IT’S A SMALL WORLD, AFTER ALL

Kendrie -- Day 98 OT
Blaine -- who the heck knows, but he had his lip repaired today and said it hurt like hell.

Yes, it is indeed a small world. Or maybe it’s just that MY worlds are so small they occasionally bump into one another. That happened this week, in sort of a funny way. Not funny as in ha-ha, but funny as in coincidental, fluky, small-world-sort of way. Or could it be that my worlds are so BIG that they occasionally bump into one another? Like my thighs?

Wait. What was my point again?

Oh, yeah, small world stuff. I spent the weekend before last cleaning out my kids’ closets, getting ready to put away their winter clothes and drag out the summer stuff. I have to confess this makes me very happy, considering Kellen and Kendrie SHARE a closet the size of a coat closet in their bedroom, no lie, so having all those jeans and sweaters in there makes for pretty crowded quarters. Shorts and t-shirts are much more manageable. Regarding the cramped space, Blaine put in an extra bar, I’ve tried putting shoes on the top shelf ….. I’ve even considered calling in the Dream Closet people, but with only twelve square feet of space, I’m not sure they could accomplish much.

Wait. What was my point again?

Oh, yeah, closets. In going through their clothes, I began to separate the too-small outfits into three piles: good enough to sell on ebay, mediocre enough to donate to Goodwill, and so crappy not even the hurricane victims would want this stuff.

Several of the “good enough to sell on ebay” outfits were actually matching brother/sister/sister outfits that the kids have worn the past few years for church and Easter photos. On a side note, wish me luck that they don’t turn up their noses this year, thinking they are too “old and mature” for silly matching dresses --- especially considering I’ve already bought them for this year! I keep waiting for the day they refuse to humor my oh-you’re-so-cute-in-your-matching-clothes requests …. I’m not sure if the matching Easter outfits, or the matching PJ’s at Christmas will be the first to go, but I’m not ready to give up either just yet, let me tell you.

Wait. What was my point again?

Oh, yeah, ebay. I’m not any kind of power ebay seller, like my girlfriend Renee, who has dozens of items going online at any given time. I only sell two or three times a year, and I just sell clothes that don’t fit my kids any more, but are still in good shape. I don’t make hundreds of dollars …. Heck, sometimes I don’t even make enough to cover the ebay fees and postage and I wind up LOSING money, prompting me to wonder why didn’t I just take it to Goodwill to begin with??? But it’s fun to track the items and if I’m lucky, I make a little bit of money, at least enough to pay for the gas to drive the bags to the post office. I really should check into that postal delivery from home option.

So I called Renee this week, the Queen of All Things Ebay, and asked her opinion: “Hey, I’ve got several sets of matching outfits that the kids wore for Easter the past few years. I think it might bring more attention to the sale if I put a photo of the kids in their matching outfits up on the site …. What do you think? Is that a security issue? Pictures of my kids just floating around on the internet?? Am I risking their safety in the hopes of making a few measly dollars?” But, she reminded me that I’ve been putting their pictures up on this Caringbridge site for over two years now and have never given it a second thought, have gone public with the dates our family is gone on vacation, dates we’re going to be certain places ….. yeah, good point. So up the pictures went, notions of security by the wayside.

Two days later, I got an e-mail from ebay that someone had a question about one of my sale items. “Good!” I thought, “at least someone is checking out my stuff.” It’s depressing to put items up on ebay, pay the insertion fees, and have not one single person bid on it. Like the universe is sending me the message, “Hey, lady, we don’t want your crap.” So when someone sends a message, usually a question about an outfit, or combining shipping charges if they buy more than one thing, I take it as a good sign. At least someone is *considering* my crap.

I opened the message, only to have the text of the message read: “Oh my gosh! I follow your daughter’s story on Caringbridge!!”

Now, how funny is that? She must have recognized the photo of Brayden, Kellen and Kendrie that I had previously on this site, the same photo that I had just put up on ebay in an attempt to sell the clothes ….. that cracks me up. Maybe that’s a great way to increase my ebay sales …. Try to coax all of you CB readers to go to ebay and check out the sale items listed under kristieokc, my ebay name. You should go there just to see what Kendrie looked liked before diagnosis, when she really had hair. Or, I could end every ebay auction with a web link to this Caringbridge site, and try to bring two of my worlds even closer.

What’s even more interesting is that this is the second time something like that has happened. The first time I was selling a bunch of outfits with matching hats, purchased during Kendrie’s Bald Phase #1, and the lady who bought them told me how happy she was to have found them because she was trying to adopt a little girl with leukemia ….. so I wound up introducing her to my online support group. Again, I’m telling you, it’s a small world.

Anyway, I just found that pretty coincidental. It’s not like I have millions of people reading this site, or that there can possibly be millions of people scouring ebay for matching brother/sister Easter outfits. And yet one person managed to find me on both. Small world, don’t you think?

One more thing before I sign off ---- I hope you guys have been following Keegan’s site the past few weeks as he has begun his relapse protocol. He’s having a rough go of it lately with some ara-c fevers and unplanned ER visits and I’m sure he could use the support from all of you. And in extremely depressing news, an adorable little girl named Hunter on our list serve found out this week that she has also relapsed. What makes Hunter’s relapse even more insulting is that she just finished treatment in February, and had gone in this week to have her port removed, and to get one final “all-clear” spinal, only to have the spinal show leukemia cells in her CNS. Thankfully Hunter’s bone marrow was clear … small consolation for a child who finished two plus years of chemo, only to have to start all over again. Please take a moment to go to Hunter’s site and give her some words of encouragement as she faces this newest battle.

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY

AKA WHAT A DIFFERENCE A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP MAKES!

Kendrie -- day 97 OT
Blaine -- countdown to radiation

I have a confession to make: I have a new, favorite device for the bedroom. In fact, I have TWO --- one for each hand! Woo-hoo!!! Now, before your minds go crashing any further down in the gutter, let me back up:

There is nothing as ugly on this planet …. not even a fat man in a Speedo …. As ME, when I am sleep-deprived. And I don’t mean physically ugly, despite the crazy hair and bags under my eyes. I mean ugly as in grumpy, crabby, mean. No patience, no humor, no interest in anything that doesn’t involve ME and a NAP.

