Stellar Parenting Moment

Something in my brain snapped. I think there was an actual, physical, crack - and out of that crack crawled . . . the mommy monster! (Dun dun dun Daaaaah!) For weeks I have been practicing calm, consistent, tough love towards my daughter in response to a very whiny, rude, demanding phase she is going through. (I hope it's a phase.) My tactics have actually been working pretty well. So why the crack? I think maybe a tectonic plate shifted in my head. Who knows? The perfect storm of emotions and timing came together, and I was suddenly like a tether ball that had been smaked off the end of its tether. Totally lost my cool. In any case, the earth shook in my daughters room.

It was the usual morning rush of getting everyone up, dressed, fed, lunches packed, homework in backpacks - clean those nails, comb that hair - hey where's your belt?, has anyone seen my other shoe?, kind of morning. Shockingly, we were a little behind. Rae Lynn chose this particular moment to become her alter ego - Rae Lynntless. The plan was for me to make her breakfast and pack her lunch while she ran upstairs and got dressed. She is very capable of this, as evidenced by the 15 routine costume changes on any given day. Instead of dashing up the stairs and leaping into action though, she says, "But I need your helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllp"! "What do you need?" I ask, as calmly as possible so as not to arouse her "irritation radar" and escalate the whining. "I want to wear my blue polka dot shirt". "OK, that's a good choice" I agree, in a foolish attempt to assuage the beast. "But, I can't fiiiiiiiiiiind it - I need you to help me fiiiiiiiiind it". Mind you, she hasn't ascended the stairs yet, so I am fairly certain she hasn't actually looked for it. "It's probably in the pile of clean clothes by your chest of drawers - go take a look for it while I get your breakfast" I say, a little too cheerily. She is on to me. "But I need your helllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllp, I don't know where it iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme". You get the picture. I agree to get the shirt just to stop the barrage of helpmes. Does this work? Of course not. I knew it wouldn't, and yet I fell hook, line & sinker into her trap. I am as irritated at myself as I am at her. I hear my own voice slip into a register that is something akin to a harpee. "Weren't you playing 'vacation' with it the other day?" "Did you pack that shirt in a bag?" "I DIDN'T PACK IT!" she screeches, offended that I would even suggest it. "OK, well it's not in the clean clothes pile, and it's not in the drawer. It looks like you need to pick a different shirt". Wrong suggestion. "Noooooooooooooooo" she wails dramatically, as if her very life depended on wearing the blue polka dot shirt. "I think I diiiiiiiid paaaaaaack iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Where is the baaaaaaaaaaaaaaag?" I believe it is at about this point that the San Andreas Fault opened up in my brain. My head tilts, one of my eyes starts to twitch, and gurgling up out of the fissure comes something beyond yelling, though perhaps just shy of a full tilt scream . . . "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I shriek until all the air has left my lungs. Deep breath. "WHIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNING"! There is blissful quiet as my daughter sits in stunned silence on the end of her bed. "DID YOU GET THAT?" I inquire with a nasty edge in my voice. "Yes" she says in a tiny little voice. Images of Faye Dunnaway in Mommy Dearest flash before my eyes. That, crossed with a hint of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. She was definitely waiting for my head to spin around and pea soup to come projectile vomiting from my mouth. I always felt that Faye took that wire hanger scene over the top. I never bought it . . . until now. "Who are you?" I think to myself. "Get dressed" I say gruffly, but in control once again.

