Soboclassifieds

>When it’s chemo week, Monday takes on a whole new meaning of ugh-ly. Today it’s been flat out beat with the ugly stick. My legs went to lead getting out of bed. The hubby’s head hung lower as he leaned into me for some reassuring head scratches (a proven calming action for him). I can feel the dread oozing out of him. And then he took a few deep breaths and we both got on with it. (Though pulling the covers back over our heads would be far, far preferable.)

Even though we’ve both talked about not really remembering what in the hell normal means any more, last week was almost there. I noticed that he wasn’t in complete agony with ass pain and that his trips to the poo-poo-potty were a titch less frequent. We had two meals out during the week (an all time record low for us) and he never once hit the men’s. An effin miracle in my book.

So it’s hard to avoid going all sad sack when the week of doom comes around. You start having visions of those kind, kind nurses wearing black hooded capes and carrying scythes. And damn if the hubby didn’t nearly hurl the last TWO times we walked into the temple of doom. (Okay, so there’s hope there too. I know I tend towards the melodrama. No need to remind me.) But last time we got to infusion (after the near-hurl episode walking up the stairs) there was an elderly lady in chair one of our row, eyes closed in restless sleep, head back, mouth agape, strange breathing/not breathing sounds escaping her maw as she grasped a rosary. I’m sorry, but that’s a little hard to stare at for over four solid fucking hours.

After various half-made plans went awry on Friday, we landed at the Robbins-aas-es for some of that spontaneous weekend fun we used to all know and love. Two of our dearest friends and we never-ever seem to be able to gather. So we reminisced over a bottle or two of wine and good food and pledged to do better. I always know that once the little-littles are big-biggers it will come full-circle. And we’ll all just do our best until then, right?

Saturday morning was the pre-chemo-week-errand-running-fest. Finally picking up one of Mima’s chairs I took in to have recovered over three months ago (or more). I also appear to have acquired a small obsession with a certain dog breed (I can hear the collective uh-ohs from here) and —as luck would have it— Tim the upholsterer happened to have one right there on hand. Huh. So after some consultation, I realized that I would really have to write back to the breeder and let him know that, while I am unfortunately not planning to use her for HUNTING, I do promise to take her on various adventurous pursuits in the wildlands of the Rocky Mountains. (After I wrote back to tell him we were looking for a family pet, I was greeted with a full day of complete and utter silence. Breeders and their snobberies. 🙂 He wrote me back right away after receiving the adventure reassurance and it was settled. I had made the cut because I was southern and get it. And who knows? Maybe I’ll take up huntin me some a dem birds…(that dog’ll hunt.) Is cow hunting legal?

The hubby-jury is still out, but he knows when defeat is growing nigh. And the mama dawg isn’t even preggers yet (mr. breeder guy is going to write me after the vet visit and ultrasound this week) so he can relax for at least a few more months…

After running around to pick up stuff and buy stuff and recycle stuff, we cooked some stuff and headed out to Cure Farm for the Slow Food potluck. I was supposed to be on hand for set up and greeting people and didn’t quite make it. I’m lucky that most of my fellow board members there and with BYBA have accordingly lowered their expectations of moi after I pulled out my cancer card and flashed it around.

The girls had a ball running around the farm with Anne and Paul’s little girl, petting the Berkshires and ducks, and riding the toy tractor. We very much enjoyed the delicious eats with our fellow foodies and were happy that we could bring a taste of South Cakalaky —with chicken BBQ cooked in homemade mustard-based sauce and some apple fennel coleslaw. It was all gone. No leftovers.