So when I came home from my scrapbooking getaway this weekend, slightly sleep-deprived because my girlfriends forced me at gunpoint to stay up late, gossiping and eating chocolate every night, Blaine recognized the (not too bad at this point, but it was coming) Ugly-Face and quickly recommended I go to bed early and he would put the kids to bed … even though he was feeling a wee bit “off”, himself. Not one to turn down a suggestion like that, off to bed I went, with visions of me, sleeping soundly through the night in my OWN bed, dancing before my eyes.

Now, I have to tell you that in addition to the fat, swollen feet, I have also become the proud owner of fat, chubby hands the past few weeks. Hands that no longer can accommodate a wedding ring … OR an anniversary band. Or even a watch because my wrists are so … well, shall we say, pleasantly plump. So, when you have big-fat-pregnancy-hands that can’t be held at higher than a 5-degree angle without going all numb and tingly, sleeping becomes an issue. And never more so than Sunday night.

I woke up, no lie, at least once every half hour with aches and pain and tingling and numbness in my wrists and fingers. Miserable, I tell you. First I would flap my hands about, like a demented bird with broken wings, trying to get blood flow resumed. Then I would have to sit straight up, hands hanging down my sides, for ten to fifteen minutes each time to finally get the blood flowing again. Then I would lay back down, only to wake again half an hour later. Finally I tried sleeping sitting up in a chair in the living room, only to realize how far it was to the bathroom (since I’m now getting up a dozen times each night to use the potty, too.) It was the most pathetic night of constantly interrupted sleep I have ever had, and that INCLUDES when I was breastfeeding my children so many years ago!

Add in to the mix a 9-yr old daughter who came stumbling into our room around 1am, complaining that she was itchy. Ah, yes, here comes my Mother of the Year Trophy now. I bought the kids St. Patrick’s Day tattoos last week (because I am *SO* cool, right?) and she had some kind of allergic reaction to the soap we used to wash off her face and forearms, hence the complaining and the itching and the HIVES all over her.

By the next morning, I’d had a total of about 23 minutes sleep. I had one daughter who was covered in red, itchy welts, and a husband who, like it’s not enough recovering from major surgery and oh, yeah, having CANCER, had decided to catch whatever stomach bug it is going around. I swear, he didn’t get out of bed all day except to steal some of Kendrie’s zofran, then throw it up four minutes later.

So I’m stomping around the house on my fat, puffy feet, grumbling about “who do you people think I am? Florence-freaking-Nightingale?” and gazing longingly at the sofa …. it was overcast and raining, NONE of the anti-itch creams I had were working on Brayden, she was bitching, Blaine was moaning, and all I wanted was a NAP people, a NAP, IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK????

Anyway, we made it through the day, and on the recommendation of a friend, I went to the drugstore last night and bought wrist splints, specifically advertised as “good for carpal tunnel sufferers”. I mean, it’s not like I earn a living splitting chicken bones or anything, and I have to tell you how ugly they are --- they make me look like the really serious guys at the bowling alley, know who I’m talking about? But I was desperate for sleep and willing to try anything.

Oh, my gosh! They totally worked!!! I slept great last night! (Well, I still got up a dozen times to go potty, but that’s another story.) No numbness, no tingling, no aches or pains --- it was fantastic! I woke up with a completely different attitude; refreshed, happy, eager to embrace my beautiful children and start the new day (ok, I know, I’m exaggerating now.) But you get the point.

Blaine feels better, Brayden has been properly treated by a doctor (the hives have spread and she now looks like a “before” picture on a Proactive infomercial -- but I think we've got a handle on it now) and the sun came back out today. Wow, what a difference a good night’s sleep can make!

Now, just crossing my fingers I sleep as well this evening. Actually, no, I’m not going to cross my fingers. They might start to tingle.


***************************************************

QUOTE OF THE DAY: When the doctor told Brayden she would be starting a five-day course of prednisone, I said to her, “Hey, you’re going to be on the same steroids Kendrie was on” and Brayden replied, “Oh, great. Now I’m going to get grumpy.”

2ND QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Holy Crap, are you KIDDING me????” said by me, when Brayden announced she was too big for the kids’ menu and asked if she could order off the regular menu at lunch today, only to tell the waiter that she wanted the steak and shrimp combo, costing $14. I don’t know which was worse … that I felt so sorry for her little hive-covered face that I let her order it, or the fact she actually ate most of it!!! Um, did my children not get the memo I sent, about them staying kids a whole lot longer?!?!?!

A few issues I think I should clear up, in good conscience:

I’m not advocating the use of tanning beds, especially for those people with a history of skin problems. I am also very aware of the dangers even *fake* UV rays pose, and you can bet that when my children go outside in the summer, they are lathered up like greased piglets at the County Fair. But I have to admit that I grew up in the “Bronze is Best” era, when there was no such thing as “too tan” (or too much blue eye shadow), when baby oil and iodine were the order of the day at the city pool. I have perhaps been brainwashed a bit by the Coppertone Cult, and am biased into thinking people (especially ME) look a little better with some color on their cheeks. Like the person in the guestbook said, “tanned cellulite is better looking than white cellulite”. That’s practically my personal motto. That, and “pass the Cheetos”. I don’t smoke (too unhealthy), don’t use chewing tobacco (nasty), don’t drink coffee (if only it tasted as good as it smells), drink de-caffeinated pop (even though some days I could really use the caffeine), rarely drink alcohol (can’t handle the hangovers) …. Tanning beds are my one vice, and I can’t even do *that* when I’m pregnant!

Speaking of pregnant, while I appreciate the vote of confidence that I am insane competent enough to handle a fourth child …….. I think most of you have figured out from the guestbook entries that I am actually a gestational surrogate. I did mention it {briefly} on this site in my Christmas Letter, but for the most part don’t talk about it online out of respect for the privacy of the baby’s parents. So, to answer a few questions: YES, I just love being pregnant. YES, Blaine and I struggled with infertility so we know how they feel, and one of the reasons I got into this. NO, it’s not hard to do. NO, I am not biologically related to the child. YES, it’s a very open process. YES, I stay in touch with the families afterwards. YES, this is my third time. I delivered a baby girl in 2002. I was pregnant with twin boys in 2003 when Blaine was first diagnosed with cancer. Six weeks after I delivered the twins is when Kendrie got sick. Ironically, although I knew I wanted to do another surrogacy, I waited until she was almost done with treatment so I could have a stress-less, cancer-FREE experience. ---- I can pretty much hear the Gods of Fate and Crappy Timing laughing now.