Part of me is berating myself as I descend the stairs, and part of me is feeling a sense of relief after that primal outburst. Several minutes later, after toasting her wheat waffle and making a quick lunch, I am still reeling from our episode. I am simultaneously seething from her behavior, and beating myself up for my own behavior, when I hear skipping. Skipping. She pops into the kitchen, dressed in her blue polka dot shirt, and chirps happily "I found it!" as if nothing had happened at all. I stare at her for a moment in dumbfounded silence. I finally find my voice and say, "Where was it"? "In my pink purse, on the floor, under the bed!" Of course. Why didn't I think of that? "That's great honey" I say flatly "Here's your waffle - eat up, we need to fly". "OK, thanks mom!" Apparently I've shocked Rae Lynntless back into her secret lair, and regular Rae Lynn has reemerged. (Scene's of Sybil flicker across my psyche) From here on out, she and I operate like a well oiled machine, and we are out the door lickety-split. I get back home into my cool, quiet house and collapse into a chair. I'm exhausted and it is all of 8:26 a.m. Nobody said parenting would be easy. I seem to have misplaced the manual that must have come with her. I'll look for it later - a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee should put it all right. I'll put a good double knot when reattaching myself to the tether, forgive myself this transgression, I'll do better next time. Then I've got to get moving, there is a busy day ahead!

Command Performance

Is it just me, or has the word "MANDATORY" been tacked on to everything we do? Mandatory PTO meeting. Mandatory Back-To-School night. Mandatory Scout outing . . . mandatory confirmation meeting. Mandatory service hours, mandatory fingerprinting, mandatory Virtus training, mandatory raffle tickets, mandatory scrip, mandatory annual fund, mandatory tuition auto-withdrawal (you must sign up and there is a fee for doing so) and here's my favorite . . . mandatory donation. Is that a quaint euphimism for a bill? Does it even count as a donation if it is MANDATORY? Is my mortgage payment merely a suggestion? I know that "down sizing" is a nice way of saying you're out of a job (your presence is no longer mandatory). I am saturated up to my eyeballs with being told where I must be, and what I must do. Being very mature, it makes me want to do just the opposite. It's making me feel like a petulant 7-year-old - I am about ready to take my ball and go home.

Whatever happened to, "The honor of your presence is requested" . . . or, "Please join us" . . . heck, I'd be pleased as punch with a "Come by for stale popcorn!" invite. Invite being the operative word here. People used to ask for my time and money - now they simply demand it. Punishment will be meted out for any transgressions - a fine will be levied, you will be tossed out on your tushee, at the very least, you will be pointed out for shame and ridicule.

We've all become so over-scheduled and bogged down, we have lost sight of what is really important. I don't want to have to be anywhere. I want my children to be able to stare up at the sky and let their minds wander. I want to take a drive for the sake of taking a drive. No planned destination - just put on some music and look out the windows at the scenery going by. I want to be with the people I love, have dessert for dinner, and laugh at stupid stuff till I cry!

If cancer has taught me anything, it's that I don't have time to waste. The multitude of mandatory minutia is sucking the life out of life. We all need a day where we never even get out of our jammies. We hunker in with a fireplace and a good book . . . maybe some board games and dancing in the living room. A fun family movie and some take-out. Jammie Day. I love it. I say we make it . . . mandatory!

Tit for Tat

Pearl, Sandy Beach, Pink Passion and Valentine. Do these colors sound like me? These are the names of the inks that the tattoo lady mixed up for me this past week. I found them amusing. It was another parallel universe moment for the books - chatting about this year's new crop of television shows while having my nipples tattooed. I was unaware that tattooing was so loud. That is definitely a very buzzy little piece of equipment. It's more than a little disconcerting to have something so buzzy and pokey in such close proximity to my girlee bits! The deed is done. We shall see if the end results are what we hoped for, in a few days. Can't tell yet - I look like I am wearing gauze pasties right now. My fear is that they will be a nasty, Pepto Bismol kind of pink. I do believe we dodged that bullet though, by being proactive. Cut to about a year ago, standing in my bathroom, with my pragmatic, designer husband diligently holding up hundreds of color chips next to my original set. We knew they were going to be removed, therefore we found an almost perfect color match prior to surgery. Soft Mink. I like that one too.

