Monday, July 29, 2019


When I graduated from high school, I worked for a year and then headed to college. I was home for maybe three months after college before moving to Indianapolis for a year and then to Chicago for four years.

So, after high school, I lived in the area of my childhood home for a maximum of a year and a half before I was thirty.

At work the other day, a woman stopped in from a fork lift repair company. When I got up to greet her, she immediately said, “Tommie?”

I narrowed my eyes at her, as if trying to recognize her face and said, “Yes?”

She laughed and said, “We went to school together!”


She did not look AT ALL familiar. She said her name. Yeah, still not ringing any bells.

She said she’d been in the same class as my brother.

Let me remind you that my closest-in-age brother was FIVE years behind me in school. (My next closet-in-age brother was thirteen years behind me in school but he went to a different school and so no one from his class EVER recognizes me, thank goodness.)

You know how teenagers are. I had no freaking clue who was in his class. Why would I?

She then said that her brother had been in my class.


Well then.

Yeah, I didn’t remember him either. He was one of the three Jasons in my class. I was besties with one of them.

That one was not her brother.

So…I vaguely remember his last name but not him. Not at all.

Was I a snob in high school?

Does it even really matter if I was?

I see people out and about all the time who stop me, ask me if I am me and then talk to me like we’re long lost best friends.

After chatting for a bit, ‘catching up’ if you will, we’ll part ways and Alyssa will whisper, “Who was that?”

And I’ll whisper back, “I have no idea.”

She always laughs at me because I never recognize people I went to school with.

I’m sorry but I was away for over a decade. I didn’t hang out with the people in my twenties or even my thirties. We’ve all changed (though, maybe I haven’t that much, except that I’ve ‘swelled’ as Joan Cusack’s character from Grosse Pointe Blank so brilliantly put it.)

I’ve made ‘friends’ with a lot of these people in social media but I don’t stalk their feeds or check out their lives. I have my own life to live over here.

After this woman spent about ten minutes gossiping about people she thought I knew from high school, including my high school boyfriend who I broke up with over thirty years ago (boy did she dish on that creep, not that I cared one way or the other), she left her contact information for our maintenance manager and exited the building. A co-worker who was waiting to use the bathroom asked me if I’d known that woman.

Nope, I said. I then explained about how I was apparently a snob in high school.

Bless her, this co-worker said, “Maybe you were, but then again, maybe you’ve moved beyond high school and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

I think I like that woman a lot. I’m grateful to be beyond high school and all that entailed.

Thursday, July 25, 2019


Olivia had an orthodontist appointment recently.

Because Tom hates (HATES!!!) appointments that are not near the end of the day, I specifically asked for a later appointment, even though it’s summer.

To be fair to him, he’s less loathing of early appointments in the summer but when school is in session, he can be kind of a jerk about having to go to the school, pick up either (both?) child(ren?) and then bring her/them to her/heir appointments.

He acts like I’ve committed one of the seven deadly sins if this happens. Which sin would that be? Probably sloth, I feel like I'm all over that one.

But anyway, this time her appointment was for 3:10 (pm, obviously, why on earth would I set up an appointment for 3:10am? I don't even know.) And since she (and he…for what it’s worth) are both home all day, bringing her to town for the appointment is not really a hardship.

And what’s more, I get leave work EARLY so that I can meet them at whatever appointment is happening so he doesn’t even have to STAY for the appointment.

Yeah, he’s got a really hard life.

So the morning of the appointment, as I was leaving for work at 6:30 so I could get my full 8 hours of work in and still leave at 3:00 for the appointment, he followed me around the kitchen (for the record, our kitchen is not that big) asking me to remind him of what needed to be done before he and Liv left for her appointment.

I ended up writing him a note with the time of the appointment and all the things I’d like him to do for Livie, such as brush her teeth (it WAS an orthodontist appointment, duh) and brush her hair because, well, she needs her hair brushed before going out in public lest she look like she lives in a van with her delinquent parents.

I’d already laid out her clothes for the day. I’d washed her hair the night before. I’d started even started a load of sheets in the washer that I will put in the drier when I get home.

I mentioned to him the things Liv and I were going to do after the appointment and that was when he said, “So you’re not going back to work?”