And one last thing --- how funny that so many of you mentioned you have gotten your first pedicure of the summer, coincidentally, after reading my last posting. Guestbook entries and personal e-mails show both sides of the issue pretty much neck and neck, with half of you professing your love for sandals and bare toes, and the other half agreeing with me that feet are an ugly necessity of life. (I especially loved the guestbook comment about the wife, threatening to bury her husband in sandals, which he hates, and him saying he will put his funeral attire in writing!) Blaine and I were talking about Fear Factor today, and he said his biggest fear on that show would be being buried alive …. I said mine would be a day at the spa, complete with massage and pedicure.

So to those of you who enjoy that sort of thing, more power to you. The rest of us will hang on to our tennis shoes just as long as we possibly can.

Hope you all have a great weekend, (I’m headed out of town to scrapbook!)

Kristie, confessing, I even wear socks to bed.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

(One last story about pregnancy, and feet, then I swear I will drop both these topics and quit subjecting you to my unsolicited opinions) I wasn’t joking when I said my feet were getting swollen, an end-of-pregnancy symptom many of us enjoy. I was getting dressed this morning, putting on my one-size-larger-than normal-white-leather-Keds because that’s the only pair that will fit at this point, and Kendrie said, “You’re going to wear *those*?” (disdain evident in her voice) …. “but Mom, they are SO not cool!”

Great. Now I’m taking fashion advice from someone who thinks “camouflage” is the new black, and the only designer name worth wearing is “Universal Studios”.

SUMMER IS A’COMING (AND SOME PRETTY HORRIFYING THINGS ALONG WITH IT)

Kendrie--Day 89 OT
Blaine--Who the heck knows how to classify him?

Yep, summer is definitely coming to Georgia. Or at least to the part where WE live, as evidenced by the outdoor-thermostat earlier this week, reading in the high 70’s, the sheen of perspiration on my upper lip (and lower lip, and forehead, and cheeks, etc) and the returning humidity which has my hair looking like something out of a Carrot Top infomercial. I was out running errands yesterday, and noticed a few things that can only correlate with the advent of the warmer weather:

1. God invented tanning booths for a reason, people. If you feel its warm enough to yank those short-shorts out of the back of your closet and put them on with a sleeveless tank top, please do the rest of us a favor and make sure your legs and arms don’t BLIND us when we encounter you in Target. I swear, I thought a few of you must be albinos, only to discover that was your natural pigment color. Now, I know the whole stink about tanning booths, and sun tanning in general, causing cancer, and wrinkles, and faces that will look like leather when you’re older --- and how it’s now “cool” to be “pale”. Well let me tell you, that only works if you have a beautiful ivory-white complexion like Nicole Kidman. The rest of you are PASTY, people, and you need to do something about it! Spray it on, rub it on, I don’t care, but get it on there. My sunglasses only have so much UV protection.

2. The feet. Oh, my GOD people, the FEET!!! Now, if you’ve been following along in this journal at all, you know I have a wee, tiny hang up about feet. Mainly, that I hate them and think they are disgusting, hideous appendages. If they weren’t so necessary for walking and running and total mobility, I would spearhead a “Get Rid of the Feet” campaign. But alas, I cannot. So, if you have them (and most of you do, after all) and you decide its warm enough to also pull sandals out of the back of your closet, then do something about the feet. Loofah sponge, pumice stone, emery board, pedicure, etc. I don’t care which method you choose, just do something.

Now, you should also know that the only thing more horrifying to me than a massage would be a pedicure, so this is a case where I'm definitely NOT practicing what I preach. But I’m not the one wearing sandals, now, am I? (And never mind that it’s because I’m 30 weeks pregnant and they don’t MAKE sandals big enough to fit over my puffy, swollen, bloated extremities) If I *were* wearing sandals, I would at least make sure my haven’t-seen-the-sun-in-six-months feet were fit for public display, puffiness notwithstanding.

Oh, and if you’re a man and you’re reading this? There is no reason, ever, for you to wear sandals. E. V. E. R. Not thongs, not flip-flops, not any kind of sandal. Really, they should be outlawed for men. The only exception to the rule is if you are walking to or from the pool or ocean. The rest of the summer time, if you are out in public, you should wear tennis shoes WITH socks. And if you’re hanging out at MY house, you may take off your shoes ONLY if you have socks on. Go with me on this one --- NO sandals for men. Your feet are uglier than mine, and trust me, no-one wants to see them.

3. Last but not least, have some sympathy for the middle-aged lady, driving the mini-van with the juice box straw wrappers in her seat, the soccer chairs in the back, and the local elementary school magnet on the door. In high school, I had a boyfriend that drove a Mercury Cougar with a (excuse my French) KICK ASS stereo system. When the weather got nice, like it is now, we would fill up the gas tank (remember when $10.00 could do that?) and drive around with the windows down, sun streaming in on us, wind in our hair, and Quiet Riot blaring. I always thought, judging from the looks we got, that older people hated us. Now, being old myself, I know the truth. They were just jealous. Much like I am jealous now. I have no sunroof. I have no loud stereo. I drive a MINI VAN, for heaven’s sake, usually with a Disney or Sugarbeats cd playing. So although summer is coming, and you are reveling in the glory of your youth, please understand that I am mourning the loss of mine, and it’s just a little bit painful. Have some respect.

So anyway, how does any of this relate -- in any way -- to Kendrie? Well, in the last month, despite the fact her treatment is over and she’s no longer taking chemo, she has stayed home from school several times complaining of stomach pain or headache. Do I think she’s sick? No. I think she wants to stay home with the grownups. She did it again yesterday, and in an attempt to foil her plans to lay around all day watching Star Wars on the dvd player, I made her stay in bed. All day long. I figured in the event she *was* really sick, the rest would do her good. In the event she was faking, at least I wouldn’t play the role of enabler.

Fast forward to 3:30 pm yesterday afternoon: Since the weather has gotten nicer, we’ve ditched our usual “home work as soon as you get home from school” routine in favor of a more direct, “let the kids play outside until they are ready to drop from exhaustion” strategy. Works wonders at bedtime. Yesterday, Brayden and Kellen hadn’t been home five minutes before the bikes and scooters and basketballs were in full play. Kendrie ran into the garage and started strapping on her roller blades, only to have me come out and tell her no, if she was too sick to go to school, she was too sick to play outside. (Geez, when did I start sounding like my mother?)