The unveiling will be on Monday, which happens to be my birthday. I turn 349. Of course, that's in dog years. I'm fairly certain that I aged in dog years these past two years. So, 349 is an exaggeration - however, that puts me at around 62. I know I should be grateful to be having this birthday at all, but instead, I am quite salty about the rapid aging thing. Salty is dismissive. I'm upset, depressed, mortified, horrified, shocked, bewildered, distraught, and agitated. I'm still trying to have a sense of humor about it all, but it is challenging, to say the least. My brain hasn't caught up with the physical changes and chemical imbalances. It has a bewildered, WTF kind of look on it's face. My oldest son would argue that that is it's usual look. He makes me laugh. I was about to take my daily barrage of pills one morning recently, when my son walked in and started counting them off as I swallowed them. I looked at him and said, "Breakfast of champions!" He allowed a pregnant pause and then offered, "Breakfast of old people." We had a good chuckle. He's lucky I find that funny.

I'm not ready to accept that this is what I look like now, and be OK with it. I am so impressed with people who can do that. It must be very liberating to be able to let go and accept yourself as you are at any given moment. I keep thinking that there must be something I can do to counteract the process. Survival is good, but living would be even better. I want to feel like I am living again. I plan on finding a personal trainer, and an accupuncturist, and a dermatologist and whatever other kind of "ologist" I might need to push back the ravages of my treatments. I'm not looking for the fountain of youth. I'd be pretty pleased with the fountain of "you look pretty good for being 47!" What am I saying? I am only 46 - for another day and half.

Happy Birthday to me. As whiny as I may sound - I truly am grateful to be here. My family is taking me out to dinner tonight for the big day. I am looking forward to it - in fact, I need to wrap this up so that I can spend a little time taming the Harpo Marx hair I have now. It no longer gets longer - it gets taller. Hey . . . I always wanted to be my grandmothers height, 5' 7". This may very well be my chance! In fact, if I play my cards right, and use a bit of hair product - I may very well be able to pull off the Bride of Frankenstein look for Halloween. Better than last year - I could only pull off looking like a light bulb. See . . . things are looking better already!

The Cancer Circus

Well, wasn't that exciting - the Cancer Circus came to town. There was a flurry of activity, the death defying feats, crowds of strangers and a lot of things I wouldn't normally eat. (Things that leave you feeling a little sick) The Cancer Circus has left town. All that remains is the trampled ground where all the craziness took place. That ground will probably recover over time. It will just take time. The reality of living with the trampled ground every day is a little devastating. I have to admit, I didn't really like the circus . . . but I got swept up in it anyhow. I didn't enjoy my time in the shiny spotlight - but now that the spotlight is gone, everything is a bit dull and tarnished. That cancer circus became my reality and identity over the last year plus. Now that it's "over", the daily reality is . . . less than glamorous.

I have to take a maintenance drug for five years. (One month down, only 59 to go!) Things don't quite work like they used to - certain things work overtime, confused by all the changes. My radiated side is still physically hot to the touch. The effects of radiation can keep on going for a year, like a little glowing Eveready Bunny! But ironically, an Everyready Bunny with no energy. The Neveready Bunny. Other things don't work at all. I am hoping that they are just dormant, and will come back with time. The chemo that flipped me into menopause is over. The maintenance drug has just started, and it accelerates the menopause into hyper-drive. Every symptom you hear about in radio and television ads for drugs to relieve menopausal symptoms . . . I have. Times 10. I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind. Hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, night sweats (Don't sweat the petty things, and don't pet the sweaty things.) insomnia, dry skin and rapid aging.

I have distinctly lost my sense of humor about the whole thing. That really pisses me off! Humor is power. I'm in a place right now where I feel like I have no power. There was power in identifying and actively fighting the disease. There was power in being able to laugh at it and write about it. There was power in all of the lavish attention. Now I'm just tired and overwhelmed and guilty. Guilty? I have only officially been Catholic for a small portion of my life, and yet, I seem to have the "guilt" concept honed and fine-tuned down to within a inch of my existence. What is that all about? Seriously - let me know if you have thoughts or answers on that topic!