Wait, what? Why in the world would I go back to work? First of all, her appointment wouldn’t be done until at least 4:00, and hello, I’ll have the child with me, should I take her to work with me and let her watch me work for twenty minutes? The whole freaking point of making the late appointments (for ME) is that I get to leave work and NOT GO BACK.

He shrugged and said, “Well, they’d probably let you work until 5:00, which would give you almost another hour.”

Yes…he was sort of joking; but not completely.

And see, here's the thing, I wouldn’t have to leave work early to begin with if HE would stick around with her for the appointment, then schedule the next appointment and after that run to the bank and deposit Alyssa’s most recent paycheck and then go to Walmart and buy me a data card for my phone and then take Olivia to dinner because, hello, she ALWAYS gets to eat out after an orthodontist/dentist/eye doctor/regular doctor appointment. That’s just the way it is.

But that doesn’t happen and so…I go to work early to get my hours in so I can leave early.

Then I run around taking care of LIFE things while he goes home and rests on the couch because driving Liv to town and then driving himself home is EXHAUSTING.

Which, okay, it probably was very tiring what with him being BROKEN and all. But still!

When he made the suggestion of me working until 5, I just blinked at him because, seriously? You want to talk about who is working what hours these days?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

PT Grad

I am a master PT patient! But seriously, I was so good at laying there and letting that woman gently rub my arm that I only needed four sessions to graduate from the program.

Okay, so yeah, my insurance would only pay for four sessions but at the end of the fourth session, my physical therapist said she’s sure I’ll be able to manage my lymphedema on my own.


With her wise teachings and handy dandy exercise handouts, I’m on my way to a non-swollen left arm!

And hey, this is one more thing that Olivia and I have in common. You know, other than our regal good looks and our sparkling personalities. Now we’re both physical therapy graduates too.

Also, go me, I actually did my exercises this morning and I didn’t actually HAVE to do them because I don’t have to answer to the therapist at my next appointment, because, yes, that’s right, there is no next appointment.

She did tell me that if I feel like Leftie is getting large and trying to take charge, I can all my family doctor and he can write an order for another PT session, so it’s not like I can never see this therapist again.

No need for tears, is what I’m saying.

Only too bad for me, she still wants me to get a compression sleeve. Do you know what those things are like?

I don’t either, but Imma google the hell out of lymphedema compression sleeves and freak myself right out. Wanna go with me? Yeah, field trip!! Let’s go.

Okay, so yes, there are some cool colors out there. There are also the gross flesh-toned ones. Ick. And I kind of hate how they go about three quarters up the arm and stop at what is probably the grosses part of a fatty’s arm. Yeah, that ought to be SUPER fun and attractive. And, best news yet, if I have to wear the thing every day, it will last maybe six months before needing to be replaced. There’s an expense I didn’t see coming.

Cancer…the gift that keeps on punching you in the face, even after you thought treatment was over.

And what do you wanna bet that my insurance will NOT pay for this thing? Well, the first ones I came across are in the $20 range, so that’s not horrible. And my HSA will probably pay for it but still, what’s the freaking point of insurance if it doesn’t actually pay for anything? That’s what I want to know.

Where are all my premiums going if not toward my stupid healthcare? Huh?

Monday, July 22, 2019

Waking Up

Tom loves Court TV, a new addition to the plethora of channels that he gets through his antenna.

He watched the trial of the man being tried for the murder of his wife (she apparently strangled, or was strangled, while drunk one evening while he sat in his car, also drunk/high.) He very much enjoyed the trail of the dude in Florida who kidnapped and killed the nanny.

He just finished up watching the trial of the caretaker in a retirement home who was being tried for the murder/neglect of a 91 year old man.

In the caretaker case, the defendant is a young(ish) black man. I only mention race because Tom thinks this guy is innocent and that he’s only on trial because of his race.

Let that sink in.

The man who used the word ‘colored’ when we met over seventeen years ago is waking up. This old white dude is starting to see how unfair the world is to everyone except those exactly like him.

I can’t even find the words to explain how amazing this is.

I’ve been in a shitty mood since the last presidential election. I know, that’s a long time to be angry but unless you’re another old white dude, you get what I’m saying.

I can’t be in the same room if Tom has 45 on the television because just the sound of his voice, let along the horrible things he actually says makes me want to scream.

So to have my husband, a man I tell daily that he’s an old white dude so please don’t think I’m talking behind his back, to finally SEE the world for what it really is, is just so gratifying.