Oh, the tears and whining and crying and tantrum that took place! Seriously, she cried for close to an hour, leaving me to believe she couldn’t truly be ill, or she wouldn’t have had the stamina and energy necessary for that kind of fit. In the middle of it, she yelled at me, “Well if I had known you were going to let them play outside, I would have gone to school!” to which I replied, “Well, that was a bad gamble on your part, wasn’t it?” to which SHE replied, “Well, I thought it was going to RAIN and it wouldn’t matter!”

So apparently I am not the only one upset by the sun-shiny weather lately. Miraculously, Kendrie felt well enough to attend school today, and is outside roller-blading as I type this. Maybe she’ll decide the nice weather isn’t so offensive, after all. But I’m telling you, blinding white legs and nasty feet will ALWAYS be offensive.

THE ABC’S OF MENTAL INSTABILITY

Day 86 of Kendrie’s OT
Yes, I confess, I’m still feeling a little mentally unstable this week.

Still? THIS week??? How does *this* week differ from any other time of my life, when mental instability is the norm? Well, now, I have this journal and you lucky people get to hear about it --- something you’re thrilled about, I’m sure. So, let’s just get started, with Kristie’s Tour of Unstable Emotions:

A is for Annoyed: Yes, I admit it, I am just plain annoyed. Annoyed at cancer, annoyed that we’re facing it again, annoyed that we haven’t really had a break from facing it for the past three years. First Blaine, then Kendrie, now Blaine again. In a small, demented way, I'm even annoyed with Blaine, as if any of this is his fault, something I'm sure we'll need marital therapy for when this is all over. Just annoyed, annoyed, annoyed (not to be confused with “annoying”, which is the adjective some of you might consider more appropriate!)

B is for Blessed: OK, so we’ve been beat with the cancer stick twice. But we’re blessed because Kendrie’s cancer came with an 85 percent chance for survival, she handled treatment like a champ, and Blaine’s cancer is a slow-growing, not-too-aggressive kind. You hear about people like my great aunt, who was diagnosed with leukemia two weeks ago and died seven days later. We are blessed we’ve been handed a chance. Twice.

C is for comforted: Comforted by the kind e-mails, notes, cards, meals, phone calls, etc, that people have been thoughtful enough to send.

D is for discouraged: Is it ever going to freakin’ end???

E is for embarrassed: Embarrassed that my emotions are all over the place. But I suppose it’s normal in a situation like this. So really, why should I feel embarrassed? I mean, it’s not like I don’t have cause to feel emotional. So why is it embarrassing for me? Because I am a schizoid-freak, that’s why. It’s so embarrassing.

F is for frustrated: I don’t know who to turn to, which doctor is in charge, who is making decisions, who has the answers, or of whom I should be asking them. Blaine has a Primary-Care Manager here at Robins Air Force Base, who is consulting the medical board here. His first surgeon, in Augusta, is recommending we go to Seattle. The Seattle doctor has referred us to his tumor board, who is recommending five weeks of radiation. In addition to surgery? In place of surgery? What about the chemo they talked about? The Air Force is recommending we go to Walter Reed. Who is the doctor at Walter Reed? What would they do there? What is the best treatment for Blaine? Who decides? Do we have any say in the matter? Who’s the boss? ‘Cause it sure as heck ain’t Tony Danza, I don’t think.

G is for grateful: (See F) At least we have options, and doctors who care about Blaine enough to try and make the best decisions on his behalf. I am grateful that they all want to do what is best for him, and help him. {Reminder to self: beat head against the wall to the tune of “grateful, grateful, grateful” when I start feeling frustrated.}

H is for hopeful: I have to tell myself that even though this has been dragging on, and he's already had eleven surgeries in the past three years, at some point we are going to look back at this as nothing more than a bad period in our lives. I am hopeful we will eventually return to a semblance of normal, that Blaine will feel healthy and happy again, and that cancer will be simply a blip in the rear view mirror of our life. Then we’ll win the lottery, and things will be especially dandy. {Note to self: need to actually PLAY lottery.}

I is for impatient: For Pete’s sake, can these doctors not just get together in a phone consult or something and make a decision already? How can we make plans, if we don’t know what THE PLAN is???

J is for jealous: Jealous of families whose biggest problem is whether little Timmy should play soccer or t-ball this spring. Jealous of families who aren’t putting their spring, summer and fall plans on hold because they have no idea where they might be, or at what phase of treatment. Jealous of military officers whose careers haven’t been derailed by cancer. Jealous of families whose children DON’T think it’s normal for everyone to get cancer.

K is for keeping a stiff upper lip: Hey, I didn’t say that’s what I’ve been DOING, I said that’s what I’ve been feeling I should do. I am not succeeding, as evidenced by the (yet another) self-absorbed, depressing post that you’re reading now.

L is for lucky: We are lucky that our military insurance has been so wonderful (knocking furiously on wood) and that we are not in financial ruin from all this crap. Sucks for all you taxpayers, but lucky for us.

M is for mad: Just how, exactly, is this fair? Just when, exactly, will it be over? (Oh, that's right, "fair" and "cancer" have no correlation, as millions of people all over the world can attest. Do they all feel as mad as I do?)

N is for nervous: This doctor said the radiation they are recommending has a 60 percent success rate. Um, what happens to the other 40 percent? What does that MEAN, exactly? And who do I ask?

O is for offended: I feel like cancer is sitting back, sticking its tongue out at our family, and quite frankly, I’m pretty damn offended.

P is for peeved: See A.

Q is for quiet: Sometimes, a little pouting is in order. Not publicly, but quietly. Preferably with lots of chocolate.

R is for resentful: See J.

S is for self-conscious: I mean, could we BE bigger shit magnets if we tried?

T is for thankful: Kendrie had an oncology follow-up appointment on Thursday. Despite the six-inch bruise on her shin, her blood counts were perfectly normal. I’m beyond thankful she is doing so well. She’s grown an inch since she finished treatment! How can I whine like I’m doing now, when my daughter is thriving off treatment so far?

U is for uptight: Three years ago, when Blaine was first diagnosed, if you had told me we would be in this situation today, I would have rolled my eyes and thought it impossible. Now, I get all clenched wondering where we’ll be three years from now.

