Soboclassifieds

I got the dreaded mammo call back today. I went in for my annual boob squeeze on Monday while hacking up a lung from the flu, so maybe it was just flem. (And that shit is EVERYWHERE. Lemme tell ya.) They always sound so calm, but then they say, “Ohhhh…asymmetry. We’d better add on an ultrasound too.” GDMF. So since said appointment is now set for FRIDAY-THE-FUCKING-THIRTEENTH, I’d better start burning some sage.

Mima had bumpy boobs. I remember talking about it at Sunday dinner. “What does dense breast tissue mean? Can I have more sweet potatoes?” My family has always been pretty out there with stuff. Except the important stuff. Like, “I have cancer and am  dying.”

She didn’t die from her breast cancer. She died from bile duct cancer (Cholangiocarcinoma for you cancer.org fools). Which, translated, means: SHE WORRIED HERSELF TO DAMN DEATH. (At least in my humble, internet-educated, opinion.)

So now there’s me. Lost her and got the hubby’s dreaded ‘c’ diagnosis all within a month and ten days. And I’m not supposed to worry. Not supposed to worry because I could worry myself to DAMN DEATH.

I watched that women sit in her chair and practically rub the effin skin off around her mouth with her finger while she pondered the latest round of familial antics. Then she’d look at me and say, “Cassy, you have to stop worrying so much.” Huh.

I can hear her right this minute though, saying, “NOW will you listen to me?” Okay, okay. OKAY!

But that’s why I’m here. To pack up my troubles in my old kit-bag and SMILE, SMILE, SMILE. (If you’re so inclined, feel free to rub your mouth raw while you worry about me so I don’t have to. You’re safe because you probably don’t have the worry-cancer gene.)

Just the other day I was thinking hard about something and the hubby said, “Whatcha thinking about so hard over there, Mima?” Damned if I wasn’t running my finger over my lips and rolling off the dead skin. JUST LIKE HER.

To my credit, there’s just no freaking way that I’m NOT going to worry. When you have friends and family dropping like flies from the cancer, and your nearest and dearest still fighting his way to the much-anticipated THREE-YEAR mark — well, shit. Gimme a break.

And, while we’re talking about it, here’s the latest on the dearest. (Besides being fully back to being a pain in my ass.):

• His 11.16.11 scope was CLEAN. (This is exceptionally good news for us since we have very little trust/faith in the myriad scans and labs that we endure monthly. For, it wasn’t until we had actual TISSUE UNDER THE MICROSCOPE that we got his true diagnosis. The scans were all CLEAN going into surgery, but the post-op PATHOLOGY came back effed through the drive-thru. You feel me?)
• His vitamin D has been scary low, but we have no idea what that means. He now takes a supplement of 2,000 units/per day and never, ever wears sunscreen.
• I’ve told him he will be KICKED TO THE CURB if he doesn’t pull it together and start exercising and taking his fiber. (The doc says research shows this all pumps up the survival and non-recurrence rates, and yet…)
• Like I said, back to being a pain in my ass.
• We don’t have labs, appointments or ANYTHING until March 16th. (Whew.)
• Since we think the no-cancer calendar started on the date of his last chemo, we won’t be taking any full breaths until at least February 15, 2014. (That’s the sucky part. You’re so happy to have treatment behind you, etc. etc., but until you reach the 3 and 5-year milestones post-treatment, you still feel like you’re walking a tightrope over a yawning maw of fire, shit, sharp objects, deep crevices and venomous vipers.)
• DO NOT read any statistics for Stage III Colorectal Cancer on the googles unless you want to rub your lip off. MMKAY?

As for us, life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Well, damn. That’s looking pretty sunshine-y — of the-rainbows-shooting-from-your-ass variety. Work has been busy and steady for me (travel and the whole bit). House is shaping up (albeit slowly, but surely). Girls are happy in school and sassy as ever. Miss-miss is sooo excited to start middle school next year that her pimples may pop themselves. Kinder Bean walks the elementary school halls like she owns the place (And I think she does. At least that’s what the principal told me.)

And life proceeds at its fast-forward pace. Here’s to a happy, happy NEW-SHINEY year — full of clean scans, lump-free breasts and toasts with good friends/fam on the back deck at sunset.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Smile. Uncle Kracker. You’re better than the best. I’m lucky just to linger in your light. (And if you think this song is cheesy, you can suck it.)

Now that I’ve sufficiently freaked everyone out with my freak out, I am happy to report that the hubby is feeling much better. (The psyllium husks are working.) And is in San Jose, CA giving a HUGE presentation to the board of his company as we speak. If that doesn’t give someone the shits, I don’t know what will.

I inadvertently let you all into my head. To my credit, I asked him if he was as freaked out as me and he said, “Yea. I kinda was.”

I think it is only fair to report both sides when things are looking better. We’ll still have the scope on 11.11.11 and just keep hoping for better, albeit less shit-filled, days. I swear the house was starting to smell like a porta-potty.

The moral of this story is that cancer is never truly OVER. Treatment? Yes. Surgery? Yes. But cancer? NO. It’s with you forever. Indelibly.

And we’ll be looking over our shoulder for the rest of our lives most likely. Though probably not as intensely as these first all-important three years. So bear with us, mmkay?

Between all the shitting and off-gassing, the hubby and I have been trading business trips this month. I was in Seattle and then Toronto for a couple of events I was managing the first week. The hubby got to play mister mom for an entire five days as I flew back and forth across the country and drank a gallon of very expensive Pinot. (Yes, both events went exceedingly well too, thankyouverymuch.) Now, the hubby is in San Jose until the wee hours of Thursday morning nearly. It makes me laugh, this life on the go. Coming and going then trying to sit still.

My favorite part is when it’s my turn to mind the littles solo. I have a system. We focus. We take walks. We do homework (trying not to yell). We cook dinner. (With a side trip for wine with Purse Girl usually thrown in for one night.) And I am always smug when it’s 8pm and they are sound asleep and I can park in front of TiVo to fold laundry.

Last night I did just that. Trying to hide my superiority from the hubby who called to say good night (just a bit too late). I was curled up with Parenthood (two banked episodes, baby!) when out of the corner of my eye I saw a leaf skid across the floor. Wha—?!? THATWASN’TAFUCKINGLEAFTHATWASAFUCKINGMOUSE!

For a moment all went silent. I talked myself out of it. It just wasn’t. But I’ll be damned. The little fucker poked his head out from behind the brand-spanking-new beverage center again. I yelled. He hid. He poked out. I yelled. He hid. And we did this dance about five times before —eyes peeled at the spot— I called the hubby in California.

