Soboclassifieds

>The vast majority of my friends here in Colorado are obsessed this time of year. And I can only nod with a small twinge of envy. We live in one of the top skiing destinations in the world — great skiing in fact only 30 or so minutes away — and then there is us. I want to be one of the cool ones who talk about this elusive pow-pow. Epic days. All those exciting, hip words that are commonly associated with the kind of powder power that only the Rockies can deliver. And once upon a time, we were there too. Season passes purchased that took us up on many an early weekend morning to hit the slopes and squeeze in a quick apres ski before bellying up to the beast that is a return on I-70 on any big powder day (or even not).

But not now. We’re a rare breed. Just because we haven’t truly skied in over 4 years. So the question is: Where do we find our own very special brand of POW-POW if it’s not careening down a thickly powdered hill at 20 mph?

Here’s what happened. This year was finally going to be THE YEAR. The bean finally old enough to really shred it up. Miss-miss already riding a lift alone and knocking it out (and only a year away from the free ride pass that all 5th graders get. Yahoo!) But we got stuck on the lift. So next year we may be cool again. This year, we’re just going to stick with uncool and cancer-free.

The hubby’s last chemo was on February 15th. He almost didn’t make the cut due to low platelet and white blood cell counts, but…he did well, collected his congrats coffee mug and we bade farewell to our wonderful nurses (for at least until Thursday when we were due back for pump removal and IV). It was a milestone day. Without a doubt. But it’s hard to skip-to-my-lou when you are feeling like a dookie sandwich.

Then he got the added insult to injury of having to head home and conduct two enemas in a row, then try to hold his butt cheeks together and let me drive him back to the hospital so Dr. Matt could stick a tube six inches up his arse with no anesthesia. Who said we weren’t cool?

The verdict — which was delivered in that damnable room again — wasn’t terrible. They took two biopsies and would call us in the morning. (Or more like a few days.) Ulceration around the incision site and more swelling the rectum. Oh ass fire? Can you hear me? “Probably nothing to worry about, but we want to check it out.” Okay. But, uh, doc? Did you have to put us back in this room again? “This time the door was open. Did you notice?” Ha.

In preparation for our expected ‘down for three+ days’ post-chemo (which had become de rigor), I’d made reservations at the new and awesome Pizzeria Locale for miss-miss’ big 10th b-day. No pressure on the hubby. He could just stay home if needed. But miss-miss would get her day. I went big on the presents also in anticipation. The girl truly did expect to wake up with fireworks shooting out of her butt. And I’m so not kidding. “It’s a DOUBLE-DIGIT BIRTHDAY MOOOOMMMM! .

But this particular week, the hubby didn’t go completely pancake-flat. He was up and around, though still with a vague sense of malaise, discomfort and lack of poop control. So let’s just suffice it say, we’ve had worse. Usually it’s all of that PLUS an inability to raise his head and utter a sentence. So I’ll take it.

He was able to function (and control function) well enough to cook birthday breakfast and attend the dinner. He left a little early, but he was THERE. Again. I’ll take it.

We had a long weekend and miss-miss had a friend over for the night on Sunday. We took them brunching at Union Brasserie (our dear friends’, the Profts, new restaurant in Lakewood), pedicuring and we ended the night with a movie and personal pizzas cheffed up by the hubby.

He continued on a slow improvement bent (though walking into the 4th Grade Mini-Society event that celebrates colonial economic ventures, I noticed him walking a bit funny). We were able to laugh about it all later. Because who on Earth would ever think you’d poop yourself walking into your kid’s elementary school event? No one. And he just continued on — unphased — after a quick stop at the restroom. The irony of it was just too much. Still is.

I think the thing that struck me the most is how normal that is for us now. It used to break us both. The mere thought. Like you’ve retreated back to infanthood and have to wear a freaking die-dee again. But now it’s just another thing. Shrug it off. Ass cancer. Meh.

Friday came and Dr. Matt called with the pooptube scoop. The ulcerated cells looked off. So they are sending it off to Mayo for further analysis. The hubby was all zen. “Yea? Just crapped my pants. So?” I was all, “WHAT THE FUCK?!? WHENISTHISGOINGTOBEOVERFORFUCKSAKES?!?” Huh.

And this was only after a night of downing an entire bottle of Free Range Red at Purse Girl’s. So it could only go downhill from there apparently. (I scared JMac off. And that’s really hard to do.)

So what is becoming crystal clear in all of this is: We may never be done. Post-surgical damage. Post-radiation damage. Mental derangement. A new, skewed sense of normal. Another surgery to remove the port (IF his blood counts are back to normal by tomorrow. Fingers and toes all crossed.) Another set of biopsy results due back from Mayo in a week. Ad nauseam.

The consensus is that it’s time to just get on with it anyway. So we went out for a date night on Saturday. Catching up with our friends at The Kitchen. Putting ourselves on the wait list for their April Wine and Beer class. Eating and drinking at the bar. Laughing and feeling truly normal. No poop stops. Just a night out. Like the normal people.

So with the exception of a few things still waiting to be checked off of the medical to-do (which is now much shorter, thankyouverymuch), here we go. Time to get that boom-boom-pow(-pow). And maybe even hit the slopes. You never know.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: That Moon Song. Gregory Alan Isakov. …and ahh that full bellied moon she’s a shinin on me. yeah she pulls on this heart like she pulls on the sea. Even more beautiful to hear when sung in a barn on a cold, clear night…

>Last night I dreamt there was a rattlesnake in my bed. I woke up with a panic. Then realized it was the chemo pump. Poison must all sound the same.