V is for vexed: Could just one stinkin’ thing go right for the guy? You know the surgery he had two weeks ago? Well not only could they not remove all the tumors, or do the reconstruction they had planned, but the incision they made through his upper lip is a disaster. When they removed the stitches, his lip literally split. A big chunk is missing, and its forked, for lack of a better description. So, add another surgery to the litany of things he still needs done.

W is for worried: Imagine where my mind goes in the deepest, darkest parts of the night.

X is for xtremely (spelled wrong) self-absorbed: It’s not so much that I’ve *felt* self-absorbed, as I have been, and I feel guilty for it. I’m not answering e-mails, I’m having trouble returning phone calls, I’m not posting messages in Caringbridge guestbooks. I just can’t seem to move past myself lately, and let me tell you: MYSELF is boring me to tears, what with all her whining and complaining and bitching and moaning.

Y is for yellow-bellied: I want to crawl in a hole, hide my head, and have someone wake me when it’s all over.

Z is for zealous: I have been all over the internet, looking for support groups and information for Blaine’s kind of cancer and the treatment(s) they are proposing. It doesn’t exist. I have searched high and low, and have come up with nothing. Zealousness is only satisfactory if it pays off, let me tell you that. An empty-handed zealot is pretty worthless.

So there you go. If you’re considering sending me a straight jacket, I wear an XL.

In the meantime, thanks for putting up with us. Well, more specifically, with ME. I’m the obnoxious, self-centered one in the family who obviously needs a good kick in the pants. But here’s proof that despite the circumstances, life goes on as normal, in definite “Kristie-style”:

Kendrie and I met friends for lunch on Thursday after her clinic appointment. As soon as we sat down in the booth she needed to go to the restroom, so I got up and took her. Apparently, without realizing it, I returned to the table with a long string of toilet paper stuck to my boot. Yeah, that’s attractive. What makes the story even better is that when our meal was over and she said she needed to use the restroom (yet again), I got up to take her and noticed the toilet paper on my foot. I made a joke, laughed it off in front of our friends, and went back to the bathroom, only to discover there was a wrapper from a juice box straw stuck to my ass the whole time.

Really, could I be any classier?

DUSTING OFF THE COBWEBS IN MY BRAIN …..

Day 83 OT

Well, I confess that I’ve sat in front of my computer the past two nights, trying to think of something -- anything -- funny or witty or even remotely interesting to post, and I’ve come up blank. If I were being honest, I would admit that I have a head cold and all I want to do is sleep. If I were being even more honest, I’d admit that I’m still licking my wounds a bit from last week and just don’t feel very entertaining at the moment.

We bought a new rug for the living room yesterday and it took less than half an hour for Kellen to drop a melted fudgesicle on it. I’m sure there’s a funny story in there somewhere, but I can’t find it. Just give me time …. I have no doubt that there’s a “and I thought that sort of thing only happened to ME” story just lurking on the horizon -- you know I’ll share it with you as soon as it does.

So, until we’re back up to our normal level of insaneness, I’m going to direct you to a few other sites that have cheerful news this week:

Katie from Canada, who finished her treatment for ALL this week! Katie’s was one of the first sites I found after I joined my online support group list, and I liked that her mom Sue had a similar take (to mine) on so many things that affect ALL-families. Congrats, Katie! Here’s to a lifetime of good health and happiness!

Molly from New York, who also finished her ALL treatment this week! I’ve actually been lucky enough to meet Molly and her family in person, which makes her completion of treatment even more special since I know what a wonderful family they are. Congratulations to all of you!

Keegan, one of our Georgia friends, who relapsed earlier this year …. But got the fantastic news yesterday that he is back in remission! His road is still long and hard, but this is the first, wonderful step towards beating this #(*&$#* disease once and for all. To Audra and Keegan and the entire family, may yesterday’s news be the first of nothing but good news for Keegan!

If you have an extra minute, drop by these sites and congratulate the families. It wasn’t so long ago that Kendrie finished treatment and it’s still fresh in my mind, the joy and happiness (and inexhaustible RELIEF) that they are feeling!

WASN’T “LUCKY” A THREE-LEGGED DOG?

Well, we are home, safe and sound, and I don’t even have any good stories involving bus tires and medicine to share. His doctor simply checked him out with his duffle bag of narcotics, and home we drove. The dog appears to be completely healthy (well, as healthy as a 15-yr old dog can be) Grandma managed admirably, the kids didn’t pine away in our absence, and life will trudge on now in a normal fashion. We keep reminding ourselves that we’re lucky.

Yes, it stinks that Blaine’s cancer came back, but we’re lucky because pathology shows it is the same kind of cancer as before ….. slow growing and (normally) not too aggressive, so we don’t have to go into panic mode about our next step. The Army Hospital that has been treating him since Day One has been fabulous and we love his doctors there. But they admitted after this surgery that the location of (one of) the new tumors, within a centimeter (I think? Details have become foggy, along with everything else in my brain) of his carotid artery, that treatment now is beyond the scope of what they can offer with the services at their facility. Their recommendation is that Blaine needs a team of specialists (ie, head and neck vascular surgeon, radiation-oncology, etc) and those kind of people aren’t just hanging around the halls of defense-fund-depleted military hospitals.

So, once again, we consider ourselves lucky because Blaine already has a relationship with the doctor in Seattle who did his free-flap procedure last spring. He is one of the best head and neck oncologists in the country and works at a teaching hospital that offers all the services we might need. If they decide surgery is the best way to go, they can do it there. Radiation, chemo, etc., whatever the doctors determine is the best route.

We did talk to his Ft. Gordon doctors about getting a second opinion, and we all decided that Blaine already did his “shopping” for a doctor last year, when he traveled to Emery in Atlanta, and MD Anderson in Houston. And with the red tape that is involved with the insurance, he doesn’t want to take the time to doctor-shop again, when he has a surgeon in Washington that he already knows and trusts.

So, now we begin the process of getting insurance approval to travel and have things taken care of in Seattle (assuming the Seattle doctor agrees to take him …. Which I can’t imagine he wouldn’t ….) It’s already March, and what with the pre-authorizations, and consultations, and all that other rigmarole that goes along with it, we’ve got a June-July-ish timeframe in mind. So, chances are good Blaine and I will get a mini-vacation to the beautiful Seattle area this summer. (See? Do you see how lucky we are?) :)

We appreciate all the kind thoughts and sentiments the past week, and will keep you guys updated as things progress.

