And guess what? There are all kinds of things that qualify as a day of service. And I found the most fantasmic one of all--we purchased a bunch of baby wipes (7,000 to be exact) and took them to a charity co-op that is going to somehow deliver them to Haiti. I just got the email from Disney telling me that as a thank you, they'll be sending six of us to Disneyland for a day! How cool is that?

There were other opportunities that didn't take money, but most required some kind of physical labor, and this is money that goes to Haiti, which makes me feel great. So it feels like one great big happy circle.

So when this last round is done, as cheesy as it sounds, if anyone asks what I'm doing next, the answer's obvious: I'm going to Disneyland!

Rough Feet and Other Good News

2010-02-12T15:36:00.000-08:00

My heels are really rough. You know, the sandpaper kind that drives you nuts if happen to have satin sheets (Which I thought would be a good idea. Silly me.) I'm knocking on wood and crossing my fingers that I don't jinx anything, but right now that's my worst symptom. Rough heals. Can you believe it?

The doctor specifically said "Each treatment gets worse. The drugs build up in your system, making the last three especially hard." And I did get REALLY sick at the end of the very end of the last one, so there's still time. But so far (knocking on that wood) this one has been EASIER than that one!

Oh, and those brows and lashes are thin, but still hanging on for dear life.

So now I have a favor to ask. If you are reading this, and you came hear on purpose, will you make a comment of some kind? I'm really inept as a blogger, and I've had this weird phenomenon going on that I can't explain. I've been getting like 50 visits a day from people all over the world. But I don't think they mean to come. It's like they're looking for the party and I just happen to be one of the doors they look into before going in search of that nine-layer dip. So if you are here on purpose, please shout out some kind of a hello (Helloooo!!! Anybody out there?????) and know that I love you!

UPDATE: Just so you all know, I wasn't intentionally asking for a bunch of kudos, but I sure loved them. I feel like I've just had a big group hug, and it was SO NICE! (Being called a seven-layer dip is a first, I have to say.) But since every one of you answered in English, no accents even, I have to assume that the onslaught of foreign visitors to my site is some Internet fluke that's beyond my comprehension. Thanks, thanks, thanks...and I love you all too!

Lymphedema and Me

2010-02-04T15:01:00.000-08:00

I'm not big on self-pity. Never have been. I've always figured you just have to take what you're dealt with and make the best of it. Hopefully this blog has reflected that attitude.

Well, I'm having a hard time keeping that 'tude while blogging about my latest cancer adventure. And yet it wouldn't be complete without it. I actually wrote a blog entry several weeks ago, but it was too depressing, so I didn't post it. But while I'm sitting here in my LAST CHEMO SESSION!!! (Hoo-Ray!!!) I figured it's time to get to work on it. And meanwhile things have gone from icky to double-ick. So keeping up a positive attitude has gotten even harder.

Without further explanation, let the pity-party begin. Here's the deal: I've officially had a new diagnosis to add to my lovely medical regimen. It's called Lymphedema, and is fairly common after lymph nodes have been removed. Basically when the lymphatic system gets messed up, the lymphatic fluid in your body tries to find new pathways, and it ends up like a big traffic jam in your arms or legs and they swell up, like this:

Fortunately I don't look like that lady. My arm is only a couple centimeters bigger than it used to be. What's truly depressing is that I was told my good news is that the sooner it is discovered the better, so treatment can begin immediately. And I literally found it on the first day and called to make an appointment with a specialist. Well, the regimen is mind-blogging. I wear an ugly brown compression sleeve that goes from wrist to elbow, along with a "gauntlet" of the same color on my hand. Plus there is weekly "drainage" sessions with a therapist, and twice daily self-drainage sessions that I do on my own for about 20 minutes each. Plus deep breathing exercises and "pumping" my hand while holding it in the air several times a day. But despite all that the condition has gotten worse. It's moved into my torso, so now I also get to wear a lovely compression camisole, and all other treatment times have been upped. And even worse news is that the radiation I'll be starting next month focuses right on the damaged area, and is known to either trigger or worsen lymphedema.

When I first got the diagnosis I looked up the word and got this depressing little tidbit:

Lymphedema is a notoriously debilitating progressive condition with no known cure. The unfortunate patient faces a lifelong struggle of medical, and sometimes surgical, treatment fraught with potentially lethal complications.

I was sighing in an earlier post about my tattoos (there are six, the most noticeable of which is a nice blue dot right in the middle of my chest, by the way.) But this is where the real sigh comes from, if you'll allow me. Sigh. Sigh. Great Big Heavy Sigh.

There's only one upside I can find to this thing, and that is it beats being dead.

But I guess that's a pretty big upside.

A Visit With Ethan

2010-02-04T14:14:00.001-08:00

I know everybody thinks their grandkids are great. Super great even. So it's kind of cliche to say it. But my little nine-month-old grandson Ethan has made "loveable" into an art form.

Here's what a visit from the little guy is like: his dad carries the car seat in and pulls him out of the convoluted contraption. He looks around the house, obviously expecting the rush of greeters that are always there for him. He puts out his arms to the first one (usually me), gives a hug, rests his head on your shoulder (in which your heart promptly melts), then pops the head up and looks for the next greeter. Once he's greeted everyone in the circle, he's ready to get down and explore the house from one end to the other.