Sunday brought us back to food. (Really. Why try to escape its inherent goodness?) We headed back to Lakewood with some finishing touches to Union Brasserie. Our dear Profts are finally realizing their dream of opening a restaurant and it’s hard to not be excited by a decorating gig that requires me to shop with someone else’s money. This is my first ever time moonlighting as a decorator, but the Profts had ultimate faith in me because Vancy-pants and I bonded many times while he tried to work out the hundreds of kinks in our circa 1968 POS house. He usually started a project in his contractor days by helpfully suggesting that we “just tear the piece of shit down” albeit with a stronger Czech accent then I could ever muster. And even though he thought my color choices were sometimes suspect (“baby-shit-brown” or “Czech-army-green”), he appreciated my keen eye and design sensibilities. Or something like that. And Eve obviously agreed because she is the one that sits behind the long table and makes decisions “like a fucking communist regime.” (Another Vance-ism.)

But over the course of 15-some-odd years, we’ve thrown around ideas, designed basements, plotted out pergolas and patios and decks, figured on fences and enjoyed more amazing meals together than should be legal. So as I barked orders out to the hubby who was dangling from a sky-high ladder, I had a glass of fine champagne in my hand and some fresh calamari, a crisp wedge salad or plate of oeufs au plat, jambon et pommes de terre nearby. (Okay, I let the hubby come down every now and then and have some too.) The girls were in heaven and it was one of the finer days I’ve spent.

Waking up today to the dread was not what I had in mind. And when you add in a hubby who is entirely resistant to cold at any level on chemo in the face of -6 degree temps this week. Well. Hells. Bells. You see, one of his most difficult side effects of the oxaliplatin in his chemo cocktail is chemo-induced peripheral neuropathy (CIPN). It’s the one that had him throwing ice cream at me after the very first infusion. (No, I really didn’t deserve it that time.) So the moment cold air hits his airway, he has an instantaneous spasm that’s like what I imagine water-boarding must feel like. He actually can breathe, but it feels like he just swallowed a sword. So today I’ve been trying to think through the logistics of getting him into the car after infusion tomorrow so he, a. doesn’t puke on me and, b. doesn’t spasm out and choke to death. But, seriously, no pressure. Mmm-kay?

I also do not savor the inevitable shoveling and ice scraping each morning as I try to herd the screaming mimis into the car. But. This too shall pass.

I keep reminding myself that I am here for HIM no matter what. My selfishness can come again another day. And no matter what I am facing, I am so not the one facing the walk of doom to the drip-drip-drip that turns you into a ball of pain with a body of mush and a spasming bronchial tube. I just get to watch.

And? After tomorrow, we only have ONE EFFING MORE TO GO. That makes me want to run out in the street buck-naked in the negative-below-tundra of this week’s Boulder and scream happy-happy-happy. Really. So be glad you aren’t one of the lucky few who calls me howdy-neighbor.

My friend, Bubble Girl, said it best. “60 degrees on Friday, 0 degrees today. Colorado’s bipolar.” But aren’t we all?

Here’s to keeping the hubby breathing and out of a wheelchair this week while not sliding the car into anything and getting groceries and girls to school. And so forth. Then it’s on to the next one.

Last up: February 15th. Mark it down and meet me outside. Be there or be square. Clothing optional.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Marry Song. Band of Horses. Lighten your load. And see how I killed the wheel barrow I borrowed.

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I’ve been moving through the days. Broken. Battered. Heart rather tattered. I started writing almost two weeks ago and am just getting back at it. The weeks race by in a blur of living in the moment. Something I’ve gotten much better at. I used to live forward. Always. But when your life suddenly upends with cancer, you realize that each moment is what you have. Sometimes ALL you have.

So before I go back to the week before last to recap and update and remember, I’m going to start with the now. Because now there is an empty spot in my lap/by my side/on my leg. After 13 years of not getting a solitary moment of down time without a purring ball of fluff joining me, I’m empty. It’s a heartache piled upon the heartaches and feels like the breaking point. I can’t picture going forward without Pearl for solace. Her little kitty kisses have gotten me through all of the hard parts. She knew when I needed her even if I thought I didn’t. I could call to her, “Pearly-pearl! Sweetest kitty in the world!” And there she’d be in a flash. Meow. Up on my lap. “Here I am.”

