Friday, November 29, 2019

Notes to Self

You don’t have to tell every single person you come into contact with that you’ve had cancer and been through chemo.

You don’t have to bring up the lymphedema every chance you get.

No one really cares.

So yes, they make all the right noises when you bring it up but you could just…not.

Practice a little introspection and figure out why you feel the need to share that stuff with everyone.

Do you want them to feel sorry for you?

Is it because you want them to appreciate all your glorious post-chemo hair?

Is it because you feel like a freaking hero for all that you’ve been through?

Well, guess what? Everyone has been through their own hell. They don’t necessarily need to know about yours.

Maybe you’re hoping to make yourself approachable. Is it working?

Are you looking for a common bond among your fellow humans?

I’ll be honest, that’s annoying as hell. So maybe just stop. Stop telling people about the dry mouth that comes from chemo. Stop making a circle around your face and saying something along the lines of, “This is nineteen months of growth.”

Stop mentioning the lymphedema, stop drawing attention to the compression sleeve. Stop talking about cancer altogether.

If people want to talk to you about it, they’ll bring it up.



Is it obvious that I’m annoying the shit out of myself these days? Time to breathe and stop being so hard on myself I guess.

Thursday, November 28, 2019

A Few Thanks

Since I bitch and moan pretty much non-stop these days, let me tell you something that isn’t a complaint.

My feet don’t hurt.

Will they hurt tomorrow? Maybe. Will they hurt sometimes next week? Probably.

But they don’t hurt right now and that’s awesome.

I can go up the stairs at work and not get winded. Will I get winded next week? Maybe but right this second, I could trot right up those stairs and still have a conversation at the top of the stairs. I feel pretty darned good about that one.

I just wanted to share some non-complaints for a change. You’re welcome

Wednesday, November 27, 2019

13

Today she is thirteen. Just because she's a teenager doesn't mean that Olivia woke up this morning and was suddenly typical. She's still gloriously Livie.

Every night at bedtime, Olivia goes through a string of questions. They’re usually in the same order and she needs to ask them before she can settle in and go to sleep. They go something like this:

Q: What do you hope I dream of?

A: I hope you dream of swimming with mermaids, dancing with Felice (from Leap), flying around the Eifel Tower with Ladybug and Cat Noir. After you save the world with them, I hope you all go to lunch at their school where you get to hang out with all your friends from school and all of Marinette’s friend. I hope that Adam Goldberg is there along with the Baudelaire children and the Templeton boys (from Boss Baby) and Harry Potter. I hope you guys all eat your lunch and talk and laugh with each other and that you get to see Barry Goldberg running like a weirdo as he’s being chased by chickens trained by Victor.

Q: What do you hope you dream of?

A: I hope I get to dream of watching you do all those things in your dream and that I get to swim with the mermaids with you and watch you talk to all your friends.

Q: What time are you going to wake me up?

A: 6:20

Q: What time will I get downstairs?

A: 6:40

Q: What time are you leaving for work?

A: 7:00

Reply: Cool.

Q: What do you have laid out for me?

A: whatever I have picked out for her as the next day’s outfit. Don’t forget to mention the underwear, bra and socks.

Q: Do you have to go anywhere after work?

A: Yes or no, depending of if I have to go anywhere after work.

Q: Does Lyssie have to go anywhere after school?

A: Yes or no, depending on the day and Lyssie’s work schedule. Wednesdays she has voice lessons, so…

Reply: At least I have Dad, who is always here when I get home.

How grateful am I that she has her dad; that he’s always there when she gets home?

How jealous am I that he gets to be the reliable one, the one who is ALWAYS there when she gets home?

Tuesday, November 26, 2019

On Being Present

Recently my dad had to be hospitalized due to gallstones. He doesn’t have a gallbladder but he developed gallstones. Weird? Yes, but I googled and we all know that you can trust everything you find during a Google search and there it was.

Anyway.

He went to Urgent Care on a Tuesday because he’d lost part of his hearing aid in his ear and couldn’t retrieve it. The doctor there gave him one look and told him he needed to go to the emergency room.