I dropped by his house yesterday, and he was in his high chair being fed his goo that passes as food by his loving Mama. He began to fuss when I came in the room, and Mom asked if he was done. I stooped over to give him loves, and he hugged me as best he could, let me kiss his cheek, then turned his attention back to his food. I was ready to leave about the time he finished up and his mom pulled him out of the high chair. He began to fuss again, and again his mom asked what was wrong. I stepped close again to say goodbye, and he reached out for me. I took him into my arms, accepted his sweet little hug, kissed his little cheek, let him play with my keys, and after a few minutes he was ready to go back to his mom, as happy as can be.

How can you not fall seriously in love with that?

(Did I mention that we've determined he says 'Grandpa'? Really, Grandpa! And 'doggie' and 'hi'. And 'Da Da Da'. Mom is still anxiously waiting for a 'Ma Ma Ma'. And I wouldn't mind a 'Grandma', but 'Grandpa' at nine months is pretty darn impressive in my book.

Update: Ethan's Mom would like me to clarify that when I say "we've determined" I'm talking about my silly grandmotherly friends and I. She is NOT convinced he's saying DaDa, in any meaningful form, let alone Grandpa. But whatevs. We all know who has more experience with this kind of thing.

True Story

2010-02-04T13:51:00.000-08:00

Last night Brandon went on a special field trip with his cub scout group. They had the opportunity of visiting the sheriff's station to learn about the emergency communication system. He called on his way home, about 9:00, to say that they'd had a little "unexpected" delay, but they would be home soon. Kind of late for a fifth-grader on a school night, but I've done outings like this and wasn't surprised there was a delay. I just told him I loved him and looked forward to seeing him.

Well, he busted through the front door over the top with excitement. The story that came out of his little excited mouth was pretty convoluted, and took a while to sort out, but here's the sorted version: their leader had just pulled off the freeway and was at a stoplight within view of the sheriff's station, when they were rear-ended. They didn't have to call 9-1-1 because three emergency vehicles saw the accident and immediately put on their lights and headed to them.

Once they determined that the six scouts and their leader were uninjured, they ushered them off to the sheriff's station. On the way there the boy's decided the two people in the other car looked awfully suspicious, and speculated at how cool it would be if the other car turned out to be criminals, ex-cons, drug dealers maybe, each boy topping the other. Ha! Ha! Yeah, wouldn't that be too funny?

Well, their tour guide had planned to play them some actual 9-1-1 calls, but instead let them listen to the radio of what was happening outside. And as it turns out, the car was stolen, and the driver bolted. Canines were called into the search. There was apparently a gun, but Brandon wasn't sure if it was in the car, on the running man, on somewhere in between. There were drugs in the car, however. And another passenger, who didn't run. He was hand-cuffed, but as of Brandon's report last night the driver hadn't been caught.

So how cool of a field trip is that? Of course the down side was that Brandon had a heck of a time getting to sleep. He was keyed up to begin with, then started to get nervous picturing the guy on the run with a gun. We assured him he would be caught quickly and had no interest in the little scouts in the car. And he knew that on a logical level, but still had a hard time getting it out of his mind.

I called this a true story, despite the fact that it didn't show up in the news this morning (and how could they miss a story of a group of cub scouts being rear-ended by drug dealers right in front of the sheriff's station?) If he made it up I'll let you know - right after I see about getting him nominated for an Emmy of some kind.

Round Five...at last.

2010-02-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

Reporting from the lovely chemo room and pleased to report that icky stomach thing is behind me and I'm back on track. Have Pandora playing in my earphones, poison dripping in my veins, (swimming, swimming, find those last tough cancer cells please!) and plenty of blog entries to catch up on! Stay tuned....

Too sick for chemo...

2010-01-31T20:38:00.001-08:00

For anybody keeping tabs, round five of chemo was scheduled for tomorrow, but has been postponed due to me being too sick to party. The sick came on sudden-like during family dinner Friday night. Felt kind of like trying to give birth through your mouth. Over and over again. Won't go into any more detail than that, but it was so not fun.

Hasn't been as bad since, but hasn't been good either. The doctor didn't want to whack me with the chemo drugs while I'm in this condition. It's tentatively scheduled for Thursday.

On a cheerier note...this evening Daniel was talking about his dream job, which led to his dream car, which led to mention of an Audi. Brandon asked what an Audi is, and his dad said it's a sports car. To which Brandon replied, "So it's not a belly button?"

Gym Class

2010-01-29T10:34:00.000-08:00

You know the head school mistress in the movie 'Matilda'? The big lady with the big holler? That's how I remember my seventh and eighth grade gym teacher, Mrs. Burns. Granted, she was probably about 30 and 150 pounds, and maybe even she was really nice, but in my mind at the time, she was way too gargantuan and old to be bossing us around the way she did. There was no way she could do any of the stuff that she bellowed at us to do, and we resented the heck out of her for that.