We also talked about the fact that although this wasn’t the outcome for which we had hoped, we are so grateful that complications arose in Blaine’s case, and not Kendrie’s. Kendrie’s cancer treatment was textbook, with hardly a complication or variance. Blaine’s treatment has been skewed from day one, with nothing turning out quite like we anticipate, and complications and delays dragging things out forever. I mean, it’s been three YEARS since his original diagnosis, and the reconstruction work isn’t even done yet. Partly that’s our fault, since we shoved his care to the back burner when Kendrie was diagnosed. And partly it’s the “two steps forward, one step back” philosophy that has plagued him from the beginning. Nothing has been easy, nothing has been simple, nothing has been straightforward. Wait, I'm getting away from my lucky theme here.

Anyway, this is getting depressing. My point is that even though this is discouraging, we are still blessed, and we won’t forget it.

So, on to more cheerful things. The kindergarten PTO performance was stellar, to be sure. While I don’t know that Kendrie necessarily has a future as a Radio City Rockette, I can say with absolute certainty that she was adorable as a jelly bean (although don’t you think it looks suspiciously like a lima bean?)



And yes, that is a dress you see her wearing. She wears one every Sunday to church, without complaint, but a few of her friends at school seemed shocked at the reminder that she actually IS a girl.



She didn’t collapse with shyness like I worried she might, and she got to stand next to the love of her life, Nicholas, for the show, so she was perfectly content.

We have Kellen’s end-of-season basketball party this afternoon, and otherwise we are laying low this weekend. Blaine is functioning, but doesn’t feel quite back to normal yet, so we will take things easy for a while. I think he has 30 days convalescent leave, most of which will be spent getting the ball rolling for his Seattle trip. And have no doubt, once he is feeling better, I’ll find some honey-do’s to work in there. :)

THE LOWEST COMMON DENOMINATOR

Can someone please explain to me why it is that every television set, in every hospital waiting room in the country, is apparently pre-set to Divorce Court? Or Jerry Springer? Are there little waiting room fairies, or goblins, whose job it is to find the dumbest, most inane shows, and make sure those are turned on? And why is it my fellow waiting-room family members (not MY family, mind you, but the other families who are also waiting) seem to find actual enjoyment in these useless programs? And why, also, everyone around me is usually DEAF, or at least hard of hearing, and why the televisions must be turned to FULL VOLUME?!?!?! SO THAT THERE IS NO WAY TO IGNORE THE STENCH OF FILTH THAT IS BEING REGURGITATED FROM THE TV?!?!?!?!?!?

(deep breath)

Now, I am by no means an intellectual snob, or highbrow. I like a good "Friends" re-run as much as the next person. But I truly don't understand why we must scrape the bottom of the FCC barrel while waiting around in hospitals. What's wrong with The Today Show? Or maybe a little Discovery Channel? Twice yesterday I was left alone in the waiting room, and both times I turned the tv to CNN and turned the volume down. Both times, within ten minutes, someone had come in, flipped the channel to Judge Hatchett, or Judge Judy, or Judge Somebody-or-another and sound-blasted the room again.

Why? Why??? WHY??????????

If I have to listen to one more episode of 19 year old Jerry Lee trying to tell his 17 year old wife, Taneisha, that he has no idea where the red thong panties she found in his glovebox actually came from ....... or 20 yr old Juan complaining that his nosy, bitchy mother-in-law is interfering in his marriage, while his 18 year old wife, Bobbie Sue, who happens to be the mother of his baby, cries on the plaintiff stand ...... or (GASP!) yet another SURPRISE PATERNITY DNA TEST RESULT ---- No, NO, "HE'S NOT THE FATHER OF YOUR BABY, YOU LYING, CHEATING SCUMBAG!!!" -------------- Well, I swear I will lose my mind.

Not that I actually *listen* to any of this. Oh no. There is a reason God invented portable DVD players and earphones, and this is it. But still, just glancing around the room, at the vapid, idiotic faces around me, who are captivated, who actually find this sort of crap titillating, it nauseates me.

While I definitely prefer the 1:1 Nurse:Patient ratio of Intensive Care, I have to admit that the solitude and peace of a private room is becoming more and more attractive.

I promise, I won't even complain when Blaine wants to watch The Weather Channel. Or even The History Channel for 24 hours straight. Unless they're airing a special episode about "Was Thomas Jefferson REALLY the Father???". Then, when you see a report on tonight's news about the crazy lady who threw the tv from the 9th floor of Ft. Gordon Army Hospital, you'll know what happened.

SUNDAY MORNING UPDATE:

Good news #1: Lager, the wonder-mutt, is home and much improved. He's walking again, and even eating and drinking a little ... I wasn't even upset when he got white dog hair all over my black sweater yesterday at the vets (that should tell you how happy I was to see him!) I had completely steeled myself during the drive home from Augusta yesterday that I would be making the decision to have him put down when I got to the vets. I showed up and the vet said, "I think we should let him go home" .... and I assumed he meant the great doggie-play land in the sky. When I realized he meant home, as in OUR home, I was so relieved I burst into tears right there in the office. He might be old and deaf and arthritic, but he's ours and we love him.

Now, he's taking nine pills a day and I'm reminded of the days of giving chemo. Just like Kendrie, we crush up his pills and hide them in his food. Getting a dog to take pills is a talent; one that I don't have. So as long as Blaine, the official pill-giver, is in the hospital, we'll be playing "hide the big blue pill" in the Alpo.

The only bad part was when the vet came in to talk to me (remember, my mother, who I love dearly, but who is 63 years old, took the dog to the vet on Friday.) The vet said it would be ok for me to bring him home .... then asked "When will your daughter be coming back from out of town?" --- OK, he thought I was my MOTHER??!?! I mean, I had just driven three and a half hours home in a rainstorm, and I know I possibly wasn't looking my best .... but my MOTHER?!?!?

Good news #2:M\ Kellen's basketball team, with a record of 8-1-1, won the league championship yesterday. So although the SICU nursing staff thinks I am the most neglectful wife in history for leaving my pain-ridden, drug-addled husband alone, it was worth it for the smile on Kellen's face.