I know . . . waa, waa, waa - poor, poor pitiful me. I am beyond sick of being around myself. I can't write, laugh, or be of any use to anyone in this state! Is it just my imagination . . . or am I writing? Maybe there is a light at the end of this tunnel! Dear God, I do hope so. Logically, it stands to reason, that this is just a phase. A phase that I will look back on and think . . . Wow, was that sad, bag of cottage cheese really me?" You know what? FUCK YOU CANCER!!! Fuck you, and what you have done to me . . . and my family . . . and my fabulous sense of humor! I am so angry right now, I could spit acid! Heaven help the poor soul who irritates me right now! Anger is gooooood. At least I am feeling something other than nothing! I'd rather feel anger and pain, rather than this deadness that has settled over me. (Insert primal scream here) Am I a cliche, or what? I'll take it.

Irony Sucker-Punched Me Today

I wasn't sleeping recently, and I couldn't help but notice that the strangest things go through your mind in the middle of the night. They seem so relevant and urgent at the time, but thoroughly dissipate with the coming of dawn. I have no idea why it even crossed my mind . . . but I was going over my life and remembering Gilda Radner. When I was a kid I so admired her and wished to be like her when I grew up. She was so funny and energetic and unique. And then it hit me - I got my wish to be like her - I got cancer too. I really need to be more specific when I cast my wishes out into the cosmic waves.

I haven't written for some time. Writers block. This would be more frustrating if it weren't for the fact that what I realized is that I simply don't have that much to say about cancer anymore. I finished radiation last month. That was the last of my major treatments. It is now maintenance and screenings. I suppose I should re-name the blog - any suggestions? "The Big Regular Life Coaster Ride"? Not very catchy.

My big regular life includes my eldest child graduating from Jr. High and moving on to High School. My middle son is moving on to Jr. High. My daughter will be going into second grade. Summer is almost here and I am truly amazed at the "blur" which was this past year. I am very grateful that it is this year, and not this time last year. It's going to be a very busy summer! There are tennis lessons and fencing classes, ballet, tap and Polynesian dancing, tutoring, piano, swimming, and about a million scout merit badges to slog through. It's probably more like, seven merit badges - but I like to exaggerate for drama. I'm afraid someone has to drive to and from all these fabulous activities - and that someone is yours truly. I survived cancer treatment to re-start my career as a professional chauffeur. My mini-van is like a giant purse on wheels. I practically have to shovel it out at the end of each week so that we can begin the taxi service all over again.

Honestly . . . it's pretty great to get to do all this big regular stuff. Schelpping kids, running errands, cooking meals, reading the Sunday paper and passing the "funnies" around . . . it's all pretty great. The real irony here? The stuff I didn't really appreciate before - now I feel fortunate to get to do it. I hope I get to enjoy all the mundane tasks for a long time to come. They're really not so mundane, they're just life. And life . . . it's pretty cool.

It's Not a Spider Bite

I thought a spider bit me. I must have offended the arachnid group at some point, and they sent in a very angry representative - and then I rolled on him. That is what I imagined. Nine days later and the bite was still driving me crazy. It finally dawned on my little pea-brain that maybe I should have it looked at. Maybe all the stuff my body has gone through in the last nine or ten months has rendered it ineffective to deal with a pissed-off venemous creature. I felt a little stupid saying, "I think I have a spider bite that I can't fight off - do I need an antibiotic or something"? The doctor looked at it and said "That's not a bite". "It is either genital herpes or shingles". Why did he even offer genital herpes? It's on my shoulder blade. Being who I am though, I have to explore this - "Is that really an option?" There is something evil in me that enjoys making doctor's a little uncomfortable. Pay-back is a mo' fo' . . . no? The poor unsuspecting M.D. stutters through an implausible explanation of how one might contract genital herpes on their shoulder blade. Just let you're imagination run wild here. I did. I'm not buying it, (and neither is he, but he put it out there and now must make it seem possible) nor am I letting it go. "Exactly how would one get genital herpes on their shoulder blade"? Now, trying to extricate himself from the crazy patient, who has no patience - and no longer suffers fools lightly, he changes tactics and determines that it is most likely shingles. Ya' think? Good lord - cancer has turned me into one of those crazy, cranky old codgers that no longer gives a hoot what anyone thinks.