One of the things I remember most is long-distance running. I don't know how big the grass field at the junior high was, it wasn't a standard football field, but I remember it being huge. I also don't know how many times we had to circle that field, but I do know it was more than should be expected of any human being. The first few times we had to do the long-distance thing, I held to the back, where I felt I belonged, and straggled in with the last few slow runners.

But a funny thing happened one day. I happened to be in a deep conversation with my good friend Lisa Sanchez. Lisa was a gymnast. Had aspirations of being in the Olympics some day. So Lisa didn't hang out in the back, she was right in front when Mrs. Burns bellowed 'Go'. And I was right there with her, carrying on that conversation. We stayed together for several laps, right in front, first and second place. Eventually Lisa apologized and pulled ahead. But there I was in second place. Second place. Me. Let me tell you, I have never placed in anything athletic wise. Nothing. Nada. It was an incredible feeling. I could feel that third place person on my back, and I pushed ahead. Funny how it's fine to be dead last, until you have a chance of actually placing. Then that's all that matters.

It turns out this was a huge calculated mistake, because it gave Mrs. Burns the mistaken impression that I was some kind of an athlete. She tortured me for the next two years, convinced I should be able make some kind of showing for myself. "Again! Do it again! I know you can do it!" And with each sprint or whatever, I wouldn't even place in the 'acceptable' range. Ah, the memories.

Anyway, back to this particular run, I pushed myself harder than I should have, trying to keep my second place position. Finally I had to relent to third, than fourth place, but I was determined to keep that position. Eventually I got to the point that I didn't think I could take another step, and Mrs. Burns called out "Just two more laps!"

I should have been relieved to hear there was an eventual end to this race, but instead I looked out at the field, which looked as big as the ocean, and thought 'Two more laps? Are you kidding me? I have to go around that field two more times?'

I did keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I did keep that fourth-place position. Mostly because every other girl in the class was content to be in the pack, far behind those that were pushing ahead. I dropped onto the grass afterwards, feeling my heart pound heavy in my chest, pretty confident that I'd never get up again. (Obviously I did, but it took a good, long time.)

I've thought of that run a lot this week. People keep saying, "Just two more rounds. Just two more rounds." And I'm thinking, "Are you kidding me? I have to do this two more times?"

Ack.

Science Fair

2010-01-22T11:38:00.001-08:00

My ten-year-old "actor-type person" son has been working on a science fair project for a couple months now, due today. Testing which size of propeller works best. He's worked diligently for days on the report and display board, with way less support than I suspect most fifth-graders get.

This morning I asked him if he knows what he's going to say for his oral report (I know, a little late. Shows just how much support he's gotten.)

He puffs out his chest and says in a big voice, "Ladies and Gentlemen, what we have sitting here before you will change your life." Then he laughs, and says, "Not really."

"What are you REALLY going to say?" I ask.

He then slumps his shoulders and begins quivering. "I'm s...s...o...n...n...ervous. I c...c...can't talk," he says in a timid little voice. Then he laughs.

"And what are you REALLY going to say?" Hands on shoulders, trying to look stern.

"Aw, don't worry about it. I'll think of something."

And that's where we left it. I can hardly wait till he gets home.

Speaking of Tragedies...

2010-01-19T19:22:00.000-08:00

Before I get to the story I want to tell, I'm pleased to report to those of you who have worried about me that I was able to make the transformation from slug to semi-human sometime over the weekend.

And again before I get to that story, I'm considering using the picture below as my Facebook pic. The one I have now just doesn't feel like the me I am right now. But my daughter tells me she'd be embarrassed. I'm still undecided. I mean, embarrassing teenagers is kind of a parent's job, isn't it? There is a reason for posting it here, however. And that's the story I've been talking about. And I know this'll be a shocker, but it's about hair. Again. Sorry. But at least this time it's about FACIAL hair. That's right - look, I still have mine! And that's what I'm worried about.

As you may know, Day Ten is the day that I have lost hair on each round of chemo. Last time it was just my nose hair. I don't have much left. Just those eyebrows and lashes. And I'm getting especially nervous. Which...finally...leads me to my story:

Until a couple months ago, if you had asked my opinion of my eyebrows, I would have told you they're bushy and out-of-control. I spent high school looking perpetually curious, because one brow was always arched higher than the other. The more I tried to fix it the worse it got. I eventually learned to ignore and tolerate them. Until I took that "Look Good, Feel Better Class." It's the one I talked about before that teaches cancer patients to make themselves look like hookers so they'll feel better about being bald. (No really, it's a great class that is offered free by the American Cancer Society, and has been proven to help women do better through treatment.)

Well, during the class, the cosmetologist started to teach about eyebrows, in case we had to draw ours on. She started to show how to find where to start drawing, but then she looked at me, and said, "Wait! These are perfect!" She then used my formerly unappreciated brow as the perfect specimen for all things brow-like. I was pretty floored. Especially when she said, "I hope you don't lose those. It would be a tragedy for all mankind if those brows fell out." Yep, you read that right. A TRAGEDY to ALL MANKIND! I must add that we were all kind of giddy with all the product fumes we'd been inhaling. But still...I'm thinking the world has had enough tragedy without adding one more to the mix.