He was yellow, an obvious indication that his liver wasn’t working well.

The small hospital in our hometown determined that he had gallstones and sent him to the larger hospital in Fort Wayne.

I talked to him the evening before he was transferred to Fort Wayne. He sounded okay but tired.

The next morning, I went to work, texted my brother and sister and called my dad. He told me the doctor said he needed surgery. They were going to try and get him in that morning.

The ladies with whom I worked told me that if I needed to leave, I was free to do so.

I called my dad again and asked him if he wanted someone to be there for his consults and when he got out of his surgery.

He replied, “That’s not necessary.”

I told him, “I know it’s not necessary but is it something that would give you comfort? I know when I had my surgeries, it was nice to know that someone I loved and who loved me was waiting for me to wake up.”

He agreed that it would be lovely to have someone there.

I went.

It was by far the right thing to do.

My dad is fine. He came through his surgery without any issues. They inserted a stent into his bile duct so he could pass the stones they hadn’t been able to remove. They were able to remove one stone but had to leave several because they simply couldn’t retrieve them.

I texted my brother and sister from my car before I left for the hospital to let them know I was going. My brother expressed frustration that he has no vacation days left so he couldn’t leave work to go.

My sister, well, she was having some trees cut down that day and she had to go to court (I didn’t ask) and so wasn’t able to go to the hospital herself. She did go and pick my dad up the next day when he was released so I was able to stay at work.

When I got to the hospital, my dad was already in surgery. He was brought back from recovery about two hours after I got there. He was groggy and cold but otherwise doing well.

I think he enjoyed our one-on-one time that afternoon. I stayed with him for several hours, listening to his stories and just keeping him company.

We both needed that.

Being there, just being a physical presence for someone, takes so little of us and sometimes, it feels like so much. I know that I could have stayed at work that day and stayed in touch by phone with my dad’s nurse but actually going to the hospital and being nearby when he woke up, that was precious.

My dad is a month away from turning 80 years old.

I’m so lucky, so grateful that he’s still here, still doing so well, so present in my life.

Monday, November 25, 2019

Flat Spaghetti (as Opposed to Flat Stanley)

We make spaghetti for dinner maybe once every six weeks or so. Neither of the girls like it much but they’ll eat it as long as we have garlic bread to go with it.

On a recent trip to Aldi, Tom picked up a couple of boxes of fettuccine.

He just boils it as if it were spaghetti and pours tomato sauce over it.

One recent Tuesday, Tom cooked some fettuccine and served it to Olivia (Alyssa had eaten at Gram’s house and so was able to avoid the drama of flat ‘spaghetti.’)

When Olivia arrived at the kitchen table (after using the bathroom because, hello, transition) she looked at the plate on the table and declared, “I hate flat spaghetti.”

Tom told her not to be like that. He said pasta is pasta and it doesn’t matter what shape the spaghetti is in, it all tastes the same.

She argued with him through the entire meal. Every single bite she took was accompanied by a grimace and the declaration that flat spaghetti is disgusting.

For what it’s worth, I ate it and it was fine.

But Liv is a creature of habit. Spaghetti is supposed to be, well, spaghetti shaped. Fettuccine is different and she hates different.

I think she bitched about that flat spaghetti the rest of the night, long after dinner was over.

Since I don’t go to Aldi (no reason, just…don’t) I have no idea if they have regular spaghetti and if they do, I don’t know if the fettuccine is cheaper or something.

I didn’t bother to ask Tom why he bought fettuccine rather than spaghetti. I don’t care. I mean, if I don’t have to cook the stuff, I’m not going to be picky about what someone else cooks.

But Olivia? That girl will pick something to the bone.

The next night Tom didn’t bother to try and serve Liv the leftover flat spaghetti. I think he decided that was one hill he wasn’t willing to die on.

Friday, November 22, 2019

Mom = Tired

Tired = Mother’s Guilt

So each night for the past few weeks, when we go to bed, Olivia asks me if I’m tired.

Well, it’s bedtime, so yes, I’m tired.

She will often wonder aloud why I’m always so tired.