When I was about to be wheeled into surgery a couple of months ago - literally all hooked up to IV's, weird leg massagey things pumping up and down making sure you don't throw a blood-clot, bad, useless hospital gown - the nurse comes in with her final check-list. She asks (and I quote) "Do you have any serious illnesses we should be aware of"? I know. Let that sink in. I did. Inject a long, uncomfortable pause here. "Do you mean . . . other than the cancer?" Nervous laughter. I realize they have their legal lists they have to go through but really? I mean, I've only been in and out of that place every other week for month's on end. There have been so many moments like this one through this process. It's like I'm living in a paralell universe, and it's almost normal, but everything is just a little skewed. I still have to question it all sometimes. Is this really happening?

So . . . shingles. Obviously, just cancer was getting a little old. Dull, actually. All I could really do was laugh. Shingles? Okay. Bring it on. It seems small after hearing "You have cancer". It is quite annoying though. It hurts. It itches. There isn't really anything you can do about it. It's a virus - the adult manifestation of chicken pox. It has apparently been dormant in my body since I was a kid and had chicken pox. Now, with my immune system depressed, it popped out. A nasty spider bite would have been preferable. It's just one more little side story from the big "c" coaster ride. It makes me want to SING! I feel pretty, oh so pretty . . .

The Broken Vase

I feel like a broken vase. They have glued me back together admirably. I retain my basic original shape with only a chip missing here or there. But, I'm not sure if I could actually hold water or flowers anymore. I miss holding the flowers. A big chip could pop out at anytime, and we would have to start the gluing process all over again. Why did I think I could simply get treated and get back to "normal"? There is no normal - I need to find a new normal.

Right now, I feel like I have no control in my life. It is dictated by appointments for treatment and all of the after effects from those treatments. The physical side effects are obvious and right out there. I can handle those, as annoying as they are, they are manageable. It's the emotional scars that are just beginning to surface, that, I'm not sure what to do with. You have to identify them before you can even deal with them. I don't have them all identified yet. And the emotional scars are not just mine. They spread out in ripples to those closest to me. As difficult as it is to identify my own issues, it's even harder to grasp what I've caused in those around me.

I'm not "cancer girl". I'm not the "cancer car". I'm not a "broken vase". I'm just a woman, with a life threatening illness, trying to find her way back.

Second Base Fine Tuning

So this week I get nipples. Yeah! The doctor made it sound like an easy, no-brainer operation. One hour - outpatient - a little skin origami and wham-bam-thank-you-mam out the door kind of procedure. It probably is for him. Me? I don't do this kind of thing every day, so I had to ask the nurse, exactly how do they create nipples? She literally described it as being like origami. My brain immediately pictured little flying cranes on my chest. Off the test pattern look in my eyes, she reassured me that they look really good. I have found that "really good" is subjective terminology in the oncology world. My idea of "really good" could be quite different from their idea of "really good". Like when the plastic surgeon proudly displayed to me some pictures of his work and assured me that he could get those kinds of results for me too! I then spiraled into a three-day depression with the knowledge that my lovely, soft breasts were about to become Frankenboobs. I had to keep reminding myself that the alternative was not cool - and to keep my eye on the end goal. I choose life over bodacious ta ta's.

Having said all that, the nipple surgery is not so slam dunk as it originally sounded - but, I do not have Frankenboobs either. They turned out pretty darn good - and I can't resist playing show-and-tell with some of my girlfriends. (whether they like it or not!)