It doesn’t fix anything that’s going on in the world, but it soothes my soul when I’m in my own home.

I just had to put that out there.

He’s waking up and it’s glorious! If this old white dude can wake up at 59 years old, there’s hope for other old white dudes to wake up and stop eating the bullshit that 45 is feeding them.

And please, I know that it’s not only old white dudes who support that idiot. I know that. Hell, I have several (many?) FB ‘friends’ who are 45 supporters and some of them are women, so even having a uterus doesn’t stop people from being stupid or blind.

It’s sad.

But wait, back to the happy news. There’s an old white dude in northwestern Ohio who is waking up!! There’s hope for our world.

Friday, July 19, 2019

So How's Physical Therapy Going?

Hey, thanks for asking! As I write this, I’ve had two actual therapy sessions. I have two more and then insurance is just sure I’ll be cured.

Ha. Whatever.

At the first PT session, my therapist, let’s call her Kim (because that’s her name…or is it?) gave me a handout that described the lymphatic system and included pictures. They were gross because the lymphatic system is under the skin, so the diagram showed a skinned dude. Ick.

She also gave me a handout that described the exercises she wants me to do. Then, because she thinks I’m an imbecile, she walked me through the exercises. We started with deep breathing. Gag.

Actually, though, the exercises aren’t that bad. They’re very gentle, so I don’t even get out of breath doing them. There’s stretching and breathing and moving of joints. Mostly, the exercises are meant to work with the gentle massage to keep the lymphatic fluid moving in the right direction. See, the muscles that are moving during the exercises are beneath the lymphatic vessels, the massage works the vessels from above, so…everyone is working at a team. Wheee!!

Kim also gave me a handout with directions for self-massage.

I, um, haven’t done any of that yet.

I don’t know why, don’t ask me questions. I just haven’t. To be honest, I haven’t even looked at the paper. Again, no clue why, just…haven’t.

But I have gone swimming several times since the first and second PT sessions. According to Kim, swimming is excellent for the lymphatic system. The gentle pressure from the weight of the water works like massage, so there.

The massages she’s given me during the sessions are quite nice, actually. I mean, once you get past the fact that a stranger is rubbing her hands along your arm in a semi-circular fashion, up and down, up and down and all around.

She tells me that once I start doing the massages myself (ha! Except, okay, I WILL do them…sometime) I’ll actually learn to feel the difference between my left and right arm and be able to tell when ol’ Leftie is retaining fluid. Right now, I couldn’t tell you if Leftie had gone on a bender and was holding in a pint or two of lymphatic fluid as compared to good old Rightie, which happens to have all her lymph nodes and so still works like a champ at draining all that fluid.

Kim did say that from session one to session two, the tissue in my left arm seemed to be moving better, so…that’s good, right? She seemed please when she said it, so we’re going with good.

She keeps talking about a sleeve and I’m all, let’s wait and see. Apparently, if I ever fly again, I’ll need to wear one but hey, a person can go a lifetime without flying if they want to be boring and never have fun again. So there’s that.

She’s asked me a couple of times if the radiation oncologist mentioned the sleeve. I just tell her that all he said was that he was referring me for physical therapy. I don’t actually like talking about him. His very name makes me cranky so the less we speak of him the better.

But seriously folks, it’s fine. Therapy is fine. I’m fine. The lymphedema is fine. Old Leftie here is still hanging out, writing words, typing even more words, feeding my face, not swelling (much) and just being a good old arm.

Oh, hey, I forgot to mention that Kim is glad I’m too precious for fingernail polish. She said that the swelling from lymphedema can inhibit healing and so I should be careful of nicks and scraps on my arm and hand. She also said that nail polish can hide potential fungal infections and so it’s a good that I can’t stand the feel of polish on my fingernails. Did I ever mention that? Yeah, nail polish feels ‘heavy’ on my fingernails. I know how weird that is, believe me, but there you have it. And people sometimes wonder where Liv gets some of her idiosyncrasies.

Thursday, July 18, 2019

Insurance and Physical Therapy

My insurance very kindly (insert heavy sarcasm) approved me for four whole physical therapy sessions.

Isn’t that grand? (Yes, Alyssa, I STILL hate that word, I’m being snarky here and so…it fits.)