We go through these motions. Trying to keep our chins up. Eyes on the prize. But it gets blurry when my eyes keep betraying me with tears. It seems logical that I’d feel like we’re on the homestretch, but it feels more like on the rack being stretched limb from limb.

I’ve had no explanation for it. None what-so-ever. But as I sat with the girls at the breakfast table encouraging them through their oatmeal this morning, it was clear as a bell. For as I looked into their faces, I spied the hubby just over their heads. Doubled over in pain. Back to us. Miss-miss got up before I thought to stop her and she said, “Dad? Are you crying?” He’d taken a bite of OATMEAL and the neuropathy had attacked his eyes. Suddenly. Without warning. Straight from the jaw.

And that’s the way it goes. I see him struggle. Strain. Pain radiating through his body during the most mundane of daily tasks. (Pooping? Check. Taking a bite of oatmeal? Check. Grabbing a bottle of milk to make a latte? Check.) I see it in his eyes and my whole gut aches. His face is riddled with pain and discomfort. It’s impossible to miss when you know someone from the inside out.

It’s painful —excruciating in fact— to watch. And I struggle with keeping up the brave face. But when your chief partner-in-crime takes leave of his facilities. Well.

He tries so hard to hide it. (He’s always been such a talker.) I think of it as going inside of himself. We all have to do it when we’re in survival mode, as anyone who has gone through childbirth can attest. I remember walking down the hall to my last c-section, IV pole in tow, hubby holding my left hand, sis-in-law on my right. And she was so nervous she was jabbering away. I went completely inside of myself and my vision even narrowed. The instinct was so strong I wanted to trip her to make her STOP TALKING. And then, just as suddenly —once that baby was out and the hubby went off to attend to her— I was so thankful for her and her chatter and her arm rubs that I nearly cried from relief. Those animal instincts are so random.

I owned up to the PA on Tuesday. My crazy death thoughts (CDTs induced by SPCs). The fear of this neuropathy palpable as I conjured up calling T-Rocks to come build us a ramp because the hubby was most certainly wheelchair bound. “I went to my crazy head place,” I told her. This stopped her dead in her tracks. She took us both in and said, “Let me tell you something…” The gist was that I am in the worrying role and that means I take every bit of every worrywart inkling and carry it around. The unhealthy part is that the hubby lets me and gives me all of his too for good measure. So while I’m off running around in headless chicken mode, he’s all zen and so not going there. And one day it will hit him. And he’ll be a wreck. So if anyone has any ideas about how to coach a chronic worrywart into handing it off mode, I’m all ears. It gets kind of heavy inside this head.

Before the amazing coaching session with the PA, we had a random nurse encounter. One of the floaters was doing the rounds with us —temp taking, BP, Rx review, etc. And during the BP I distinctly heard a squeak. Then another. And I was pretty sure. Could it be? THAT WAS SO NOT THE HUBBY. She’d cut not one —BUT TWO! The hubby and I exchanged a look as she kept on her merry way and didn’t even acknowledge said in-fart-tion. When she left the room, the green cloud descended and we both were like “THAT is gross.” I opened the door. Then she happened back by and closed it again. We were trapped. Nasty.

We’ve had school closed since Monday. Today being their first day back. The weather took an odd turn from our normally bright sunshiney days. Dipping well below zero for the HIGH. So my little neuro-pathetic hubby who is in BIG trouble in cold (as I’ve mentioned) was house bound. Me left to scrape ice and keep those home fires burning. It wasn’t a big deal though. Our friend and savior (thanks Meggie) called to up the bean’s playdate from after school to all day then to overnight and Purse Girl swooped in with grabbing the miss-miss for Tuesday and we all just chilled in our various locales during chemo then back at home to rest and wait out the rattlesnake/pump and weather and anything else headed our way. T-Man threw in some food for good measure (and on her birthday, no less) and we were set.

Now we’re here getting that damnable pump removed and getting some fresh fluids into the hubby’s bod. The machine says 17 minutes to go and I am blogging instead of writing that data sheet that’s due tomorrow or getting invoices done or anything else I should be doing instead.

I’m even more behind than usual because something got me yesterday and I couldn’t stop sleeping. At least not until Purse Girl showed up and stared at me through the darkness. She’d been spooked out of her house by the sound of a piano key being hit, followed by shuffling around. (And who could blame her.) Still not 100% sure what it was, but her Robby checked it out and only found a couple of books on the floor with nothing missing.

It’s nice to keep things exciting, doncha know.

Bottom line is this: YES. The next couple of days are highly likely to SUCK BIG FAT ASS. YES. The hubby is very likely to be couch bound with very little sign of life. YES. It will take a few days until his pain subsides to bearable. YES. He will JUST be starting to come back to me when it’s time to go under again. BUT. The next one is the LAST one. And that, my friends, is the light I am going to focus my sights on even as my vision narrows, gets blurry from tears and I go inside myself where the sun don’t shine.

Thankyouverymuch.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Sunshine on Leith. Proclaimers. I will be with you while the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith. I’ll thank him for his work and your birth and my birth.