It’s like a knife to my heart.

And yet…I’m tired because even on the weekends when we get to sleep in, I still keep busy pretty much all day. While she’s lounging on the couch watching YouTube videos on her tablet I’m vacuuming and running laundry up and down the stairs and sweeping the kitchen floor and washing dishes and cooking meals.

On weekdays, I get up at 5:30am, work from 7ish until 4:30, go home and help with homework, make dinner, pack lunches, clean up the kitchen and then, FINALLY, around 8pm, sit down to watch an hour of television before we start our bedtime routine, which means I fall into bed around 10 because Olivia takes almost an hour to settle into bed.

But Mom? Why are you always so tired?

Thursday, November 21, 2019

Radio Silence

I don’t know.

I mean, yes, I know that I haven’t been posting.

I’ve been writing. I just haven’t been posting.

I don’t know why.

I feel like I’m in limbo.

I don’t even know why.

Day to day life is fine. I feel fine.

The girls are fine.

Tom is still broken, which saddens me.

We’re going out our days, doing what needs to be done.

But I worry that we’re marking time; not really moving forward.

What am I waiting for; the next scan…the next mammogram…the next appointment with the next doctor?

I don’t want to live like this.

I want to get beyond cancer and what it’s done to me and my family.

I wonder if I need to volunteer or something like that. Should I be giving back to the community I never even wanted to join?

My cancer diagnosis put my work (ha!) with Share Your Story on what is apparently permanent hiatus. I just never made it back after going to tell them about the cancer.

I want to help people beyond myself but I haven’t yet figured out how.

What’s next?

Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Baby Shower

My cousin’s daughter is having her second child in January. She has a three year old son and is expecting a daughter this time.

Let me preface this before I don my shawl and bifocals and settle into the recliner with an afghan on my lap and a hat on my head to cover my thinning hair and keep my pale, age-spotted scalp warm. Preface: I know that every baby is a celebration. My first pregnancy and the birth of my first child was no more amazing and wonderful than my second pregnancy and the birth of my second daughter.

That said…this cousin (first cousin once removed if you want to be technical, and you know how I feel about technicalities) threw herself a baby shower.

She is threw herself a baby shower.

She sent out the invitations and she hosted this party. Sure, she asked her grandma to provide the food because why would she put her pregnant self out to buy shit and cook/prepare food? Several of her grandma’s sisters (my mom and aunts) provided decorations and even more food.

I feel so crotchety but this makes me crazy. It feels like a demand for presents. She sent invitations out with instructions as to where she’d registered. She sent several social media reminders over the past month or so. I just…

Okay, so yes, she moved up here in the last few months from Mississippi. Apparently, she gave her older sister all her baby gear because she wasn’t sure she’d have any more. She’s twenty three years old and already has one child. The odds of her not having another child were pretty slim.

But, since she gave all the stuff she’d used for her son away, she needs more stuff, new stuff, PINK STUFF if you will.

So she threw herself a baby shower.

I don’t get the gall.

I mean, she has a mother (who really is kind of useless, just saying) and a grandmother. She has a sister. She has friends. She couldn’t go to any one of those people and gently suggest, or hell, just outright ASK one of them to throw her the shower? That would just feel so much better, less like she feels entitled to presents from everyone.

Is this a generational thing? Am I officially an old biddy?

It just feels so icky. And yet, I feel bad that it feels icky, like I’m the one being weird about all of this rather than the entire situation being weird and I’m just responding to the weirdness with weirdness of my own.

Sigh.

But of course I went to this shower. And I took a gift. The gift was a box of diapers because I’m awful like that.

Tuesday, November 5, 2019

Almost Thirteen

We have a running joke in our house.

When Olivia is being especially difficult or deliberately lazy or just glorying in her idiosyncracies, one of us will say, “It’s hard to have a four year old for eight years.”

She’ll laugh, things will be reset and we’ll go on with our day.

And sure, it’s funny. It lightens an otherwise stressful situation.

But it’s also true.