If you’ve done any sort of research on lymphedema (obviously, at this point, I HAVE done just a little research) you know that it’s not something that is cured. Once you have it, you’ll always have it.


So, four whole PT sessions are probably not going to make a huge dent in my potentially gigantic left arm.

Okay. Yes, four sessions are better than none.

I will learn as much from these sessions as I can and try to control the lymphedema at home with exercise (Ha! Hahahahaha.) and gentle massage.

Please believe me when I say that I will be administering said gentle massage myself. I will not be asking my husband to massage my stupid arm. My arms are gross. I don’t want him to touch them.

It was bad enough when the poor fellow had to cram gauze into my boob incision. Imma pass on him massaging my flabby, fish-belly white arms.

I do realize how vain I sound. Whatever. I own it. I’m vain. I haven’t worn a tank top in public since 1995 because I hate my arms. Yes. That’s true, not even a little bit of exaggeration.

I may be the queen of hyperbole, but this time, it’s not needed. It has literally been 24 years since I wore a tank top in public. A swim suit at the pool or lake does not count because honestly, wearing a stupid T-shirt over your swimsuit just emphasizes your fatness. No offense to anyone who does wear a T=shirt, just sharing how I feel about it when it comes to MY body. So...yeah.

I just don’t want to be that woman at Walmart waltzing around with my giant blubbery arms hanging from my grody shoulders without some sort of sleeve covering the dimpled flesh.


Four sessions of PT.

What the hell is wrong with our health care system?

I know. So many things, right?

Why do insurance companies get to decide what kind of and how much treatment a person gets? Shouldn’t that be up to the doctors, the patient, the therapists?

I’m preaching to the choir here, I get that. But it just makes me crazy to think that some bureaucrat out there is deciding that my arm (my stupid, stupid arm) needs four therapy sessions.

Yeah…we’ll see.

Wednesday, July 17, 2019

The Other Monday

The Monday after a long holiday is rough.

Of course I slept in every day of the long 4th of July weekend which meant it was hard to fall asleep at a decent time on Sunday night. And that means I woke up tired on Monday morning when the alarm went off at 5:15. Obviously I snoozed it four times before dragging my butt out of bed at 5:35.

I slogged my way through the work day.

I’d started the day thinking I got to leave work early (ish…I had a 4pm physical therapy appointment and I usually leave the office at 4:30.) Alas, it was not to be. I got a call from the PT office before 10:00 that morning letting me know that my therapist was out sick. But could I come in at 10am on Wednesday?


10am on Wednesday is the MOST inconvenient time and day of the week. I’m not even being the queen of hyperbole about this. Any other day of the week, 10am is annoying but on Wednesdays, it’s even more of a bother.

I took the appointment because I just want to get that first PT session out of the way. I’ll figure out my Wednesday after that.

Back to Monday, though! Geez, these tangents are annoying as hell. Who’s writing this thing?

So I didn’t get to leave early that day. I worked my whole nine and a half hours and then went to Walmart so I could exchange a shirt the girls and I got for Tom for his birthday. He needed a different size.

After that, I finally schlumped into the house only to be greeted by a chipper little Olivia, who immediately asked, “Can we go to Gram’s?”

My shoulders slumped and I sighed but I handed her my phone and told her she needed to call Gram to make sure she was home.

Yes, Olivia will speak to my mom on the phone. It’s pretty cool, actually.

My mom was home and so away we went.

We visited until almost 7:00. When we got home, Tom had food ready for Liv. He also informed me that there was leftover pizza for me.

I didn’t want leftover pizza. I informed him of that. I invited him to eat the leftover pizza himself.

I, very maturely (except, no, it was quite the bratty tone I used) told him that I’d rather not eat anything at all than eat that leftover pizza.

He sat down to fight with Olivia over her dinner and I went into the living room and settled on the couch because I couldn’t bear to watch their battle.

I want to just put food in front of her and let her eat it or not. Tom is willing to sit with her and literally spoon the food into her mouth.

That’s his war, the one he’s willing to die over.

I took a nap on the couch rather than deal with them and dinner.

I ended up sleeping on the couch from 7:30 until 9:30, at which point, I told Olivia it was time for bed and off we went.

I’ll take sleep over a food fight (ha!) any day of the week.

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

The Mondayist Monday

I always get to work at 7:00am on Mondays because I help with payroll and attendance and all the other things that have to happen in the beginning of the week to make the rest of the week go smoothly.