I don’t know why, okay? I didn’t think. Of course he wasn’t going to fly right back home or quit his job or cancel the all-important presentation. No. But logic just wasn’t functioning for me at the minute, okay? He said, “It never fails, does it?” And if by that he meant that loved ones and pets and trees and HIM (almost) always seem to wait until he’s out of town to die, then yes. But this time IT was most certainly ALIVE and I was so skeeved out that I couldn’t breathe. So then he says, “You’re going to have to set a trap.” And I said, “IAMMOSTCERTAINLYNOTSETTINGANYFUCKINGTRAP. YOUFEELME?” Then he said, “I’ll call Ted.”

So T-Rocks it was. My personal savior (thank you, L-Rocks, for the loaner). Down the street he came, all PJ-clad. Ready to slay the beast. I couldn’t move. Was frozen in my spot afraid of missing it when it tried to run into my bedroom and hide under my pillow.

All I could think was, “Why do I have to be such a damned GIRL?!”

And if you’ve met me more than once, you know that my fears are usually firmly based in complete irrationality and germ-o-phobia land. So the thought of a mouse shitting and pissing a trail across my pots and pans or new cabinets, floors, etc. Well. You can see me circling the drain already, no? (You should’ve seen me when all of my nearest and dearest had heads full of lice three weeks ago. Aw SHIT I was NUTS! But my nuts-o head kept our family’s heads clean someway, somehow. Coulda been the 500 loads of laundry each day, the scalps scrubbed raw and the picking and preening lasting into the wee hours of the night each night…)

T-Rocks set a trap, checked the perimeter and gave my trembly ass-self a hug. (I couldn’t be more thankful.)

I spent the rest of the night alternating between being afraid that the trap would WORK and that it WOULDN’T.

I’d just fallen asleep when I woke with a start to find bean staring at me. “My legs HURT, Mommy!” she wailed. Growing limbs can be such a pain in the ass. So I told her to hop in bed. It took a while to calm her down, massaging her achy legs and whispering to her. Then the rest of the night was spent with her glued to my back or side or stomach. Gooey baby cuddles.

This morning she told her daddy when he called, “No, I didn’t sleep in your spot. I slept in the middle.” And “No, I slept on Mommy’s  pillow. Not yours.” He said to me, “Sounds like you got a great night’s rest.” Ah. Yea.

So this morning I snap up out of bed the second I hear miss-miss coming up with the dog. I yell, “Hold onto her! There’s a mouse trap out!” And then I felt a warm stream of lady blood run down my leg.

FERSHITTINSAKES.

And here we are. Right back at it. Like we’re the completely insane folks we always were. With just a little extra fiber for luck.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Meet Me at the Corner. RHCP. Takin it all for a ride until the day when it’s gone. Mystified by where it all went wrong when it’s gone.

The reality is that our reality has changed. Dramatically. Even a headache that lasts more than a day feels like a potential portent of doom. (It was eyestrain. The hubby is now sporting some stylin’ reading glasses.)

I feel like when you are at this point — this eight months past the last chemo — all should be hunky-dory. You should be living life to its fullest. Able to finally live in the moment. Be mindful. And it seems like the expectation is there.

Probably every last one of you has quietly asked, “So how is he?” when the moment lends itself. No one wants to rock the boat. Or remind us of that very black year. But the reality for us is THAT WAS OUR YEAR. We lived every solitary moment of the fear and anguish and hellishness.

It WAS OUR YEAR and it has been imprinted chemically and physically like those scientists with the geese. We do try to move on. We try so hard we find our teeth tightly clenched and our knuckles tight-white. We make BIG plans. ELABORATE plans. We remodel our ENTIRE house. New paint, new furniture. We start FRESH. We start nailing down our vision for a chicken coop (along with the plans). We order seeds for next year’s garden. We plan to finally spend a decidedly long span of time JUST THE FOUR OF US. On an ISLAND (anywhere). We start chipping away at the list of dear friends we want to have over for dinner in our new kitchen, hoping they’ll understand if we call to cancel last minute.

But even in the planning there lies the tick-tock-clock of if only. If only we can hit that first three-year mark. THEN and ONLY THEN will we really and truly be able to take a big DEEP BREATH.

In the meantime, we deal. We deal with a fresh round of colon action that has left the hubby moaning (worst) and running to the bathroom over 10 times a day (best). We go back to Dr. Matt (that’s Dr. Asshole to you — his nickname, not mine) and I cry. I need him to say it’s nothing. But he can’t. Because it’s most definitely SOMETHING. It just may not be the really BAD something (return o’ the tumor). It may only be a LITTLE something (no more dairy or a lot more fiber). But what remains is the anxiety over which something it is. I beg him to tell me and I can tell he really, really wants to give me the answer I need. But he can’t.

So we cancel our weekend away for a friend’s 40th. Stay close to home. Make the best of it. I quietly tuck away the girls’ weekend in Steamboat I’d already declined. I need to be HERE.

That’s our new reality. We shift, we bend. We adapt. We support the hubby (even if it means a whole round of deep disappointment for the little girls over a cancelled trip). I told the girls, “Daddy hasn’t been feeling well and we’re a family. That means we do what we have to do to support each other. That’s what families do.” And they got it.

He is so much more himself when we’re home and together. The anxiety ripples across his face each time we are about to leave the house for any length of time. Getting caught somewhere and feeling humiliated is just not anyone’s idea of fun. So staying home it is. I’m in.

Miss-miss said, “Daddy, you’re just sick. It doesn’t mean you have cancer again.” And it was like a shot through the heart. Her anxieties laid bare. Because we all are thinking it.

The bean had a different take. A friend’s sister just got diagnosed and she said, “That kind of cancer isn’t scary. It’s just sad.” Oh? What kind is that? “Daddy’s kind. POOPER CANCER.”

And I should be clear. We are most definitely fine. We are living life. We aren’t house bound. We get out. We ride bikes. We hike. Go to Boulder’s awesome restaurants. And spend the afternoon at a particularly near and dear one in Lakewood. (Shameless plug: UNION BRASSERIE). Most days we are pretty damned normal. We’ve just learned to be flexible. To know that not all of those BIG PLANS will happen. Day-to-day PLANS just aren’t in the cards. That is just our new reality.

Instead we find ourselves soaking up the joy of an impromptu gathering of neighbors in our front yard. Or a tromp through the leaves with the girls.

And now we wait for the scope (scheduled for 11.11.11) and just focus on eating fiber. Lots of fiber. And keeping a food journal and making plans. BIG plans that no effin cancer can take back.