But the story doesn't stop there. There's still the issue of my lashes. Now those I have appreciated. But not for a long while. Back in high school, when I was hating my brows, I was, I admit, lovin' the lashes. I remember being on a date once in the backseat of a car. Another boy and his date climbed in next to us, all cozy like. And the boy looked past his date to me and said, "Wow, look at those lashes." I felt the girl next to me get all tense and annoyed. And while I was embarrassed and felt bad for the girl, I mean--talk about a jerk--I was still feeling mighty proud of those lashes.

But eventually I had five gorgeous kids with five gorgeous sets of lashes, which at first I figured came from me. Until I realized that all the comments went something like: "Wow, look at those lashes. Did you get those from your dad?" At first I would be all defensive and say, "they came from both of us." But eventually I gave up and started using phrases like, "I USED to have really long lashes."

That all ended with my cosmetologist friend. After the great love-fest with my brows, it came time to put on mascara. It was a really great mascara that made my lashes look super long. And once again she stopped class to admire them. She said she has women come to her and pay big bucks for lash extensions, with the goal of making them look just like mine. I know that totally sounds like bragging. And normally I wouldn't dream of repeating something like that. But we are talking about a...TRAGEDY...to all...MANKIND! (Her words, not mine.) So you see, it's not me I'm worried about. It's all mankind.

And seriously, as much as I'm appreciating my facial hair right now, I'd feel pretty stupid asking you to pray for it. But maybe it wouldn't be too much to ask you to send good vibes my way for the next couple of days?

Round Four, Day Four

2010-01-15T10:20:00.000-08:00

So here's how today started: I hear my son preparing for school and think, "I'm going to get up now and say goodbye."

Five minutes later: "I"m going to get up now and say goodbye."

Five minutes later: "I'm going to get up now and say goodbye."

Five minutes later, he's gone.

"Okay, that's all right," I tell myself. "He knows I love him. He's a big kid. But I'm now going to get up and have some breakfast."

Five minutes later: "I'm really going to get up now and have some breakfast."

Five minutes later: "I'm definitely going to get up now and have some breakfast."

Five minutes later: "I'll settle for a drink of water from the cup on my nightstand."

Five minutes later: "I am going to roll over now and take a drink from the cup on my nightstand."

Five minutes later: "I am definitely going to roll over."

So I guess this is that fatigue they keep talking about.

More on the Keemo Party

2010-01-11T19:57:00.001-08:00

I've got something to add to that party, which was fun and all. Wouldn't trade time with Kimi for the world. But this is so not cool.

If you know Kimi, lucky you. If you don't, you should. She is a very brave soul who keeps an entire blog dedicated to her most embarrassing moments. Some of which are guaranteed to have you holding your sides with laughter. Like the time she had the brilliant idea of putting a knit glove over a light bulb to diffuse the lighting where her precious little baby was sleeping. You can guess the ending, but it's way better when she tells it.

That story is besides my point though. My point is a three-part story she posted somewhat recently. A very brave story. I won't go into details, but I think it's part two that's called 'Me and the Pee'. And you can guess where that one goes too. This pee thing is a problem she's had since she was at least in high school. That's the earliest hysterical story I remember hearing about anyway. If you're interested, here's the link to part one of the story: http://andthentherewasthatonetime.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-day-from-heck-or-how-it-turns-out-iv.html

So Kimi, with her major bladder problem, comes to visit me this one time during chemo, and since arriving home I've sneezed about a hundred times, and changed my clothes...well, let's just say I'm going to have to do a load of laundry before I can change again. Coincidence? I think not.

My Keemo Chemo Party

2010-01-11T17:42:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know. Chemotherapy isn't exactly a party, but this was as close as it gets. My beautiful sister/niece (okay she's my niece, but I love her like a sis) volunteered to come keep me company. Believe it or not, she eats healthier than I do these days so she brought herself an ultra-bland salad, and my good hubby brought me a chicken/rice/veggie dish from Rumbies. I've managed to put on an extra NINE pounds since chemo started. I'm told to be happy I'm not wasting away, but happy is never a word I associate with weight gain.

But as for today's chemo, the fishies swam fast, their fastest yet. Just two more rounds to go. Feeling fine tonight, just waiting for the lovely smörgåsbord of side-effects to set in.

Keems, Me, and my extra NINE pounds.

Feeling good for now

2010-01-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

This is my good week. The one just before chemo. Monday I did (drum roll please) water aerobics! Yep, went to the gym and put on a little swim suit (no shaving needed thank you very much) and a little swim cap (as if I need it) and got into the pool. I didn't actually aerobic much, just ran back and forth in the water. But it felt good to be weightless for a while.

The whole locker room thing was kind of awkward though. I wore my winter cap there, then went into a dressing closet to change into the swim suit and cap. After the workout I got in the shower with the swim cap on, and wore a towel on my head (again as if I needed it) to the dressing closet to get dressed and put on my winter hat. That's where it got weird, cause then I had to put my makeup on in the big dressing area with a ski cap on. Could have planned that better. I considered just taking the stupid thing off, but there were about a dozen women there and it would have almost been like sitting there naked. The way the one senile lady with the glazed eyes does. Except worse. So I just ignored the confused glances and put my makeup.