This past Monday, though, was different. Well, wait. Not different in that I went in at 7. No. That happened. But I was only there for an hour and forty minutes before I had to leave with some co-workers to go to an Excel class. That was great fun.

Only too bad for me, because while I was off having excellent great fun learning the basics of Excel (which, honestly, I kind of already knew…shhhh, don’t tell.) the work I’d normally have been doing during my three and a half hours away from my desk…well, that work was not being done in my absence.

Where the hell is my assistant?

So I worked ever so hard for the rest of the day to try and catch up on the work that didn’t get done from 8:40am to 12:30pm.

Only guess what? I didn’t even get to work until my usual 4:30pm that day because too bad for me, I had to leave at exactly 3:00pm for a 3:15pm physical therapy appointment.

The appointment was fine. I’m fine. My arm, according to my therapist, is feeling less full of fluid, so that’s good. She also said something about the tissue moving better, whatever the hell that means. I’m guessing it’s good since she smiled as she said it.

I have two more PT sessions, just so you know.

I had to go to The Walmarts after work because on Saturday, the VERY SAME WALMART did not have cucumbers. RED ALERT – They did not have any freaking cucumbers. Did you know that I eat a cucumber every single day at work? It’s the main part of my lunch. Why the hell am I still so fat when a fucking cucumber is the main part of my stupid lunch? Please let me take a moment to point out that the rest of my lunch is not pecan pie (blech!) or anything else that would be considered high in calories and delectable. No. The rest of my lunch consists of a half a cup of blueberries, a single, lonely string cheese and if I’m REALLY lucky, Tom will have left a half a tomato on the counter the night before after dinner and I’ll toss that into my lunch container the next morning. Lovely.

Anyway, I was at Walmart on a Monday afternoon. I not only needed (NEEDED!) cucumbers, but Olivia, the poor dear, was down to her last Klondike ice cream sandwich. WHATEVER WOULD SHE DO FOR A 9PM SNACK!?! Cue the fucking violins.

Woah there. I’m getting ahead of myself with the pissy tone of this post. I wasn’t even pissy while I was at Walmart. I don’t mind that place much. Just on Saturday afternoons when I’m trying to get through droves of people who should have had the sense to leave at least one of the seven adults in their party home to care for the twelve children they brought with them.

Monday afternoons aren’t that bad, even now, in the middle of laker season. Ahh, lakers, don’t even get me started.

So yes, there I was, bag of cucumbers in my cart, off to the ice cream section then back to the bread because Alyssa had band camp all week and needs to pack her turkey and mustard sandwich. I also wanted to get an assorted bag of individual bags of chips for her to pack to. I’m a great freaking mother, don’t let my children tell you any different.

After grabbing a Payday in the checkout line (and I was wondering up there why the hell I’m so fat…yeah.) I made my way to the car through the sweltering heat. OMG you guys, it’s so hot tgus week. It’s like living on the surface of the sun, if the sun had a surface, you know, since it’s actually just a giant ball of flaming gas.

I went home, still in a perfectly delightful mood, since my car is equipped with this wonderful invention called air conditioning.

I walked in the door and Olivia wanted to know if we were going to go swimming.

I declared that to be a lovely idea and we both changed into swimsuits and gathered towels and snacks. I didn’t realize until I got home that both Tom and I put two bottles of water in my snack/towel bag. No wonder that damned bag was so fucking heavy.

Before Liv and I left, Tom asked me what time Alyssa said she’d be home. I informed him that I had no idea since I wasn’t the one who’d been home when she’d left. He informed me that he’d assumed we (Alyssa and I) had discussed this the night before.

I told him we hadn’t. I also suggested that since HE was the parent who was home when she left, he might have considered, you know, talking to her and ASKING her or, hey, here’s a suggestion, TELLING her when to be home.

He, in turn, suggested I sent her a Snap and ask her what time she planned to be home. He said, all pompous-like, that as a responsible person, she should know that nothing later than 9pm was acceptable since she has band camp all week and has to be up by 7am at the latest each day.

Basically, he was attempting to trap her by giving her the option to be right or wrong in when she thought she should be home.

Ugh. I sent her a message, she said she’d be home by 8. I told her that since Liv and I were going swimming and wouldn’t be home until after 8, she could make it 8:30 if she wanted.