I'm headed back to the hospital today and will stay there until Thursday, hopefully bringing Blaine home with me at that time. Otherwise, we'll play it by ear. In the meantime, I can hopefully update from the hotel's computer, although I am unable to get into my e-mail ... so to the people who have been kind enough to send me personal e-mails, please know I'm not ignoring you, I just can't answer them until I get back home. But I do appreciate them

FRIDAY EVENING UPDATE:

The most embarrassing thing that happened to me today:

Falling asleep on a sofa in the Surgery Intensive Care Waiting Room. (Hey, cut me some slack. Blaine was first in line for surgery today and we had to get up at the insane hour of 4am to make it to the hospital in time!)

What made it even more embarrassing:

Waking myself up because I was snoring so loud.

What made it even more, MORE embarrassing:

Realizing that I was not only snoring, but drooling.

The icing on the humilation-cake:

Hearing a young boy across the room stage whisper to his mom: "Wow, that lady finally quit snoring!"

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Thank you all so, so much, from the bottom of my heart, for all the warm thoughts, prayers, and kind messages in the guestbook. It's truly heart-warming to come here and see so many notes of support.

Surgery did not go as well as could be expected. They weren't able to do all of the reconstructive work, nor were they able to remove all of the tumors, so we're most likely looking at radiation in about six weeks. The good news is that there is a business center here in the hotel I can use, and they served my favorite whitefish in the hospital cafeteria today. And really, isn't that all that matters? MY appetite? :)

We'll know more in a few days, when the final pathology report comes in. In the meantime, he's in good hands in Intensive Care, although in a lot of pain this evening. I feel terrible leaving him here, but I have to get home tomorrow because Kellen has a basketball game, and because (are you ready for this?) it appears our wonderful, gentle, loving 15-yr old dog has picked this weekend to die. SERIOUSLY!! All I'm waiting for now is lightning to strike and burn down our home, or a plague of locusts to attack and eat all our crops! Poor Grandma got way more than she bargained for with the dog, and he's at the vet now on IV meds and fluids. The vet says I need to be there by noon tomorrow, so I'm glad Blaine is being taken good care of here (how's *that* for a grammatically incorrect phrase?) so I can go home and deal with the poor old, deaf, arthritic pooch, who will hopefully rebound and go back to driving us crazy.

So, specific prayer requests for us:

1) Pain relief for Blaine.
2) Miracle-recovery for Lager, the wonder-mutt.
3) A vat of liquor for Kristie so deep I'll have to take stilts and a snorkel with me!

The News

Well, this is a journal entry I’ve put off typing, because I wasn’t sure *if* I should share, let alone when or where or how. But for purely selfish reasons, I’ve decided to go ahead and let you all know: Blaine’s cancer is back. So, in what is becoming typical-Escoe fashion, now is when we sit up and beg and solicit once more, in an entirely self-absorbed manner, for all of you to send up warm thoughts and prayers for him, his doctors, and his recovery.

I won’t go into great detail for those of you who are already familiar with his story (I heard there’s a shortage of Kleenex and I don’t want to bore you all to tears.) If you aren’t familiar with what he’s gone through, you can go back in the journal history to March of 2005 and read the long version.

The short version is that pretty much anything that could go wrong with his reconstructive surgery, has. Hell, pretty much anything that could go wrong at ALL for the poor guy, has. Staph infections, additional surgeries, collapse of the flap, repair of the flap, a hole in the repair ….. and now, two new malignant tumors. We found out for sure last month and have been sitting on the news, waiting until closer to time.

His *next* step in the reconstructive process was scheduled for this Friday, and the surgeons have decided to go ahead with the surgery and remove the tumors at the same time. He’s extremely apprehensive a little nervous because (warning, graphic imagery ahead) they will be peeling his face off like they did before, which he said hurt like hell was a wee bit uncomfortable. One of the tumors is near his carotid artery, which scares the shit out of me makes everyone a little anxious.

But when all is said and done, he should be tumor-free, the hole on one side of his defective flap should be repaired (with tissue from somewhere else in his body, I’m not really sure where --- at this point I’ve simply lost track of all the anatomy-borrowing that has gone on in the Science Experiment That Is Called Blaine) and he will have implants, which puts him one step closer to having TEETH!!! Hey, you don’t realize how much you might hate being a toothless person until it happens to you, is what he keeps telling me. Apparently, “not having to floss” is not perk enough, and he longs for the good ole’ days of sinking his chops into a double cheeseburger.

Anyway, he’ll be in ICU for several days and in the hospital for at least a week. Since the hospital is three hours from our house, and there’s no real way for me to drive back and forth every day, once again, Grandma has flown in to save the day and the kids are thrilled. I’ll be coming back home this weekend for a day or two, assuming everything goes ok with Blaine, and I’ll try to update then.

I feel a little shameless asking yet again, but if you could spare some well-wishes his way come Friday morning, it would mean a lot to us.

EXCUSE ME WHILE I SWELL UP AND BURST WITH PRIDE. OR SOMETHING THAT BRIEFLY RESEMBLED PRIDE. FOR ABOUT TEN SECONDS.

Day 68 OT

Kendrie accidentally spilled her water bottle in her book bag last week, soaking the contents with water. Contents included a school agenda, mittens (why?) and her library book. She was most worried about the library book and the trouble and punishment she was just certain the elementary school librarian would inflict upon her small person. We tried laying it flat, even blow-drying it, but to no avail. Not only were both the pages and the binding warped, but it had begun to mold (We do live in the southeast, after all.)

So today when I took her to school, I told her I would take the book to the library and explain what happened. If need be, I would even pay for the book. But I assured her she would not be in trouble. She protested and explained that particular book was part of the Accelerated Reading Program at school and she needed to take her test and get her points before returning it to the library.

AR tests are taken on the computers in the classrooms, and I always feel a little funny sitting there while my kids take their tests. I enjoy watching, but then I get a little paranoid. If they get a 100 percent on the test, will the teacher think I slipped them the answers? Like I really *know* the storyline of every Mystery Treehouse book in the library, or that I actually give two hoots about Danny and his Dinosaur? But still, just to be on the safe side, I told Kendrie to go take her test and I sat myself on the other side of the room and waited for her to be done.

While I was waiting, the teacher from the gifted program at our school came into the room and handed Kendrie’s teacher two envelopes. The teacher turned to me and said, “Oh, here. One of these is for you.” I opened it (here is where the moment of obnoxious parental pride comes in) and found a request to have Kendrie tested for the school’s gifted program. It doesn’t begin until first grade, but they want to test her now to see if she qualifies, and if so, then she could start next year.