Then yesterday I one-upped myself and went to a yoga class. Had to do it one armed, which is surprisingly difficult. (I kind of overdid with my right arm and they gave me some strict restrictions. Like stop using the arm.)

All those things are great, but I'm feeling anxious to just get to Monday and get the next round over with. Not that I look forward to feeling icky again, but I just want to be done. Done being a chemo patient. It somehow feels wrong to feel good while I'm in the middle of it. And yes, I know that doesn't make any sense. I should just be enjoying this week. But there it is. I want to be DONE!!!

More on the hair...of course

2010-01-05T08:02:00.001-08:00

I don't know if any of you are getting tired of hearing about my hair. I know I am. But the topic seems to be front and center in my life right now. For a change, the latest doesn't involve my head hair. But I have to digress a sec to explain. On my first round of chemo, I lost about half my hair on day 10. The rest, or almost the rest, came on day 10 of round two. About 5% remained, leaving the equivalent of a bunch of 1/4" porcupine pokeys covering my scalp. Very flattering. But I'm told not to shave close, just in case I cut myself (chemo patients don't heal well.) So round three I was kind of watching for those final pokeys to come out. But do they? No, in fact after careful scrutiny I suspect they may actually be growing. What did come out is my nose hair. That's right. My NOSE hair. In case you ever wondered whether that hair is important, let me just tell you that it is...terribly...important. I'm considering investing in Kleenex stock. Or maybe wearing a bandana directly under my nose. Maybe a tissue attached to those lovely chains that grannies use to hold onto their spectacles. It's not like I need to worry about scaring people, given up on that. I need something however, because the drip is constant. Sigh.

It's all about the timing

2010-01-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

So yesterday I half-jokingly post that maybe I'll settle for not scaring small animals as my latest goal. Not two hours later, my son's scout leader comes to the front door with a book he's supposed to work on. While she's at the door, her cute little dog--about the size of a rat--manages to roll down her car door window and jump out (the equivalent of 1000 foot drop to a human) then darted into the house, in an absolute frenzy. The embarrassed scout leader tried to pick him up, but he slipped away and headed into the living room, excitedly sniffing out our dog's living situation. I went after him while she explained the details of the book to Brandon. I'm here to say that no harm came to the little guy in the process. But it is fair to say I scared him plenty. Not sure how much lower I can set my expectations.

So much for goals...

2010-01-04T13:34:00.000-08:00

Despite the timing, I'm not talking about the New Year's Resolutions I've broken, though I've already done that too.

No, I'm talking about the goal I mentioned a while back while trying to figure out what to do with my hair, or nonhair. How I just hoped to not scare young children. Seemed like I was setting my sights low enough.

Well, I answered the door the other day and discovered a little girl, about four, asking for her big brother, who was here playing with Brandon. And I could see it in her eyes. The 'That is one freaky lady and I wish I could run away but my feet seem to be glued to the ground' look. I reached up and realized that my around-the-house scarf was riding well above my ears.

So much for that goal. Maybe I ought to shoot for not scaring small animals.

Moments

2009-12-30T08:57:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling a little sentimental, and thinking about the moments that have made up my life. Wrote this sappy little thing this morning. Not very well edited, but I thought I'd put it up before I get distracted with some shiny new object.

“Wo . . . would you like to . . . ?

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“I’ve been thinking . . . and
wonder if you’d marry me?”

“Of course. Of course I would.”

“I’m so happy.”

“Me too. But there’s no money
in the bank, and we need groceries.”

“It’s all right. I’ll take care of it. Always.”

“I hope so, because
it’s going to be a girl.”

“A girl? A baby girl?”

“Yes, isn’t she beautiful?”

“Wow. She’s perfect.”

“She is. But we’ll need more room.”

“More room?”

“For her brother.”

“A son?"

"He'll be like you."

"I’ll build you anything.
Anything you need. Always.”

“Good. Because I’m hearing
lots of little feet in our future.”

“Then we’ll make lots of little rooms.”

“I’m happy. But so tired.
There’s so much to do.”

“It’s all right. We’ll do it together, always.”

“I knew you would.
Honey, this boy says he loves her.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Almost as good as you.”

“Then we’ll do all we can for them.”

“They seem so happy.
Do you remember that time?”

“Of course. And we’re not that different.
But now my eyes are weak. My hair is gray.”

“Which is perfect, for a grandpa.”

“Grandpa? Oh my. Were our babies that small?”

“Always. And that beautiful.”

“Yes, I remember. So long ago.”

“Honey, the doctor wants to see us both.”

“The tests? They’re in?”

“Yes. I’m scared. Hold me.”

“Always.”

Amazing Ups and Big Bumps

2009-12-29T20:25:00.000-08:00

It's not supposed to be like this. I was told, very clearly, that each round of chemo would be worst the last. But my Christmas miracle has continued. I can still taste food. Don't even have to use plastic utensils. My mouth isn't raw. Neither is my nose. Everything is easier. Not complaining, but plenty baffled.

Yesterday I had a doctor visit (got a lymphatic draining massage, which isn't nearly as nice as a regular one, but a massage is a massage) then went hat shopping (I LOVE my new hat) then after a long nap had the energy to go see the Zoo Lights, in the dark and the cold. Of course, I forgot the camera and hot chocolate, but it was still a great day.