(You HEAR ME, cancer?)

Because we are SO DONE with you. And you? You can be a real PAIN IN THE ASS.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: All My Friends. LCD Soundsystem. And so it starts.
You switch the engine on. We set controls for the heart of the sun. One of the ways we show our age.

I seem to have misplaced my funny. I’ve looked everywhere —rending my hair— and no dice.

It showed up for a couple of moments at the Rock-es party on Saturday and got me a couple of guffaws from the puzzled crowd. Probably just sympathy laughs for the shell of my former self that was clearly on display.

I’m pretty sure I’ve lost it somewhere in the piles and bags and mounds of stuff that used to be called my life. But is now consistently underfoot in the basement. Posing a serious hazard for my shins at every turn.

So it is with great regret that I sit down to write the most boring set of words put to blog paper. I apologize in advance. Let’s just get this over with.

•    •    •    •    •

My life just came 360. I am at my desk in the room of my house that was my original office. Way back before kids. Way back before we had a basement. It’s a bit surreal. This time there’s no guest bed to sit on while I type. Just a real, grown up office for two with room to move.

Now. Allow to me to peel away the onion and reveal to you why this is officially MONUMENTAL. Mmmkay?

We headed to the southland on our CANCER VICTORY TOUR 2011 after all of the insanity of moving out, shuffling furniture around to various locales (thanks, meggie!), my head spinning into orbit, packing up and trying to leave things in a somewhat organized state to return to.

We did the rounds back east. Four nights in Flotown, culminating in a somewhat spontaneous Simmonds gathering. The hubby cheffed up an awesome dinner while I worked the crowd. Then it was off to Cola to see the B and SIL + new house + spend Father’s Day on the lake and then leave in their car for the month. Two more days back in the so-hot-your-face-will-melt-off-the-minute-you-open-the-door heat and we were officially losing our shit.

My mom has created a lovely life for herself. Cute house (all hers!) with great friends and one of my aunts now living right across the street. Two dogs, three birds, fans going full blast 24×7, no doors that actually close because of all of her cute shit and just enough space left over to walk sideways from front to back.

Needless to say, an extra family of four with enough suitcases for a month just doesn’t quite fit.

And when you add in that chitlin-making heat, you are pretty much dead in the water. (Though some water could have helped.) I hadn’t had the foresight to line up outings with friends (mostly because we were supposed to be with the hubby’s fam at the beach, but they were all sick). So there we sat. Fancy, the parrot, squawking her bloody head off, the hubby trying to conduct con calls, and me trying to keep the girls from knocking over or breaking anything during those long days cooped up inside.

Just before I was due to lose said shit, I put in a text. Our dear friend, Deb, came to our rescue with her house in Mt. Pleasant and off we went.

On our own for a bit, we relaxed into a rhythm befitting a vacation. Early mornings at Sullivan’s on the beach with coffee. Girls wading in the surf, trying to catch periwinkles (or tellins) before they burrowed away. Then the hubby would log on for work in time for the Californians and the girls and I would hit the store for some supper fixins and come back to nap before dinner. We met up with friends at their funky little yacht club on James Island or stayed in with some pizza procured at Whole Foods.

This idyll lasted three days. And was marred only by a rather large delivery van that side-swiped the borrowed car in the Whole Foods parking lot.  The girls (who were inside screaming at each other while the hubby tried valiantly to participate in a con call just beside them on the grass) emerged shaken, but unscathed. The driver of the truck was more shaken than all of us. Miss-miss said, “Mom, I think he’s going to cry.” I just hope he didn’t lose his job…

From aptly named Mt. Pleasant, it was off to a week at our rented beach house in the Outer Banks. The evening before our departure, we mapped the drive. We’d been skating along — completely oblivious to what came next. Taking it one day at a time like a bunch of recovering alcoholics. The GOOGLES delivered the results: ESTIMATED DRIVE TIME 8 hours 26 minutes. Uh-whaaaaa? Holy sheep shit on a shingle. We had no effing idea.

After the collective dust settled and I retrieved my dropped wine glass from the floor, we took a big, deep breath. Then hit iTunes for movies, more movies and shows to download AND FAST. Then picked out the skimpiest clothing we could imagine. And started packing. We went to bed with every single Apple device we owned plugged in and downloading. Trying not to think about the lack of air conditioning in the now wrecked borrowed car.

I am not one who takes road trips lightly. The longest we’ve driven with both girls is about 7 hours south to Santa Fe. We had snacks, movies via portable DVD player and the works all set up and it was still PATENTLY MISERABLE. My mother was crunched in between two bickering small ones — on the hump. And it wasn’t until I switched positions with her and had to use the jaws of life to extricate myself from the backseat of the Volvo when we stopped for a potty break that I realized THIS PRETTY MUCH SUCKS.

Nowadays, we are sportin’ the ultimate road trip car. Hank the Pilot. He is all muscle. Comfy, bluetooth headsets in back, dirty rap playing up front. Road trip? BRING IT.

Even then, I wouldn’t be savoring the idea of 8 or 9 hours in the car. But off we went. Decided to take the backroads vs. the freeway to stay by the ocean and steer clear of interstate boredom. The air conditioning worked well enough to keep an egg from frying on our heads. The movies seemed to keep the backseat quiet enough. We sought out some decent eats via yelp and generally just made the best of it.

ELEVEN HOURS LATER. We arrived at OBX. Jiminy Christmas on a cracker. That was one LONG ASS DRIVE. (Uh Google? I’d like my money back please.)

But with the ocean in sight again, we quickly began to shed a few of our butt calluses.

The week went fairly well considering you have siblings with nearly polar opposite political beliefs and views of the world, 5 girls below the age of ten, two married-ins who go mollusk-like when the shit hits the fan and one unwilling-but-now-official-family-matriarch who is used to living by herself on her own terms.

And I was the smart one who went into this all completely unmedicated.

After only one, but rather large blow up over some thrown away salad (I said throw it away, he said WTF?!) — with the sis-in-law downstairs cleverly explaining to the alarmed children that their mom/aunt and dad/uncle were just acting out a part in a play — I talked myself a mile down the beach where the hubby found me gesticulating wildly in the air. I was leaving. Decided to wait until morning. And then it rained all day so we drank and played cards and generally pretended like nothing had happened. An endearing family trait.

I was dreading the return drive, but found salve in the excitement/anticipation the in-laws were displaying with their already prepared dinner and cocktails waiting. We stopped in Wilmington for a quick visit with the hubby’s aunt and uncle. And all was right with the world.