Then I grabbed that heavy-ass snack/towel bag and Livie and I were off.

For snacks I took cookies (Olivia at ten, I had three – oh, look at that, reason number 7426 why I’m a Fatty McBitcherson), blueberries, and Doritos, regular and Cool Ranch.

We swam from 6:00pm until almost 7:30, at which point, Liv asked me if I’d be mad if she needed to get out of the pool and use the bathroom.

I told her that of course I wasn’t mad that she didn’t take a giant dump in the pool. I was freaking proud of her for realizing she needed to shit and did the responsible thing (ie, GOT OUT OF THE POOL) and made her way to a toilet.

After she made use of the toilet, we went home, where Tom was sound asleep on the couch. Olivia woke him up by touching his face with her icy cold hands.

I heated up dinner for Liv and gave Tom the rundown of the messages that Lyss and I had sent back and forth.

At first he thought she’d been the one to push the time back from 8 to 8:30. I had to backtrack and tell him that I was the one who suggested 8:30 and then, I went on to remind him that he’d originally said 9, so, DUDE, she was still getting home earlier than he’s originally suggested, so give it freaking rest.

But then…THEN… she texted me about how she and N had gone swimming and could they run to Dairy Treat and then come straight home?

You know what?

I’m sick of being the go-between. I don’t actually care if she’s home at 8, 8:30 or hell, even 10 on a week night. She’s a smart girl.

Alyssa, if you’re reading this, you’re an amazing person. You’re smart, you’re responsible, you’re kind. You’re a wonderful friend, a delightful daughter, and even a great sister (I mean, you’re no Norah Porch but then again, Olivia isn’t exactly like Delaney Porch so you get a pass. I love you bunches and forever.)

Alyssa KNOWS how much sleep she needs each night. Going out and having fun with friends after band camp isn’t going to make her suddenly think she can come home at 3am and get back up at 7 for the day.


When she asked about Dairy Treat, Tom huffed, “8:45, then, right?”

I texted back that she could be out until 8:45 but by then I was annoyed with the entire freaking world.

I was annoyed with Alyssa for proving her dad right and pushing the limits, even if the limits DID NOT EVEN MATTER.

I was annoyed with Tom for making ME be the one who communicated our annoyance with her.

I hate being in the middle. I HATE conflict and time management. Let her grow up!

Damn it.

After Alyssa finally got home (at 8:44, for anyone keeping track…TOM)I was upstairs remaking Olivia bed because…Olivia.

Lyss came in to say hi. I was short with her. I feel bad about that. I was just so done with that day.

I did apologize later and told her I wasn’t trying to be passive aggressive. I don’t want to be THAT mom.

I ended up going outside and petting our gross cat for a while on the swing in the backyard.

When I finally went back in I was still annoyed but not as bad at earlier. Tom asked me where I’d been. I told him. He asked if there’d been mosquitoes out there.

I shrugged. I don’t get bothered by mosquitoes; haven’t for years. Who knows why?

He acted all pissy that I didn’t get bitten. So freaking weird.

I can’t wait for his shoulder to heal and for him to feel better so he can get off the couch and stop watching Court TV and murder shows. He needs to get outside, get back to listing, get back to feeling productive because the way things are right now, he’s getting on my very last nerve.

And for what it’s worth, 99% of the time, I like the guy. And even when I’m annoyed with him, I still like him, I just want him to leave me alone while I stew in my frustration for a bit then I’ll be fine.

In the end, I’m always fine.

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

Okay, Fine

So a friend who is also a cancer survivor mentioned on FB that her doctor suggested she try and keep to a plant-based diet with minimal meat.

Yes, I know this is what my stupid doctor told me to do too.

So fine.


I’ll try.


I’ll research the stupid Mediterranean diet. I’ll start eating more lettuce and fewer Suzie-Q’s. Did you know that they’ve changed the recipe and now add MORE filling? They’re even more delicious than ever! Thus, my hesitancy to give them up; why yes, I am a child, why do you ask?

I’ll cut back on the Mega-Stuf Oreos (though, in my defense, I only eat the filling. I chuck the actual cookies out the window on my drive home…that’s few calories right there…just saying. And hey, deer and birds need the special treat that is a plain Oreo cookie sans stuffing, right? Uh, maybe? Okay, so I’m a wasteful bitch. Give me a break.)