I had hoped today would be another great follow up. We loaded up the car and headed to Logan to visit my mother. But the roads were awful and in the end we had a close encounter with another vehicle. There were no injuries, and the cars can be repaired. The worst part is that I didn't get to see my mom.

But I'll still take a day like today over the other option.

Christmas Bells, Miracles, and Fishies

2009-12-26T08:26:00.000-08:00

I started to blog about my amazing children and how they saved Christmas at our house, but before I did I read a little story in the newspaper about a farm family from long ago with about twelve children and the mom had to take to the dad to the hospital with a serious illness right at Christmas time. So while they were gone the older children milked the cows and harvested the grains and slopped the hogs and built toys for the little ones and chopped down a tree and made Christmas dinner and fed and bathed the little ones and even sang Christmas carols and told them the Christmas story. And you'll be glad to know Mom and Dad got home just in the nick of time and it was the best Christmas ever.

Kind of deflated my more modern story. But here it goes. Hope it's not too disappointing.

At our house we have one little ten-year-old who is the ultimate when it comes to cheer and festivity. He is trying sooo desperately to cling to the sweet sound of Santa's sleigh bells (if you haven't seen Polar Express please stop what you're doing right now and see it.) We also have a Mom with two problems. First, she's one of most sappy, sentimental people ever and this is her youngest child and she also desperately wants him to keep hearing those bells one last year. But she is also pumped full of these icky drugs that have wreaked havoc with her brain and mind. On Christmas Eve, there were these pumped-up steroid fishy-drugs saying "KEEP MOVING! THAT'S RIGHT! ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER!. DO NOT STOP!" At the same time there were these terribly seductive fishies going, "Come on sweetie, just a little nap. Just come put your head on this little pillow." There was this other fire fishie that kept setting my head ablaze. And finally there were these whacked-out fishies just swimming in circles going "AAAHHHHCCCCHHHH!!" My head was a mess. It would be easier to count the number of times I got out of bed than the times I took a nap, though it's all a blur.

Well, there were no pigs to slop, but those kids of mine cheerfully cleaned the kitchen, did the shopping, took the little guy sledding and helped build a snowman before he became spontaneously combustible, and wrapped presents. I was so proud--even if you couldn't tell by my psyched-out demeanor.

But by evening it became clear that those bells would not be ringing unless Mom took off her crazy hat. I sincerely prayed for a Christmas Miracle, and wouldn't you know, I got it. Other than alternating real hats throughout the day (hard to find just the right 'dressed up but at home all day in a hot kitchen with hot flashes going off bald lady hat') I felt like a regular person clear up until Christmas Evening. And maybe the biggest miracle? I, even I, could TASTE the roast beast! (In case you didn't know, the chemo has taken away my sense of taste for the most part. But Christmas dinner was fabulous! How's that for a miracle?)

We didn't make it out with neighbor gifts and greetings like we usually do, and I was in hiding when most came to my door--but I hope you all had a fabulous holiday!

Proof that there was a snowman:

Santa came!

"The Dude" in his new clothes

Cutest Babe Ever! (Grandma in her workout wig)

Can't add much to this. Ethan at his First Christmas finest!

What not to say to a cancer patient--A practical guide

2009-12-22T11:44:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this posting by saying that I'm just as guilty as anyone else of saying the exact wrong thing to a sick person. Also, this is based purely on my reactions, no scientific research has gone into this, so it could be totally off the wall. And finally, if you recognize yourself here, please keep in mind that I still love you. =)

But with all that said, since it's often awkward to talk to someone with a serious illness, especially when they've just been diagnosed, I thought I'd throw out some of the things I've learned by being a the recipient of a whole bunch of loving attempts.

1. Never say, "Are you terminal?" or even worse, "Are you going to die?" (true story). If you really must know, it is better to say, "What is your prognosis?" But that question is better asked after the patient has had time to meet with doctors and get a grip on reality. It took time for me to come to grips with death as a possibility. Don't be the one to bring it up.

2. Everyone knows someone with cancer. By the time the patient has talked to 100 people, they have heard a 150 stories of others with cancer. It gets old, and even can (not saying it always does, but can) begin to trivialize their own experience. But it is sometimes helpful to know that others have gone through the same thing. So after considerable thought, here's my recommendation: Only offer up someone's story if you are very close to them (like a 1st-generation relative or close friend.) Unless you have a really good reason, skip the small talk about your neighbor's sister-in-law.

3. This is related to the second rule, but unless you have a really good reason, only share the story of your close and personal friend or relative if the person survived and the cancer didn't come back. (I even broke that rule recently.) The first few days after my diagnosis, I heard at least five stories of people who had either died or were fighting a second round. Depressing. Depressing. Depressing.

4. My all-time favorite thing not to say: "So are they going to cut your boobies off?" No commentary needed.

Party's Over...Back to the Drip Mill

2009-12-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

The presents are opened (and yes they were sweet), the candles blown, and now it's back to the chemo routine. The good news is that today's round is my third out of six--half way!!!!