The next week was seamless. Moving from coffee on the porch watching the pelicans, hawks and eagles to a full afternoon on the beach that stretched into happy hour each day. The hubby was finally on vacation from work and didn’t have con calls and emails and work to think about. The girls and their dad, uncle, great-uncle, grandparents, cousin and 2nd cousin rode in the annual super soaker DeBordieu 4th of July parade in the back of a pickup. We braved the heat to walk the brand-spankin new boardwalk in Myrtle and took a ride on the skywheel. We even coaxed my mother down for the weekend — with one of the crazy aunts in tow — and then hit IOP to see the Blue Dogs play after too many years without.

Then it was time to return west. To our new kitchen, fresh paint and life as it was. But that would only happen after we’d endured a cancelled flight, extra night’s stay and 2.5 hour shuttle ride to Charlotte vs. the 45-minute puddle jumper we’d booked.

We were so excited to see what transformation our house had undergone while we were away. Our contractor had worked two 15-hour days to ensure we’d arrive to some semblance of normalcy. But I think I had in my crazy head that it would all be MOVE IN READY.

I do that. Think those crazy thoughts. They are the unspoken expectations that repeatedly get me in trouble. Won’t I ever learn?

I did that with the trip. It was the CANCER VICTORY TOUR 2011 in my mind. I envisioned red carpets being rolled out. Confetti. Champagne corks popping. And there were hugs. Good-to-see-yous. But there was mostly ANGST. Unspoken emotional angst that had been bottled up like that champagne and was ready to blow. So some of it splattered onto us in the melee. So. We learned: it was a year of worry and hurt and devastation for EVERYONE. And only a very few people were really able to see it through our eyes. The truth of the hell we’d just endured. Without the veil of their own emotions clouding it all. Interesting.

So we arrived. Haggard. Travel weary. Having slept in six or more different beds in four weeks. And he had made big progress. Fully working kitchen. All shiny, new appliances installed and ready for action. Sink working. Floors stained. Some of the paint completed. New built-in cabinet in the nook.

And I went and ruined it all by honing in on the not done stuff. About how we couldn’t move back in truly until the situation with the floors was rectified. I’m a real peach.

But picture having to pack a kid for a week of sleep-away camp when you can’t find ANYTHING in your house. Or having a full week (nearly) of a hubby away, a bean in tow, no internet, roads all around your house being paved and blocked off, just home from four weeks away, your yard is skyhigh with weeds and still living in your basement with shit piled on shit. Yea. That.

I’ll just say that after all of those weeks of living out of suitcases (and living like campers with our makeshift kitchen in the basement for the two months prior), I am just CRAVING normal. Ready for us to have dressers. Our own rooms. A table to sit at that isn’t outside and at the mercy of the whims of mother nature. Lights we can turn on and be able to see our way clear through a room.

It’s the little things. So when we were able to finally move our office and have one room that was functional, I got a little misty.

I’m sure my funny will turn up soon. It seems like it’s hovering out there just waiting for me. I just need to be ready to RECEIVE it with open arms…and stop being such a prissy bitch.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Great Expectations. Jurassic 5. Don’t expect me to smile cause it’s in good taste. I know cats that’s no mistake smiling in my face. And don’t expect to try and guess if I’m mad or not. Or if I’m cold or hot, you would know if not.

Summer has started in earnest. The girlies have been off in their various locales this week whoopin it up in swimsuits all day. They come home looking like limp noodles and acting like they each have an ax to grind. The bean does the flop-around and declares to us that she “CAN’T DO [insert action]!” Which means absolutely nothing for herself. (Her kindergarten teacher next year will be thrilled no doubt.)

Miss-miss was sulking and grouchy too, so I shipped her off to co-op camp as a late joiner with a group of fellow parents switching off hosting kid duties. So far they’ve been at pools and water parks and having picnics and eating lots of shit food. Which is PRECISELY how summer when you’re 10 should be in my book.

But neither of them can do a single solitary thing that doesn’t bug the SHIT out of me. Be it miss-miss with her staring contests while she ‘waits’ for me to sunscreen her (did I mention that she’s 10?) or the bean calling for me the precise minute I decide to run down to brush my teeth. It irks me to no end. Here’s why:

After far too many liver tests coming back bad and near fainting spells, I finally decided to jump off the Lexapro wagon and hitch my ride to a star instead. And it has been working so freaking well that I am now officially a raving lunatic bitch (no comments please) with vertigo. Summer o’fun has begun.

If you’ve ever done a major house remodel, please raise your hand. If you’ve ever had to completely move out of said house to conduct said remodel, please keep it raised. If you’ve ever tried to sell multiple pieces of furniture and offload tons of kid accumulations, hand up. If you’ve had your kids at home during this debacle, raise the other one. (higher please, this needs to hurt.) If you’ve ever gone on an extended vacation, please keep both hands raised high. And if you’ve ever gone off of an antidepressant, please raise your hands and stand up. NOW.

If you’ve ever done all of these things simultaneously, please tie both hands behind your back and then reach down and hog-tie your legs (oh come on, don’t be a wuss), hang a large boulder around your neck, put on a blindfold and roll around on the floor. It will be more productive. Promise. (But you already knew that because you’ve DONE it BEFORE. Or you wouldn’t have had your hands raised for the last 10 minutes. Geesh.)

And now that I have officially claimed my spot in martyrdom land (and as if that hadn’t already happened 100 times over), I’m technically thrilled.

Thrilled that our over 10 years of waiting to re-do the kitchen has finally arrived. Thrilled that I can now see light from front to back of our tiny SoBo cottage (work with me, it makes it sound much more quaint). Thrilled that our floors are being refinished (and stained darker) after 12 too many years. Thrilled that the painters will have a clean slate to work with (but mostly that said painters are not MOI). Thrilled that we are cleaning out the rest of the accumulated shit that so, so needed to GO (though miss-miss had a meltdown when she discovered yesterday that I’d ridded her of 7 of the 12 lip balms she’s been hoarding. “They were SPECIAL TO ME, MOM!!! You so don’t get it!” [insert door slam.] Uh. Yes, you are correct there).Thrilled that we are finally doing the multi-week, multi-family, mostly beach trip back to SC (with a weeklong stop in Avon on Cape Hatteras) that we’ve talked about ad nauseam for YEARS.

What makes this all less-than-joyful would be the last, most crucial item. I’ll call it the WHOOSH-WHOOSHes. Lovely Lexapro saved my bacon when beloved people, pets and trees were dying all around me. And it kept me from curling up in the corner and rocking to-and-fro while softly humming Mockingbird when the stupid cancer hit. It actually kept me alive and relatively functioning (give or take some massive, wine-fueled crying jags once a month or so) so that miss-miss and bean could have some semblance of normalcy during the shit show of our lives that was the last 12 months.