Chronologically, Olivia will be thirteen in just over a month. But socially, she’s about eight years old. She has no desire to attend or even host a sleep-over. She’s perfectly happy to hang with Mom and Dad on the weekends. She’s shown no real desire to wear makeup. She’s very fashionable and makes decisions about her wardrobe but she still wants help putting on some of her clothes.

She doesn’t NEED help but she wants it.

She’d much prefer to have someone spoon feed her rather than feed herself. This is exasperating, and sometimes, admittedly, infuriating.

I remember when she was a baby and not crawling when she was a year old. It was like having an infant for almost two years.

My cousin’s sweet daughter is a year older than Olivia. S is in a wheelchair and she’s still tube fed. My cousin has had an infant for almost fourteen years.

I shouldn’t be complaining about my thirteen years with a four year old.

But I am; because I can. And because you can’t actually compare O and S.

See, the thing is, I KNOW Olivia is capable of so much more than she actually does. I know she can dress herself. I know she can feed herself. I know she can bathe herself.

But…I can’t trust her to wash her own hair. I don’t know if she’s capable of changing the toilet paper roll. Those things take some serious coordination and I just don’t know if she’s got it.

I don’t know if she can stop herself from scribbling on her work at school. I want to think she can but I just don’t know.

She is physically capable of taking out an old pad and putting in new one on when she’s having her period but I don’t think she truly know when she’s supposed to do that. I’ve tried to explain it to her but it just doesn’t happen without help.

I joked the other night at a Music Boosters meeting that I only have one more year after this year because after Alyssa graduates, I won’t have a child in the music program. Olivia is not a joiner. I don’t know if she wants to be or not but I do know that she simply isn’t able to force herself to speak above a whisper while at school. There’s a block that affects her physically.

It makes me sad because I think she’s capable of so much more but her brain and body won’t work together to let her do all she could do if they would cooperate.

So we celebrate her strengths. I read her fiction, I listen to her imaginations, I laugh at her jokes and enjoy her laughter when she’s in on the joke.

We let her express herself through her fashion and exclaim in wonder when she always gets it right.

I know how lucky we are that she is who she is and she is capable of so much but I also grieve the person Olivia would have been had that fifth chromosome not had a deletion.

I know these amazing kids of mine are not done doing awesome thing. I know that this coming year, the year she is thirteen, could bring amazing achievements. I won’t stop trying to teacher her, to lead her toward growth and accomplishments. But I’ll also continue to try and celebrate exactly who she is.

Monday, November 4, 2019

Snack Break

The other night we’d been in bed for at least a half hour when Olivia called out, “Are you going to be mad if I say I’m hungry?”

I replied, “I’m not going to be mad but I am going to be sad because I’m not going downstairs to find you food at 9:45 and so you’re going to have to go to sleep hungry.”

She sighed and went quiet for a few minutes.

Then she said brightly, “Hey, since tomorrow is Friday, maybe I can have a late snack.”

I told her that sounded like a good plan and went on to suggest that she try and ask for that snack before we went to bed because once we’re in bed, dude, the kitchen is closed.

She gave it some thought and asked, “Can a person have breakfast for a bedtime snack?”

“Why not?” I asked. “Lots of people have breakfast for dinner so why not for a snack?”

She agreed with my logic and informed me, “Tomorrow for my snack I’m going to have toast with strawberry jelly, a banana and some blueberries. Then, I’m going to have a bowl of cereal.”

The cereal thing…ha. Hahahaha. She’s awful about eating her cereal in the mornings but then again, she’s on a schedule and doesn’t handle that sort of thing well. Maybe eating cereal at night will be easier for her than trying to eat it before the bus each morning.

The next morning, she reminded me to stop and buy blueberries for her evening snack. Probably better ad bananas to that list too since I usually only buy enough to last us from Saturday to Friday so and if she’s eating an extra… well, we’ll see.

Hey, maybe she’s going through a growth spurt. Tom measured her recently and she’s exactly 5’3”. She might hit 5’4” yet.

Friday, November 1, 2019

Cheezit

So my mom’s cat went missing. He’s this big, beastly orange creature with a loud cry and a coarse fur. I kind of can’t stand him.