I was talking to a relative the other day about her dad's chemo experience. She described the chairs being placed in a circle, and said that she was so impressed with how the patient's bonded during their chemo. They were all going through the same thing and could empathize with one another.

Well, I'm afraid to say there's not a lot of bonding going on here, except with the nurses. The lounge chairs are placed throughout the room with partitions dividing most. The designers were obviously thinking of privacy, not bonding. And I do like my privacy. I sit with my laptop, blogging, catching up on emails, and editing my book--headphones in my ears playing relaxing music.

But today I'm looking at the other patients, all absorbed in their newspapers and books, or napping, and wonder about the stories I'm missing. Hmmm...it's a trade off. People in the room or people in cyberspace? It's not like I have much choice, since the nearest patient is maybe twenty feet away and asleep. But it does make me wonder how much of our lives are spent caught up in cyber-reality instead of real-reality.

For now I'll keep typing and listening to my music. But maybe I'll wander over to the snack bar a little later and see if I can strike up a conversation with somebody.

It's My Birthday...Happy Birthday...It's My Birthday..

2009-12-20T19:29:00.000-08:00

I'm a Christmas baby. Born four days before, brought home on Christmas morning. Which means I've always shared my big day with the Big Guy. Which is fine. Any day is a good day for a birthday. Yes, that's right. I actually LIKE the fact that I'm getting older.

I suppose everyone in the middle of cancer treatment looks at their birthday differently from the Average Joe or Joanne. I realize most adults moan and groan the advancing of age, but I just can't do it. To me, one more birthday is nothing but a reason to CELEBRATE!

And since this isn't my first time at cheating death, or even my second, I've been like this for quite some time. (Sorry if you find it annoying.)

I'd like to say that this cancer thing is my most dramatic brush with death, but the whole 'heart failure and subsequent open-heart surgery with four kids ages seven and under' was pretty, darn dramatic.

Not to mention the growing up normal and healthy despite having a hole in your heart the size of a pencil. I've asked several doctors how that could have happened and they just shrug.

I can't even claim that hole or this most recent cancer discovery as my most miraculous events. If you know anything about colon cancer, you know that finding pre-cancerous polyps in your early thirties when there's no family history is nothing short of a miracle.

And now with finding this super-mega tumor just in the nick of time. I don't know what to think. I'm just happy to be here.

I kind of feel like doing a victory dance, and sticking my tongue out at whatever force is apparently bent on taking these birthdays away. Anybody want to join me? It's my birthday...Happy birthday...Neener Neener...It's my birthday...Neener Neener...

Some People Are Just Born to Play Elvis

2009-12-18T09:28:00.000-08:00

Brandon played 'Elfis' the STAR of his fifth-grade play. It really was...something. I'm not sure how best to describe it. He was great. Very Elvis. The title of the post is what his sister kept thinking...

Hopefully a video will follow.

Unexplained Cheer

2009-12-14T20:10:00.000-08:00

So you know how sometimes you see drivers alone in their cars who are rocking out to their radios--bopping up and down, singing their little hearts out, using the steering wheel like a percussion instrument? And you know how you feel...well...embarrassed for them? And you wonder if they realize how stupid they look?

Well, I have to admit that (ahem) that has been me lately. Not the one noticing the wierdo--the other guy. The wierd one. The first couple of times that it happened, I stopped myself and thought, wait a minute, I'm in the middle of chemo...and bald. I'm not supposed to feel cheerful. But then I figured there was no sense in fighting it.

I haven't decided if it's the Christmas season, denial or just a blessing; or maybe a combination, but I honestly do feel a light heart most of the time these days. Go figure.

Blatant Bragging

2009-12-12T15:59:00.000-08:00

We just got back from Logan where my beautiful 24-year old (24!) got her master's degree. The next day her hubby got his bachelors. Even more amazing, they both (most likely) have jobs. Jen is working with young deaf children. Mike is teaching high school math. If he doesn't get the job he just interviewed for, he'll be sure to get another, cause he's that good. I think the only thing more amazing than both of them earning degrees while so young, is both of them getting jobs in this economy. I'm just a little proud today.

And by the way, we'll be having an open house to congratulate them next Saturday at our house from 3:30 to 6:30. Stop by if you'd like. Send an email if you need the address!

A call for a little Christmas help

2009-12-10T15:37:00.000-08:00

I have been touched, moved, and often awe-inspired by the help and generosity that my friends have shown over the last couple of months. I think it's because of that kindness that I just found myself making a commitment that I know I can't handle on my own. And before I go on, let me answer the question that I know most will be asking: "Is she insane?" The answer is, probably.

So here's the thing, a family in need of some help for Christmas was just brought to my attention by one of my beautiful children. The mother who asked for the help is actually getting it for her three children. Problem is, there are NINE children living in the house, and her three are the only ones getting presents. That just can't happen.

Now I know there's no way I can do it all myself, but for one thing I figured it would be a good project for my kids, to keep them focused on something besides us and our stupid luck. And also I was pretty sure some of my great friends could help me pull this together. So...I know there's a ton of need out there this year, but if you're feeling so inclined to help with this project, it would be greatly appreciated.