BUT.

I started losing my vision. (That sounds like a REM song.) And those liver enzymes went sky high. And my vitamin D counts dropped way low. And my colon decided it wasn’t such a big fan of the gluten. And I gained 35 pounds. And I suddenly couldn’t have two glasses of wine without slurring my words.

SO.

I went to that psychiatrist and had that conference table meeting. And heard those hateful words — including that Lexapro was NOT the drug for me. As a result, I’ve been weening ever since with the final dose taken a week ago. And it SUCKS.

I am suddenly so pissed and annoyed at DAMN NEAR EVERYTHING that I had to walk around the block yesterday so I wouldn’t punch the hubby square in the MOUTH. His crime? He refused to try on a pair of shoes that I thought would be perfect for the beach. (Some nerve. Humphf.)

It’s a moment-by-moment struggle that makes every single solitary thing around me glow like there is a spotlight on it. Begging me to dropkick it and/or go postal on its ass. But instead, I try to breathe deeply and walk around the block like some fruitcake — carrying my cup of water and trying not to cry.

The best part is the WHOOSH-WHOOSHes. Like I’m stuck on one of those old timey playground merry-go-rounds. The really fun ones that you and all of your friends could be on at once while one of you ran and pushed and jumped on to enjoy the ride at the very last second. When playground equipment was still FUN and not overly sanitized by liability and lawsuits…but I digress. It’s also much like the time I was in the Hôtel Des Invalides gazing up at the beautiful, intricately painted ceiling and almost fell over backwards. Would’ve if my Papa hadn’t been directly behind me doing the same thing.

I’m on a permanent merry-go-round ride/extremely high art viewing adventure. And you try packing up an entire house while making sure the crucial vaca items are still locatable when you can’t even stand up straight without the WHOOSH-WHOOSH train bearing down on your ass. Go ahead. Do it.

In desperation, I went on a Leaving the LEX forum to see what the other wild ones were up to. Turns out one girl started kicking strangers’ cars in the parking lot if they parked too close. Another screamed SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP at any given moment. And yet another feels like she’s moving through aspic and has a 1 second lag time for everything she does.

Two things about it strike me as ironic. (Besides the fact that only one guy had weighed in and his only goal appeared to be to criticize everyone.) First is that your anger reflexes are hyper-sensitized and lightning fast. And second is that your physical reactions are tortoise slow. Odd.

So you want to BITCH SLAP somebody and FAST. If only you could get your arm to lift up and make your brain stop WHOOSH-WHOOSHing long enough to stand up straight. Ah yes. Psycho Pharma and its many Charma-ramas.

And now that THAT is off my chest, we are back to THRILLED BEYOND BELIEF that we’ll be on a plane drinking bloodys on the one-year cancer anniversary vs. sitting around crying and panicking that our oh-so-good life was coming to an end. See? There is ALWAYS something to be thankful for. (That one was for YOU, Mima.)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Daughter. Loudon Wainwright III. That’s my daughter in the water, I lost every time I fought her. Yea, I lost every time.

So I can’t help but wonder — if you haven’t been able to surmise — if it truly, really is all about me. I mean, seriously. I’ve devoted all of my blog to writing about the hubby’s cancer travails. Then, when it starts to get really good I take a hiatus. Don’t report any of the good stuff. Just tell everyone to STUFF IT.

But we’ve been in test mode. And kitchen gutting mode. And end of school mode. And STUPID FUCKING SOCCER DRAMA mode. And whatever else befalls us mode.

Now I’m on my back deck/porch drinking a whole bottle of rosé and ready to ruminate on the last couple of weeks. GD IT.

Here’s the recap.

Our kitchen demo started. I had a colonoscopy. Then they said I might have celiac. So I panicked and tried to figure out what gluten-free looked like. Then I went on a crazy cleanse with the hubby that was underscored by a prominent local psychiatrist who said I was bipolar II. Then I decided to ignore the good doc and enjoy the weekend. So the cleanse ended with a bang and some gluten-free pizza + wine at Lucky Pie. I’ll call it my PIZZA CLEANSE (thanks snarky-snarkerson. you know who you are.)

I realized that I can’t handle the stress of being celiac and bipolar without gluten and wine. Ferfucksakes.

Then it was the hubby’s turn. He had a follow up CT scan. Then a colonoscopy. (The staff said, “You guys are in here all the time!”). Then bean had graduation from preschool and I was in charge. And miss-miss had to be Sybil Luddington at her 4th grade colonial wax museum (and I was in charge of the costume fetching.) And there were chickens to be tended in the classroom. Soccer pre-tryouts to attend. Parties for the end of everything (except for my mental state.) And by the time we heard: “You’re good, dude. Cancer is at bay. See ya in three months. Enjoy your vaca,” we were reeling so hard that we weren’t even sure we’d heard the words correctly.

So instead of a happy dance with champagne flowing out of our asses, we were bound by duties to attend soccer parties, end of school gatherings, preschool picnics and more soccer tryout practices.

And hear me now. I AM SO DONE WITH SOCCER THAT I THREW UP IN MY MOUTH AND SWALLOWED.

The joy of the hubby being cancer-free for now was completely overtaken by a completely ridiculous drama being played out in kids’ soccer land. And that really pisses me off.

But. Instead of going on a predictable rant about what is happening to our kids exactly and WHY must we give a rat’s ass about fucking soccer when we clearly live in the football and beer society that we do. And SINCE WHEN did soccer for 10-year-olds equate to a life-or-death drama quotient. Well. There you go. We were in it and barely acknowledged said cancer victory moment. Because everyone in a 30-mile radius was completely and utterly focused on which-coach-was-going-where and who-fired-who and how-will-this-affect-my-kid’s-chances-to-make-gold-team. Fuck-me-a-runnin. I was in it too.

Though I have ZERO illusions about my kid’s athletic prowess (she’s her mother and should stick to running those 10-minute-miles fershittinsakes). I couldn’t help but engage in the collective outrage. And the migration to soccer club #2. And add to the stress in our lives by saying “of course. we too would love to spend EVERY FUCKING WAKING MINUTE THINKING ABOUT SOCCER AND THE OPTIONS HERE IN BOULDER.”

Because every last one of us is SO SURE that we have the next Mia Hamm on our hands. And she just can’t be squelched. Because THAT’S HOW WE’LL PAY FOR STANFORD. And THAT’S WHAT WE’LL BE ABLE TO WRITE ABOUT IN THE NEXT OBNOXIOUSLY LONG CHRISTMAS LETTER.