In the last year especially, I’ve found my knees out from under me. Sadness overwhelming me like a dank, dense fog. And she’d appear. Purr. Head under my hand. “I’m here.” And when I had each of the babies in my big, round belly. And growing. She’d hop up on the couch with me and spread her long, furry body across the bump. Thrilled by my stillness and restful state. Willing me to please slow down and just sit a spell.

When Tuesday came and the hubby was loading up to head to California for a couple of days I said, “I have a bad feeling. Pearly-girl doesn’t look right.” It took a bit before he fully agreed. Trying to dismiss my maternal worries. But I just knew. I was at the vet within two hours — x-rays, temperatures, pokes. And even as she had that thermometer rammed up her butt twice, she barely flinched. Wouldn’t look at me. My heart started to crack.

The kind vet. (So kind.) Said, “She’s barely middle-aged. Don’t give up hope yet.” But I saw it in his eyes. They even went through the motions of “have you been away recently on a trip?” No. She isn’t depressed. She is NOT herself. Not my kitty.

It wasn’t until noon on Wednesday — when the blood tests came back — that my fears were confirmed. She was in full kidney failure. A blockage out of nowhere. And she was done. Suffering through. I tried to keep her on my lap. Hold her. But the ultimate lap cat was stiff. No idea where she was. Yeowling in misery. My heart cracked open. And I had to help her.

The vet was willing to come over in the middle of the night if I needed him to help sustain her — just so I didn’t have to deal with this without the hubby. But I couldn’t do that to the one who had always been there for me. Always. It was something I had to go alone. I got a plan in place with Purse Girl and Lady Lou and True Blue and L-Rocks and Nanner’s mom. My own mom was crying so hard that we knew we were of no help to each other. The hubby was in meetings in San Jose and I went inside myself. Prepped to break the news to my two broken-hearted girls. (My friends, you have no idea how much you saved me.) Then after pictures, many kisses, and hugs, carried her to the car and made Purse Girl drive.

Even though you know this little being may only have hours to go. Even though you know from the sweet, sweet doc that those hours will be full of suffering. There is nothing on this world like carrying your sweet, innocent little kitty-baby into that room. Knowing that this is absolutely it.

I find myself wanting to go back. Take it back. Pick her up. Bring her home. I keep looking at websites for Manx (even though she was the pound kitty version). But you can’t replace a love like that. It will just take time.

We had a theme song for her. It’s something we do with the family members — both human and canine. And Lady Lou posted it on her Facebook status with the RIP. “Pearl, pearl, twist-n-twirl. Jump around like a flyin’ squirrel. Don’t you cuss and don’t you swear. Jump right out and form a SQUARE.” (Yes, we lifted a bit from Bugs Bunny. I doubt they’ll mind.)

And then today would’ve been my Mima’s 90th birthday and also is the 9th anniversary of my uncle Stu’s suicide. Oh Friday full of heart break. Here you are.

It’s with those sentiments that I take you back to last week…

SOMETIME LAST WEEK IN THE KINGDOM OF BOUL-DAY:
There comes a time in cancerville when you become a ghost. The initial fire and fame drawn from a diagnosis of the dreaded c-word becomes a distant memory. The cross over can be all but imperceptible. The calls slowly trickle away. The go-tos stop remembering that you have further to go. “Shouldn’t it be over by NOW?!”

Damn, but it should be.

One of my friends called it a marathon. I think of it as an ironman. The CANCERVILLE IRONMAN. And you may even get the added bonus of a century run just as you’re crossing the finish line. You just never know what lucky surprises and prizes may await around the next corner. Not to mention that the main even consists of a bike ride through quicksand, a swim through crocodile-infested waters and then a sprint across hot coals.

But I didn’t even know about the invisible part. Life goes on. People try, try, try. But it’s impossible for someone to KNOW what it’s like unless. Unless they have been taken to a room and told by a kind doctor that you have something growing deep inside you that is intent on kicking the shit out of you. [Pun intended.]