I’ll pretend to like snacking on things like baby carrots and hummus and ignore my desire to eat raw cookie dough with a chaser of pickle juice to cut the sweetness of the triple chocolate chip dough.

I’ll try.

It’s not so much the meat I’ll miss when I attempt to adopt a plant-based diet. It’s the sweets, the carbs, the glorious sugar.

But I know it’s not good for me. I know!!

So yes. I’ll try.

And now that my stupid cold is almost gone, I’ll also get out there and walk again. That’s got to count for something, right?

Tuesday, July 2, 2019

Taking My Own Advice

I was talking to a co-worker the other day about a friend who is always VERY busy with her daughter and her husband’s ‘hobbies’ and I wondered aloud what my friend does for herself.

The co-worker gave me a look and I laughed, saying, “Yeah, I don’t do a lot for myself either, do I?”

It’s hard when you’re a wife and mom and a full-time employee to carve out time to do something that is solely for you.

Right, Julie? J

But I know that we have to try because in fifteen years, when our kids are all grown up and living independently of us, where will we be?

I can tell you one place I won’t be and that’s in a strawberry patch picking strawberries. Nope. That is NOT me time.

But what would I do with my time if my husband and children weren’t a factor?


I’m not sure. I’ve been doing this wife/mom thing for over sixteen years. It’s just who I am. But I know that I’m more than that too.

I want to be an advocate for cancer survivors and for special-needs kids and moms. I’d love to either join or heck, even start a support group for cancer patients/survivors who are just trying to figure out their new normal, whatever that means.

I know that caregivers live lives of solitude and I’d like to figure out how to fix that.

I saw my cousin this past weekend. Her daughter had spinal surgery a couple of months ago for scoliosis. S has been bedridden ever since. The outing over the weekend was the first time S was allowed out of bed since her surgery. She looked great, by the way.

My cousin, S’s mom? She looked exhausted. I can’t begin to imagine the loneliness she feels being at home with a child who can’t get out of bed. She has her own health issues but I’m pretty sure she can’t address them right now because, well, see the above paragraph about a bedridden child.

I know that while I was going through treatments, Tom and my mom both had some moments of being overwhelmed by being my caregivers. And hey, I was never bedridden, so there’s that.

During my months off work, I didn’t get our house into shape as I’d thought I might. I didn’t get any painting done or cleaning or organizing. I did make a blanket for my brother that I gave him for Christmas. But sewing is not my passion.

I think I need to find my passion. I want to. Can I? Will I?

I guess we’ll see.

Monday, July 1, 2019

It's Official


I mean, okay.

We caught it early, just like the cancer that led to the lymphedema.

When the nurse measured my arms, Leftie was three centimeters larger than Rightie.

When the PT measured them exactly a week later, either Leftie had shrunk or Rightie had grown because there was only a 1.5 centimeter difference.

So that’s good news.

Alas, once you’ve been diagnosed with lymphedema, you will always have lymphedema, even if your affected limb doesn’t balloon out to elephant proportions.

For what it’s worth, I REALLY like to avoid that.

Apparently, I’m lucky that my affected limb is my dominant arm. That means I’ve maintained better range of motion due to constant use of said arm. (Read: I wipe my butt with the hand on the end of that arm…holding toilet paper, let’s not be any grosser than I’ve already been in this sentence.)

Typing is also good for the hands that might be affected by lymphedema. So, go me for having a job at which I sit and type quite a bit each day. And yay for blogging, right?


My insurance company approved the consult with the PT but hasn’t approved the actual physical therapy yet. Huh.

The therapist said it’s usually approved so we’ll see how that goes. She’d like to see me twice a week for four weeks and by then, I’ll have hopefully learned how to do the massage portion of the therapy myself.

That ought to be fun…for no one.

I’m not really as pissy as this post comes across.

I’m more…resigned.

I mean, the cancer diagnosis was bad enough. The surgery and ensuing recovery was, well, it was exhausting.

Chemo was awful and radiation, while not as bad as chemo, was time-consuming and tiring.

And now we’re throwing lymphedema into the mix because why the hell not? I guess I haven’t paid my dues enough yet.

I know I’m lucky to be here. Damn it, I KNOW that. I don’t want to go all ‘why me’ about this. Why not me, right?

It just sucks.