But my mom and step-dad adore this monster. So when he went missing on a Monday, they were understandably upset. My mom went so far as to drive the around the country block to see if she could see him in the ditch or along the side of the road. She just wanted to know.

I didn’t find out that he was missing until the Thursday after he’d been gone since Monday.

The girls and I had visited my mom that Monday. When we got there, my step-dad’s brother and nephew were also visiting. My step-dad (have I ever given him a blog name? No? Yes? I feel like I did and that I called him Lloyd. So yes, let’s go with that.) Lloyd and his nephew J were out on the deck shooting a gun. Yes, surely you can hear my eyes rolling over that one.

But whatever. They were doing that. Cheezit the cat had greeted us when we arrived, as he does. He loves guests and always lays on the cement, rolling around showing his tummy and begging for scritches and scratches.

I ignore him and Olivia screeches when he comes near but Alyssa always stops and pets the creep.

He didn’t come running to see us off that evening when we left but since Lloyd and J were shooting the gun, maybe Cheezit had gone into hiding.

When the girls and I got home, we heard a cat crying from inside the garage but Tom insisted that it was Leo, who happened to be on the front porch. We accepted his explanation and went about our evening. Now? I’m not so sure the crying was Leo.

Liv and I visited my mom and Lloyd on Thursday afternoon. Lyss was at work.

It was then that my mom told me that Cheezit had been missing since Monday. They’d called Lloyd’s brother and the nephew J to see if maybe Cheezit had climbed into the back of J’s truck and hitched a ride to his farm.

No. He hadn’t been seen.

My mom worried that the cat HAD gotten into the truck but then jumped out along the way and hadn’t been able to find his way home. The night he’d gone missing the weather had been awful. Rain and wind had swept in, which could have disoriented him.

I got home that night and told Tom about this missing kitty. He said something about having seen another cat around our house, thinking it might be Harvey (who’s been gone for about two months now) but that this phantom cat was darker than Harv. And it definitely wasn’t Leo, who is bigger than Harv but a much lighter orange than Cheezit.

Friday morning as I was heading off to work, Tom opened the garage door and said, “That’s your moms’ cat!”

What?!?

When he’d opened the door, Leo waltzed into the garage like he owned the place (I mean, he kind of does) and the other cat, the one that turned out to be Cheezit, had run. But he hadn’t run far. He’d gone to the front porched and laid himself out on the bottom step, like it was some sort of boudoir.

I called his name and he just looked at me. I picked him up. He’s enormous, it was definitely Cheezit.

I told Tom I was going to take him home. Going past my mom’s on my way to work is only about a mile out of my way.

That cat cried the entire drive to my mom’s house. It’s only four miles but it felt like forty with that animal wailing all the way there.

He also prowled the car, moving from the front seat to the dash, where he tried to sit IN FRONT OF MY FACE. I told him he had to move so I could, you know, SEE TO DRIVE.

He finally went to the back of the car where he continued to scream.

I talked to him the entire drive, telling him what a good kitty he is (he’s not) and how glad his mom and dad were going to be to see him. I told him he was going home and that it would be okay.

When we pulled into the driveway, he looked out the window and almost lost his mind. I know animals don’t think the way humans do but I swear that cat KNEW he was home.

I managed to get him out of the car and into my arms. The TV was on so I knew someone was awake.

I took Cheezit into the sunroom and knocked on the kitchen door.

Lloyd came to the door and saw that I was holding his cat.

When he opened the door, I said, “He was on our front porch this morning. He must have gotten into my car on Monday and we just never saw him.”

Which, you know what? That makes no sense. The way that cat reacted to the drive back to my mom’s, if he’d been inside my car, we’d have known it and Olivia would have lost her own mind dealing with a yowling cat in the backseat with her.

What I think might have happened is that he found a spot under the car, like somewhere under the hood and managed to not get mangled by the engine.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that Lloyd was near tears with relief to have that monster back in his arms. He was holding and petting Cheezit when I left, murmuring about how glad it was to have him home.

It was nice to see a man and his cat reunited. I felt like I’d done my good deed for the month.