What the hell.

Call me sour grapes. My kid is crushed because the soccer club she dedicated the last four years of her life to hasn’t even bothered to call her to say YOU SUCK. Nope. Worse. The kid went through five+ rounds of practice and tryouts and bullshit just to be left on the sidelines when all but one of her friends was offered a spot somewhere.

And the irony? I actually care. I care because I watched those crocodile tears stream down her face in angst as the reality set in. As she contemplated foregoing the long-awaited and much-anticipated trip to Waterworld with the team tomorrow because she couldn’t bear to be the only one not on a team for next year.

GDMF. I could kill someone. With. My. Bare. Hands.

For FUCK SAKES. She’s only TEN. She’s supposed to be so thrilled that it’s summer. Riding her bike to the minimart to play Pacman and buy some Lik-m-Aids and Cheerwine. And this is what we get.

We have the TRAUMA of our LIVES rectified and it goes past unnoticed because of competitive soccer drama. I demand a do-over.

The good news? We are sooo thrilled to hit the beach for as long as possible this summer. No drama. No helicopter parents coaching their soon-to-be-pro kids from the sidelines. Just beach, beer, sand and Coppertone. (Okay, come rob us. I know that’s what you’re thinking.)

But before we can escape the bedlam of power outages due to entire breaker boxes being replaced. And men in your bedroom before 8:30am to check a switch. WE HAVE TO MOVE OUT.

If you’ve ever gone away for an extended period of time. You know. It’s no small task. Especially if you factor in working and kids home from school and bored to tears.

But factor in having to MOVE OUT before you go and it is (understatement) — a herculean task.

I’ve spent the past few days (very productively) yelling at the hubby repeatedly. To the point that the girls recited to daddy when I wasn’t around, “Mommy has to do everything around here.” Oops. I also told my mom that if I had to bring in the boxes from the back of the car after two days of having my rear view blocked that I would most likely hurl them all directly at his head.

Did I mention that I was bipolar?

So. Vacation. One month. Come home to not having an assembled house. But I digress. Let me focus fully for a minute. WE. ARE. GOING. TO. THE. BEACH. FOR. A. MONTH. TO. HAVE. TOES. IN. SAND. AND. DRINK. LITERS. OF. BEER. FILLED. WITH. GLUTEN.

If that’s not having your priorities in line I don’t know what is. Fuck soccer. Fuck cancer. It’s time to savor life and forget about those stupid things that really don’t matter. You dig?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Colors. Amos Lee. Your mama called, she said, that you’re downstairs crying. Feeling like such a mess. Ya, I hear ya, in the back ground bawling. What happened to your sweet summer time dress.

If you’ve met me, you probably know that I would never voluntarily give up drinking wine, eating carbs or having dessert. Unless I had a gun to my head.

Well, ready, aim, fire, people. A gun was drawn (in the form of the threat of celiac and potential liver disease from suspected autoimmune hepatitis) after last week’s colonoscopy. Yes. Lovely.

So that would be how I started last weekend. Being bitch-slapped by my snarkiness towards the [insert food group]-free diets that run rampant in the bubble that is my town. I immersed myself in gluten-free info and was promptly overwhelmed. I mean, never another beer?! Or pizza? Christ on a cracker. (gluten-free, of course).

But I embraced it with gusto. This may be just the change I need to kick my ass in gear and shift it down in size a ton or two while I’m at it. I spent the weekend treading lightly and was successful.

Then.

The hubby and I started talking about this book I’d recently read called CLEAN. And after more discussion, we decided to embark on a full-fledged cleanse. With the barrel of that 40 magnum (aka, liver biopsy) pointed straight at my temple, I was highly motivated. So we embraced that with gusto too. Feeling very confident that all of my tests would come back negative AND I would most certainly have even better results in three weeks after the cleanse. (No blood work for me until then. You hear me?)

We are now officially on Day Three of said cleanse (though we started on Monday unofficially). I haven’t craved anything I’m not allowed so far. So okay fine. Smoothies from the Vita Mix twice a day (thanks Profts!) with all sorts of delicious goodness like maca powder, spirulina, brown rice protein powder, acai powder, bee pollen, etc., etc., ad nauseam. And a ‘clean’ lunch each day. The food is quite delicious even though the hubby has to chef it up in the temporary/camp kitchen in the basement while our kitchen is gutted. So be it.

So it was on the first official day of said cleanse, I just so happened to have scheduled an appointment with one of the top psychiatrists in the area. Long story short,  something in Lexapro-land was not right. So I decided it was high time to dump the drugs and move on. But I wanted to be a responsible drug-user. And after the year I’ve had, I knew this would be a safe move anyway. My head is so full of junk that it could stand to be shrunk down a few sizes. For crying out loud.

True Blue made the recommendation and she was right as rain. He was just what the —er— doctor ordered. Very kind eyes drew me in immediately. Now, I’ve done my share of therapy, but I’ve never been to a psychiatrist. (I know, shocking, isn’t it?) I had no idea what to expect. And the conference table was a real surprise. No couch with the doc in the pondering chair. It was a business meeting.

I sat there for well over an hour while he did his evaluation. I talked almost the whole time and then it was come to Jesus time. My diagnosis. (Wow, that was QUICK. And I fancy myself so mysterious…)

Turns out? All that celiac symptom/liver dysfunction/lethargy/poopy-pants action has a simple explanation:  Bipolar II. (Catherine Zeta-Jones anyone?)

I had just read the People article about CZJ and it did strike quite a few chords. Her husband had cancer and she never popped back. Yes. Yes. And yes.

So it turns out I am her (sans the summer house in Mallorca and the ranch in Aspen of course). And, it turns out, the diagnosis left me shaken to the core.

You know, you spend an entire lifetime working to be the sane one. Working to NOT be your father and start fresh with your own little family. Then one day, you’re in bed. There’s a new infant somewhere in the house. And you can’t bring yourself to turn on the light and make sure she’s okay. Luckily you have an amazing partner in the hubby and he stands vigil for two days while feeding the babe the breast milk from the fridge and finally formula in desperation. The 6-year-old just thinks it’s a holiday with lots of TV.

Even though you come back from that particular psychosis relatively intact, it changes you. It tells you there is a darkness in you and you work so hard to make sure it never rears it’s ugly head again.

Then, your rock. Your solace. Your one-true-love falls seriously ill and there is a crack. Small, but detectable. It was started by the rock in the windshield called your beloved grandmother who was never to leave you dying. But you know that all hell just CANNOT break loose. It’s YOUR TURN to be the strong one. Finally. And you DO IT. Not only DO IT — YOU TOTALLY KICK IT’S ASS.