We'd like to get the gifts gathered by Tuesday the 15th. (Donations would need to be delivered to our home in Draper.) My kids will wrap them and deliver them the next day. One of my friends has already offered to take on two of the kids, which just leaves us with two nine-year-olds, a boy and a girl; a seven-year-old girl; and a six-month-old boy. We're planning on a couple of toys, a couple of clothing items, and a book for each child. Either new or very gently used is okay.

Please send me an email at sr.reese @ comcast.net if you'd like to pitch in with anything!

And Merry Christmas!!!

I am...

2009-12-06T20:02:00.001-08:00

No one could accuse my little Brandon of having low self-esteem. Hopefully it's not too much the opposite.

The family gathered tonight to play the game Catchphrase--with a timed gadget that you pass around the circle giving clues while it ticks like away like a bomb. Brandon couldn't quite get past the game Charades, and used clues like "you go" or "it's like". He would then mime the word, with the little gadget ticking away, louder and more frantic.

"Use words!" His frustrated brother would call. "Give me a noun. A verb. Anything."

"I'm more of an actor person than a word person," he protested back.

The biggest laugh of the night? Brandon got the word "amazing."

His clue? "I am..."

Random Bald Thoughts

2009-12-06T19:07:00.000-08:00

Wore the wig for the first time today. After fiddling with it for way too long, I decided to lower my standard from looking "normal" to "not scaring young children." I think I did okay.

You might expect "bald" to be a low-maintenance way of life. But until ostriches become pleasing to the eye, I'm afraid bald will continue to be surprisingly time-consuming.

Bald can be absolutely adorable, if done right. Here's proof:

Stepping Out

2009-12-05T10:09:00.000-08:00

Woke up feeling well enough to go to a church party this morning. Tried on my wig, but Natalie (ahem, "kindly") suggested I go for one of my smokin' hot hats. First time in public without hair. Made me pause before stepping in the door. But then the FUNNIEST thing happened. Still laughing.

I approached one of my closest friends. I mean, seriously close, friends and neighbors for over a decade. She's going through a lot of stuff: husband's job, kid's health, big new church responsibilities. She's been dumped on. But then who hasn't lately? So I give her a hug and ask her how she's holding up. And she says...are you ready for this? Let me preface by saying it hadn't occurred to her that I was wearing a smokin' hot hat for a reason. The woman, my friend, was totally oblivious when she said, "Well, I still have hair."

Yep. You read that right. She still has hair. I stared at her for a minute, then asked if that's the new criteria for sanity. It dawned on her then. She blushed, blustered, blushed some more, stammered. Later she tried to give Natalie a hard time about something, and I told her she'd lost her right to give anyone a hard time about anything. Maybe I'll stop teasing when we're in our 80's, and neither of us have hair. Maybe

Me and the Kohl's Pot

2009-12-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

I've been a little too "blah" the last couple days to post my latest hair episode (lack of energy and taste buds will do that to you). But I did, sadly, have one.

It started on Wednesday, when I was rushing off to yet another doctor appointment. First thing I noticed was that the white shirt I'd only been wearing for about one hour (to treadmill in) had a WHOLE lot of hair on the back. But there was no time to worry about it--I had to pick out a hat that reasonably matched whatever shirt was clean without tight sleeves, make a berry smoothie that wouldn't make my stomach too mad at me, and get out the door all in about ten minutes. It wasn't until I was in the docs office changing into one of their lovely blue gowns, that I realized I was truly, and ferociously, shedding. Little pieces of brown hair traveled this way and that in front of my gaze while the doc did the examination. Rob mercifully tried to clean off my shirt before I put it back on, but he might as well have been dehairing a great ape. Or maybe a hairy coyote.

I would have headed straight home, but had made arrangements to pick Brandon up at the end of his scout meeting, so I had to stall. I headed to Kohls, where I had planned to do a little shopping, but went straight to the ladies room. I pulled off the hat and shook my head into the toilet, hoping to do away with the strays that were floating around my head. But it was like all 10,000 hairs had just figured out they weren't supposed to be there any more. They started by filling the water. Then each delicate hair started building a little pyramid on top of the other, forming a little hair castle in the bowl of the toilet. It would have been mesmerizing, if it hadn't been so humiliating.

I flushed, then built it all over again. Eventually I put the cap back on and made my way to the car--feeling the kind of self-conscious you feel when you know something's not right, but you're not sure anyone else does. Again I would have liked to head straight home, but had to stop for Brandon. And of course the cookies they boys were baking weren't done, so I was invited inside. I moved slowly and consciously, watching my flying hair friends out of the corner of my eye, and tried to act as normal as possible.

By the time I did make it home, I went directly to the bathroom, where I pulled out the hair-cutting kit and took it to my own head. Just like that. It was time. They were noble little hair strands, but we all knew they were done.

Since then I've been trying on wigs and hats and t-shirt bands. I flirted with the natural look last night in front of Brandon. He put his fingers in front of his eyes and asked me to put the wig back. So I went bald all day while he was in school, and I've just put a turban on preparation for his return. Hopefully he'll get used to the site.

And in answer to the question I know you have, I haven't shed a tear since the hair's actual departure. Maybe those'll come in some dark moment in the shower. But for now I'm just trying to swim.