Moments

I've been feeling a little sentimental, and thinking about the moments that have made up my life. Wrote this sappy little thing this morning. Not very well edited, but I thought I'd put it up before I get distracted with some shiny new object.

“Wo . . . would you like to . . . ?

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“I’ve been thinking . . . and
wonder if you’d marry me?”

“Of course. Of course I would.”

“I’m so happy.”

“Me too. But there’s no money
in the bank, and we need groceries.”

“It’s all right. I’ll take care of it. Always.”

“I hope so, because
it’s going to be a girl.”

“A girl? A baby girl?”

“Yes, isn’t she beautiful?”

“Wow. She’s perfect.”

“She is. But we’ll need more room.”

“More room?”

“For her brother.”

“A son?"

"He'll be like you."

"I’ll build you anything.
Anything you need. Always.”

“Good. Because I’m hearing
lots of little feet in our future.”

“Then we’ll make lots of little rooms.”

“I’m happy. But so tired.
There’s so much to do.”

“It’s all right. We’ll do it together, always.”

“I knew you would.
Honey, this boy says he loves her.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Almost as good as you.”

“Then we’ll do all we can for them.”

“They seem so happy.
Do you remember that time?”

“Of course. And we’re not that different.
But now my eyes are weak. My hair is gray.”

“Which is perfect, for a grandpa.”

“Grandpa? Oh my. Were our babies that small?”

“Always. And that beautiful.”

“Yes, I remember. So long ago.”

“Honey, the doctor wants to see us both.”

“The tests? They’re in?”

“Yes. I’m scared. Hold me.”

“Always.”

Amazing Ups and Big Bumps

It's not supposed to be like this. I was told, very clearly, that each round of chemo would be worst the last. But my Christmas miracle has continued. I can still taste food. Don't even have to use plastic utensils. My mouth isn't raw. Neither is my nose. Everything is easier. Not complaining, but plenty baffled.

Yesterday I had a doctor visit (got a lymphatic draining massage, which isn't nearly as nice as a regular one, but a massage is a massage) then went hat shopping (I LOVE my new hat) then after a long nap had the energy to go see the Zoo Lights, in the dark and the cold. Of course, I forgot the camera and hot chocolate, but it was still a great day.

I had hoped today would be another great follow up. We loaded up the car and headed to Logan to visit my mother. But the roads were awful and in the end we had a close encounter with another vehicle. There were no injuries, and the cars can be repaired. The worst part is that I didn't get to see my mom.

But I'll still take a day like today over the other option.

Christmas Bells, Miracles, and Fishies

 

I started to blog about my amazing children and how they saved Christmas at our house, but before I did I read a little story in the newspaper about a farm family from long ago with about twelve children and the mom had to take to the dad to the hospital with a serious illness right at Christmas time. So while they were gone the older children milked the cows and harvested the grains and slopped the hogs and built toys for the little ones and chopped down a tree and made Christmas dinner and fed and bathed the little ones and even sang Christmas carols and told them the Christmas story. And you'll be glad to know Mom and Dad got home just in the nick of time and it was the best Christmas ever.

Kind of deflated my more modern story. But here it goes. Hope it's not too disappointing.

At our house we have one little ten-year-old who is the ultimate when it comes to cheer and festivity. He is trying sooo desperately to cling to the sweet sound of Santa's sleigh bells (if you haven't seen Polar Express please stop what you're doing right now and see it.) We also have a Mom with two problems. First, she's one of most sappy, sentimental people ever and this is her youngest child and she also desperately wants him to keep hearing those bells one last year. But she is also pumped full of these icky drugs that have wreaked havoc with her brain and mind. On Christmas Eve, there were these pumped-up steroid fishy-drugs saying "KEEP MOVING! THAT'S RIGHT! ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER!. DO NOT STOP!" At the same time there were these terribly seductive fishies going, "Come on sweetie, just a little nap. Just come put your head on this little pillow." There was this other fire fishie that kept setting my head ablaze. And finally there were these whacked-out fishies just swimming in circles going "AAAHHHHCCCCHHHH!!" My head was a mess. It would be easier to count the number of times I got out of bed than the times I took a nap, though it's all a blur.

Well, there were no pigs to slop, but those kids of mine cheerfully cleaned the kitchen, did the shopping, took the little guy sledding and helped build a snowman before he became spontaneously combustible, and wrapped presents. I was so proud--even if you couldn't tell by my psyched-out demeanor.

But by evening it became clear that those bells would not be ringing unless Mom took off her crazy hat. I sincerely prayed for a Christmas Miracle, and wouldn't you know, I got it. Other than alternating real hats throughout the day (hard to find just the right 'dressed up but at home all day in a hot kitchen with hot flashes going off bald lady hat') I felt like a regular person clear up until Christmas Evening. And maybe the biggest miracle? I, even I, could TASTE the roast beast! (In case you didn't know, the chemo has taken away my sense of taste for the most part. But Christmas dinner was fabulous! How's that for a miracle?)

We didn't make it out with neighbor gifts and greetings like we usually do, and I was in hiding when most came to my door--but I hope you all had a fabulous holiday!


Proof that there was a snowman:

Santa came!

"The Dude" in his new clothes

Cutest Babe Ever! (Grandma in her workout wig)

Can't add much to this. Ethan at his First Christmas finest!

What not to say to a cancer patient--A practical guide

Let me preface this posting by saying that I'm just as guilty as anyone else of saying the exact wrong thing to a sick person. Also, this is based purely on my reactions, no scientific research has gone into this, so it could be totally off the wall. And finally, if you recognize yourself here, please keep in mind that I still love you. =)

But with all that said, since it's often awkward to talk to someone with a serious illness, especially when they've just been diagnosed, I thought I'd throw out some of the things I've learned by being a the recipient of a whole bunch of loving attempts.

1. Never say, "Are you terminal?" or even worse, "Are you going to die?" (true story). If you really must know, it is better to say, "What is your prognosis?" But that question is better asked after the patient has had time to meet with doctors and get a grip on reality. It took time for me to come to grips with death as a possibility. Don't be the one to bring it up.

2. Everyone knows someone with cancer. By the time the patient has talked to 100 people, they have heard a 150 stories of others with cancer. It gets old, and even can (not saying it always does, but can) begin to trivialize their own experience. But it is sometimes helpful to know that others have gone through the same thing. So after considerable thought, here's my recommendation: Only offer up someone's story if you are very close to them (like a 1st-generation relative or close friend.) Unless you have a really good reason, skip the small talk about your neighbor's sister-in-law.

3. This is related to the second rule, but unless you have a really good reason, only share the story of your close and personal friend or relative if the person survived and the cancer didn't come back. (I even broke that rule recently.) The first few days after my diagnosis, I heard at least five stories of people who had either died or were fighting a second round. Depressing. Depressing. Depressing.

4. My all-time favorite thing not to say: "So are they going to cut your boobies off?" No commentary needed.