But just as you are brushing your hands of it in finality, the crack starts to widen. But instead of light? There’s the blackest black of darkness you’ve ever seen and it chills you to the bone.

So it isn’t without any suspicions that I called said doc. I’m a renowned self-diagnoser. But when you hear those words. Those ugly, black-and-blue words with all of their stigma and scariness, the bottom falls out for a minute. You call your mom and cry in the car, “Why ME?”

But then it’s bootstraps time. Get informed. Stay on the cleanse (it helps, apparently by a stroke of timing luck). And figure this out so you can be whole again.

So now, we went to get the hubby’s first post-chemo CT scan today. And it absolutely, positively has to be clean. No other option. But we wait. Then next week he has his colonoscopy and the follow up testing will be complete. We’ll wait patiently and meet with Dr. J the following week to catch up and hear those beautiful, bell-ringing words: “You’re cancer-free.”

And we’ll get through it all. We’ll cleanse. We’ll see more doctors. We’ll take more meds. We’ll feel healthy. We’ll smile. We’ll rejoice in life. And LIVE. No other option.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Hurt. NIN. I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair. Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair. Beneath the stains of time the feelings disappear. You are someone else. I am still right here.

>If you are sexually repressed or overly sensitive, please do not read on. Because I am now going to talk to you about hard-ons. That ubiquitously male tent pole in the pants that can at once be a source of shame or a badge of honor, depending on the age in which it occurs.

The thing about a hard-on is it can happen at any time. It’s uncontrollable and sudden. And it’s a beacon that ultimately points to one thing — and one thing only — regardless of sexual orientation.

Now when you are male and come down with the big C, the part of the body that must be attacked to save your life is beside the point. But once said cancer is duly disposed of, it could be that your life is irrevocably altered if you’ve had giant lasers and surgeon scalpels pointed at your nether regions.

You see where I’m going with this. Now, enter VIAGRA (or any of those other tiny male miracle pills that fill our inboxes daily with spam). I don’t know about you, but I am HIGHLY unlikely to take these mysterious offerers of HOT SEXY FREEDOM up on their drugs that come from GODKNOWSWHERE. This is, of course, beside the point, but…

Instead, I delete the emails like a daily plague while saying a silent prayer of gratitude that these pills exist in such abundance. Here’s why.

For more years than I can count, I’ve been among those hoards of women who pretend to be asleep. Who inwardly go concave when — TURNS OUT — I was about to be the recipient of a nice, big INNOCENT bear hug with no underlying innuendo.

You all know these women. We’re at your girls’ nights, your book clubs, your PTO meetings, on your Facebook and at your dinner tables. We’ve been finishing college and grad school as hot little willing participants. But then we started those long days of corporate desk or travel slogdom. Bringing home the bacon too while taking our temperatures and saying, “NOW.” Then came the ultimate juggling act. Big time career coupled with those little birdies crowding up the nest with their sweet little mouths waiting for the worm.

So those UPALLNIGHT worm-providing through our once ample — and much ogled — breasts episodes, followed by the days of trying to be A WOMAN OF THE 00s began to take it’s toll. Some of us quit to focus on the birdies and TO STOP BURNING THAT DAMNABLE CANDLE AT BOTH ENDS. Some of us kept up the good fight. And some of us channeled our creative juices into a side business that we run after the birdies are roosted for the night and you are in your birthday suit pitching a tent in the sheets and waiting for us to return to you.

About the time of a second wind called ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (and a little thing called completely unfair and poorly-timed hormones), you might be ready to go back to rock-n-roll queen-dom. Patently unfair if you happen to have a partner with the BIG C.
Luckily, some mad scientist — who I’m guessing was not female (just sayin’) — uncovered the secret formula for loving forever. (I think Hugh Hefner was behind it all.)

So if you’re 40-something and just trying to survive the madness. And if you happen to end up with a male partner with cancer, there may be hope after all.

And if — after a few months of religious pill use — he wakes up one morning, reaches for your hand (awwww…) and pulls it towards his crotch beacon that is suddenly emitting a signal with no pills in sight [LOUD needle scratch], you may actually find yourself NOT feigning sleep THIS ONE TIME.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Make Some Noise. Beasties. My rhymes… age like wine as I get older. I’m getting bolder competition is waning.I got the feeling and I’m single laning.

>Without warning your life goes from cancer [insert dark cloud and boom of thunder that follows you everywhere] to you’re done!!! [insert people looking for all that sparkly sunshine that’s supposed to be poking through them thar clouds] But there really haven’t been any moments of screaming from the rooftops. No moments of intense jubilation. No shoulders suddenly removed from ears moments of oh, that’s where they go.

And this was puzzling me. Where were the hallelujahs and praise Jesuses? Or even the champagne fountain complete with fireworks that shoot out of everyone’s ASSES at the push of a button? No where. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

And then it hit me. Like a shot of sun reflection to the eye from a shiny bumper in a summer parking lot. CANCER IS NOT OVER. IT WILL NEVER, EVER BE OVER.

Ah-ha moment complete, the hubby and I had a chat. And the truth of it is that no matter how many times we assure people that, “Yes, he’s better! Yes, he’s all done with treatment! Yes, we are so relieved to be on this side!” We are a couple of fucking liars.

We smile and nod and say all of the right things. Because, really, even your closest friends DO NOT want to hear what you’re really thinking. And that is something like this:

“WHAT? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I’M PISSED! WHERE THE EFF DID THE LAST YEAR OF MY LIFE GO?!”

and

“CANCER ISN’T SOMETHING YOU ARE JUST FUCKING DONE WITH! YOU AREN’T EVER DONE UNTIL IT’S DONE WITH YOU! AND EVEN THEN, IT’S NEVER DONE WITH YOU. YOU ARE FOREVER SOMEONE WHO HAD CANCER AND WONDERS IF OR WHEN YOU’LL BE CATAPULTED BACKWARDS INTO ALL OF THAT SHIT AGAIN!!!”

So now that I got that off my chest, I’m concentrating on removing my shoulders from my ears and remembering what it feels like to fully inhale and exhale like you have all of the time in the world.

We took some time after the last treatment to try to get life back on track. I was immediately bombarded with all those “YAYS YOU’RE BACKS! Now you can finally get my shit DONES!” We got pummeled and batted around like a trapped fly with medical reports (see my last post). Got the pump out and did a couple of fist pumps for that. The hubby headed back to Cali for some overdue work meetings.