Pity party barely contained, I woke up today with a renewed sense of gettin er dun. After a day of tears and outbursts and a heart-pounding anxiety breakthrough of my drugged Lexapro state, I faced the sun. It was a new day. A new year. And a new round of chemo.

Thing is, we were lulled into complacency by over two weeks of nearly normal existence. No more spontaneous poop combustions (aka SPCs). The hubby was able to go for a hike even without having to race home. We both took off as much work as we could and savored mornings snuggled on the couch — sipping lattes, reading the paper, playing angry birds and letting the girls watch Disney XD until their brains started to leak from their ears. Some days we’d head out for an adventure. Other days we could be found eating dinner still in our PJs.

One day we even hit the gym. The girls swam in the heated pool outside while the hubby and I switched off with workouts. Another day we hit the gym and let the girls play in the kid center while we got massages. Uh. Yes. (Love my new gym.)

We made palettes on the floor in the living room and watched movies via Netflix streaming and on in demand by the bucketful. We had spontaneous gatherings with good friends we happened to run into on the fly. We ice skated and went for gelato. We hit a new favorite pizza place more than once. (Along with the new favorite ice cream spot next door.) And we hit the town for Christmas eve. Got all gussied up and had a ball at True Blue’s annual bash. Then, on the way home, had an extra burst of energy and dropped by TRPL TRBL’s for a final toast to the evening.

But my favorite part? Being together. Not many appointments, no email and lots of cuddles. And the hubby getting a nice long taste of medical freedom.

Just before Christmas — as we prepared for a few long weeks of bliss — I had a scare that almost caused a SPC in me. I’d dutifully completed my 40-years-old booby squashing. (I’m such a rule follower.) Then I got called back in. It seemed like no big deal. Something about dense tissue. Yadda-yadda-yadda. So I made the appointment without giving it much thought. It wasn’t until I walked into the room and saw the scan with the bright spot circled that I paused. “This is the area we are concerned about.” Oh.

I bellied up to the squasher. It was a spatula-sized one for squashing that bright spot that was now causing me to dim. And I went back to the waiting area with the rest of the shirtless women and texted the hubby. “This may take a while.” Sure enough, they called me back again. “The radiologist is still concerned. We need another. This is going to hurt. We recommend Advil.” So while the hubby and the girlies are home baking cookies, I’m starting to fade. “Just tell me. I’ve been through this already. Don’t take me into a room. Just level with me.” I think I scared her with my fierce tone. But she faced me and said, “I truly think it’s okay. But we just want to be sure.” And they weren’t sure until after one last squash that made me think perhaps that one may just be ripped clean off. To hell with surgery.

The wait was beginning to be painful. My armpits started to squirt water and my face was the color of a beet. The hubby texted back, “WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?!” I started to let my mind race. Surely no. Could the universe really be this cruel? I jumped back to the story of Bill and Mary. Friends’ of Nanner’s fam. He was fighting Stage IV colon cancer and she got breast cancer. Seriously.

They finally took me to the room. But it was all okay. I took a big gulp of air and went into the little room to dress. Swabbing at my sweaty pits with the supplied wipes and feeling really sorry for the next sap who got stuck with that sweaty booby top.

Then on New Year’s Eve we headed to the Rock-es and partied like it was 2010. Beat the hell out of the pinata Amy G sent us that was labeled with 2010 all over it. I was so, so sure that we were turning a corner. Starting fresh. Even with the chemo ahead. There was no possible way to prep myself for losing more of my solace within a week or so. No more furry, purry beast. Tail-less wonder cat to the rescue.

So now that I’m down two key pieces of my support net and my husband still has more cancer fighting ahead, I have to stop. Think. Wonder. Cry. Then pull myself up and together. And get on with it yet again. (Though this time I may be limping a bit.)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Losing my Religion. REM. I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try.