So - nipples, here I come! One more piece of the puzzle in putting me back together again. Unlike Humpty Dumpty, all the Kings horses and all the Kings men have been doing a fine job on me. Maybe Humpty was just an ass and they simply didn't want to put him back together again. I suppose it could be that horses don't have opposable thumbs, but then what excuse do all the Kings men have. Nope - Humpty Dumpty was an ass. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Top 10 Things I Never Thought I'd Say

10. I was raising funds for cancer research by doing a marathon - who knew those funds might go directly to me.

9. I don't mind donating, but I didn't want to be the poster child.

8. I think the 26.2 mile marathon I trained for would have been easier than the marathon I got.

7. Bald isn't so bad.

6. Other than no energy, numb feet and a runny nose, I feel pretty good!

5. A cancer shower party? How fun!

4. Who would have thought that having your breasts amputated would make it hard to grate cheese?

3. I'm getting nipples this week!

2. Can they be perky? I don't want to look like Yoko Ono.

1. I have cancer.

Hair's Looking At You!

It is the new year and I am thrilled to finally have hair again! For months, I was a complete skin-head. Then for the next couple of months, I had fuzz. Finally, I looked like a Marine. A Marine with an enviable Brazilian wax job. It was an odd combo, no two ways about it. Now, I can finally put product in my hair and almost style it! I do not wish to sound ungrateful in any way, shape or form for the fabulous hair explosion, however, having said that - let's just put the brakes on here a little bit. Now I have to call my insurance company to see if it will cover some hair removal costs. You heard me right. Before I start my new circus career as the bearded lady, I need to see what can be done. Is this a test? Is God giggling right now? Perhaps it is His little kick in the kiester to get me writing again. Well . . . it worked didn't it?

I have had trouble writing for the last few months. Cancer is a thief. A thief of so many things. A thief of time, identity, my brain, my ability to focus on anything other than myself. I have simply not been fully present for my family or my friends or so many things that used to hold such importance for me. I can't get away from it. It's not that I didn't know logically that cancer was all around me - but now I see it everywhere I go. It's as if I bought the "Cancer car". Now, I see them everywhere. Every other person is driving one. The tricky part is that none of us knows which custom package we purchased. Did we buy the extended warranty? Am I a Volvo with hundreds of thousands of good miles left on me, or am I a Pinto . . . just waiting for that next rear-ender to cause an explosion? Apparently I didn't get air conditioning in my model. Those hot flashes sure are super, good fun though. Also, they give you a nice rosy glow! When I am in the midst of one, I feel a bit like a praying mantis. I might just bite the head off of the next person who has the misfortune of speaking to me. On the bright side, my kids reflexes have gotten really fast. They are all crazy, wicked good at dodge ball now.

I used to wonder, as a parent, if any of my constant nagging and pushing was getting through to my children. Now that I haven't had the energy to be a truly effective nagger, I see that some of it did work. On the up side, they have all been forced to grow up a little, and become a bit more self sufficient. On the down side, their grades reflect my lack of interest. I feel badly about that, however, I try not to beat myself up about it too much. They will all be fine ultimately, with or without my nagging. (and perhaps with some years of therapy)

My surgery was almost nine weeks ago now. Everything went well. They were able to do reconstructive surgery at the same time and I must say that I am pleased with the results. I am in physical therapy now, and there is steady improvement in my mobility. Once I can get my left arm up over my head and hold it in that position, we will start the next phase. Radiation. I haven't really even focused on it yet. My surgeon says that I have done all the hard parts. She says that radiation is a cake-walk after chemo and surgery. That's good. I could use some cake. Is there such a thing as a "pie-walk"? I like pie even better. You know what I really like . . . biscuits and gravy. When I finish radiation, I think I'll have a piece of cake AND a piece of pie AAAAANNNND, smother it all in gravy! I'll just have to be careful to keep it out of my beard.