Then it was off to Florida for the much-anticipated and much-needed vacation. After about a million ideas including everything from Fiji (my all-time ultimate dream vaca, just in case you’re really rich and want to sponsor us) to Turks & Caicos (running a very close second), we landed in Tampa with a small thud, but very thankful for the amazing generosity of friends who loaned us their posh condo in a four-star resort.

It’s funny how we were so GOING BIG and then sat there two nights after the port was out and said, “We’re tired.” We suddenly had no steam to fuel the energy needed to update passports, book places abroad and fly for hours. No. We just needed some warmth and a pool. And the Brents were at the ready.

Turns out it was just what the doctor ordered. The pool was perfect and staffed. The beaches were an easy day trip away. And we even decided last minute to surprise the girls with a day trip to the Magic Kingdom on a rainy day. It wasn’t until they spied the big ears that they had a clue and it was priceless. We slogged around my formerly most hated place in the universe and joined in with their joy immediately. We laughed all day because we were soaked to our unders and wearing Disney ponchos no less. At one point, I ran into one of the many stores to grab said ponchos and when the hubby called to find me, I explained, “I think I’ve landed in the place were the princesses go to vomit.”

We truly had a GREAT day. Embraced it fully and didn’t let the constant drenching downpour and closed rides due to lightning dampen our enthusiasm. “I JUST FINISHED CANCER TREATMENT AND I’M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!!”

Uh. No. But I’m so riding Dumbo again the next time I go…

So since we landed back in reality post vacation, we’ve been in the throes of kitchen remodel. We have to fully move out this weekend. And then there was the downed apple tree from—er—MAY 2010 to contend with. And a garden to plant. And soccer games to attend. And science projects to complete. And birthdays to celebrate. And new clients to pitch. And annual meetings to plan.

And. Well. Before you know it, you’re back ensconced. Forever changed and liver enzymes all wack from too much wine. But.

I may never take a fully deep breath again. An so what if my shoulders reach for the sky. My nearest and dearest is here and alive and sassy enough to tell me to take a chill pill. So that’s all I need. (I don’t need this or this. Just this ashtray… And this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that’s all I need… )

TODAY’S THEME SONG: These Days. Black Keys. My hand to God
I didn’t mean to. After all. Look what we’ve been through.

>

“I’ve had some time to think about IT
And watch the sun sink like a stone
I’ve had some time to think about you
On the long ride home…”
–Long Ride Home

“Things can move at such a pace
The second hand just waved goodbye.”
–Let Him Fly

Patty Griffin just seems to pop into our minds on a day like today. Close call? Coulda been IT? HOLY SHIT? I did think these lyrics at many times over the last of these HELLISH 9 months. When you hear those FUCKING stupid words: CANCER. STAGE. THREE. I immediately pictured myself in black (painfully stylish though trying to look too grief-stricken to care.) Jackie O. Yes.

GDMF. It’s been a LONG STRANGE TRIP. And today when we got up for the early call of the surgeon, it felt like deja vu. Our hearts racing in fear of waking up late. But been there done that. So up we got. At 5am. Showered. Dressed. Then girls. Complaining. “I’m exhausted.” (Yea. Me too sister.) Purse Girl at the ready (along with TRPL TRBL and Tabby Cat if needed). We are SO freaking blessed. And I don’t really mean that in a JESUS way. I mean it more in a UNIVERSE HAS BEEN EXCEPTIONALLY KIND TO US kind of way. (Though I’m sure that all of my many, many friends praying to Jesus has helped too.)

Today was the day. The day that I could officially stop wallowing and start to truly look forward. But, DAMN, if it didn’t feel almost the same. The palpitations. The same ride to Lutheran in Wheat Ridge. But instead of all of those side-head-tilts-I’m-sure-it-will-all-be-okays (Mel? Ring a bell?), it was HELL-YES-ES! As in HAIL-YAY-ES. Seriously.

When someone actually arrives to have a PORT taken out? Well, that just means another FUCK-YOU-CANCER! (And who doesn’t want to SCREAM that from the top of their lungs? Seriously.

The last few weeks haven’t been the rosy road I had envisioned (delusions of grandeur anyone?) After the biopsy and Mayo send, we were all SO? (Kind of like Pauly D on Jersey Shore. “WHAT-CHOO-LOOKIN-AT-BI-OTCH?!”)

Turns out. No. Those results weren’t just nothing to worry about. They were showing more FUCKING CANCER to not just one, but TWO pathologists. And. Turns out? Not one of the three awesome docs wanted to be the one to say those truly SHIT-I-FIED words to us. THE COUPLE. The couple who is so in love that they all well up with tears when they look at us? Yea. That’s US.

So it wasn’t until our dear, dear Kelly at the surgeon’s office came in to meet with us that we learned the full scoop. Dr. Hollywood (love him) was still in surgery, so she grabbed paperwork in that“HOLYSHITYOU’VEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME” kind of way. I could read it on her face. Lucky for us, Doc Mozia returned before we left. Cleared it up like this:

“It’s like this. We were all shitting our pants. Knew it couldn’t be more FUCKING CANCER. But DAMN if those results didn’t just scream that right in all of our overly educated faces. So. We all three agreed: TIME FOR ANOTHER OPINION. And we decided to keep this juicy tidbit to ourselves. No staff. Just the three of us. And whoever got the results back from Mayo first? Well. THEY could do the deed.”

One of them did. Just. That. But how can you NOT freak out all over again when cute Kelly is welling up and asking how we’re taking the news. My breath LEFT me. No breath for the wicked. (I’m sorry, Jesus. I really do love you. I take it all back.)

It wasn’t until the mystery was all cleared up. NOFUCKINGCANCER. And 10 minutes down the road that I lost it. Full wailing. Holy shit. The dam broke. Then later than night and some wine later: “So. What would you DO?” “Well. If it was 20 years and I was 63? I’d fight it. If it was 40 years and I was 83? Not so much.” Okay. I could live with that. Because I was thinking: “Kauai. I will move us there and we will be exceptionally happy for FIVE YEARS.”

What a relief. I can keep the love of my life for a little while longer AND we can start making some seriously kick-ass plans for the FUTURE. Future. A concept that has just rejoined our vernacular. A few short hours ago.

So after the surgery, we hit Union Brasserie before they were officially open and those Profts. Well. They opened their arms. Their bottle of prosecco. And made us one freakin’ awesome omelette. Yes. We. Are. Blessed.

We love you all and our hearts are now so open that we can’t imagine a life without each and every one of you…

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Road Trippin. Chilis. So much has come before those battles lost and won. This life is shining more forever in the sun.