So I’m sitting there, swelling up with delight. Literally, swelling. And a wee bit of smugness, if I were to be honest. I mean, the kid missed an entire year of pre-school due to cancer, but today came the realization that ALL THOSE MONTHS OF FREAKIN’ PUZZLES AND WORKBOOKS AND READING AND GAMES THAT I PLAYED WITH HER REALLY AND TRULY PAID OFF!!!!! I mean, in a psuedo-sense, I took over her education for that year, and now they think she might be gifted???? That’s my girl!!! It’s thrilling!

I looked up at the teacher, pride and happiness shining in my eyes, to be sure, and just then Kendrie walked over. My prodigal child, my beacon of intelligence, the fruit of my loins that will someday win a Nobel Peace Prize. And what bit of remarkable wisdom would she bestow upon us lowly earth creatures????

“Well, I sure failed THAT test!” she proclaimed loudly, in front of all of us.

“What do you mean honey? You failed an AR test? You FAILED a test? You haven’t failed a single test all year …. Are you joking???” I stammered, worried the gifted teacher was going to reach over and snatch the envelope out of my hand and rip it into shreds right in front of my eyes.

So close …………. We were Soooooooooooo close!

(sigh)

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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

Proof that the gifted request might very well have been a mistake: The kids are required to keep a reading list, and were attempting to complete six hours of at-home reading to qualify for free Six Flags tickets next summer, as part of a school reading program. The lists were due today, and my kids haven’t been the most faithful about writing down all their books. So last night found them frantically trying to remember every book they’ve read for the past month that they might have forgotten to include. I *know* they’ve read six hours because we read together almost every night, so I was just sort of half-listening as they tried to remember all the book titles.

Kendrie turned to me and said, “What was the name of that first book, the one in the Bible, with God, and the garden, and his friends Even and Odd?”

Yeah. We’re SO not making it into gifted, are we?

MY BUSY, BUSY, BUSY, BUSY DAY (aka I’m So Important)

Day 67 OT

So, yesterday being Sunday, and us being heathens and all, we didn’t take the kids to church. Instead, we decided to have a “lazy day around the house”, which translates into “I’m bored, there’s nothing to do” in nine different languages. I have to thank my girlfriend Jadine, though, who on my recent trip to Texas taught me the golden parenting nugget of: “Only stupid people say they’re bored …. You have a perfectly good brain, so think of something to do and quit complaining.” Now, my kids were still complaining that they were bored yesterday, but Kellen, at least, added the following: “Well, I know I’m not stupid, but I *am* still bored.”

Anyway, just to give you a glimpse into the demanding, fulfilling, rewarding life of Kristie Escoe, I thought I would break down yesterdays’ schedule for you:

7:30 am: Wake up. Think about how much I would like to go back to sleep.

8:00 am: Get out of bed

8:10 am: Tell everyone that they are eating Cocoa Krispies cereal for breakfast because I am just too lazy to make pancakes. Promise to make pancakes tomorrow.

8:11 am: Pour myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies cereal. Hey, these things are pretty yummy. Who needs pancakes?

8:15 until 9:30 am: Lounge around on the sofa, watching cartoons with the kids. (This is what the experts call Parent-Child Quality Bonding Time, in case you need to justify this sort of behavior.)

9:30 am: Tell Blaine all the quality bonding time has left me worn out and I’m going to go lie down for a nap.

11:30 am: Wake from nap. Change from sleep t-shirt into daytime t-shirt. This is noteworthy because it constitutes the productivity highlight of the day.

11:40 am: Wander into the kitchen, sit down and watch Blaine unload the dishwasher. Think to myself, “I’m bored.”

11:45 am: Eat left-over vegetable pizza for lunch. If you purposely choose the leftovers that you know none of the kids like, then you get out of having to make them lunch at the same time and can enjoy your own lunch in peace.

12 noon: Sit back down in the living room with the kids, who are watching a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. Despite your protestations that this might be the dumbest movie ever made, find yourself getting sucked in and watching it with them. Well, we’ll just classify it as even *more* quality bonding time.

1 pm to 3 pm: Honestly, these hours were kind of a blur yesterday. I remember sitting on the sofa, reading a book. And playing on the computer for a while. And supervising the building of the world’s biggest pillow/blanket infrastructure known to mankind. I also remember thinking about doing some laundry, and taking another nap, but I never did. I’m not quite sure what else I accomplished. Or didn’t accomplish.

3 to 4 pm: Ahhhh, Blaine finally caves in to the children’s demands to go outside and play basketball with them. I refused all along, since it wasn’t even 50 degrees. But once he took them out, it gave me an hour of peace and quiet to, uh, what did I do? Oh, yeah, I sat back down on the sofa and read some more.

4 to 6 pm: Blaine took Kellen to basketball practice, so the girls and I sat down and watched two hours of The Learning Channel; “A Face for Yulce” and “The 750 pound Man”. Although their total TV time for the day is already up to about ten hours, and I’m pretty sure their brains will be leaking out of their ears soon, I tell myself that this is an educational opportunity for me to warn them of the dangers of playing with fire and eating too much junk food. So really, I’m not a lazy parent, I am a concerned one.

6 pm: The boys come home from practice and I realize, belatedly, that I have prepared nothing for dinner.

6:01 pm: Immense relief that there is still half of a pot roast in the fridge from dinner that nobody wanted Friday night.

6:15 to 8 pm: Again, a blur. I’m not really sure *what* we did. Or didn’t do. But I know it involved a lot of kvetching about the pot roast.

8 pm: Sigh loudly, and agree the kids can stay up to watch “Max Keeble’s Big Move” on Disney. Truly, is another two hours of tv going to hurt at this point? Under the guise of "parental observation", I lay down on the sofa and watch it with them.

10 pm: Put the kids to bed, and then go to bed myself because I am so exhausted from the events of the day.

So, today is President’s Day here in the US, and my kids and my husband are both home for the day. Without a doubt, I need to get out of this computer chair, into the shower, get dressed, and find something for us to do.

Otherwise we risk another day as laborious and arduous as yesterday. And I just don’t know if my butt can take it.

So, how are YOU spending your President’s Day?

NOT EXACTLY EARTH SHATTERING, BUT ……….

DAY 62 OT

I got my hair cut today.

Ok, wait. Let’s back up. When Kendrie was diagnosed with leukemia, I was 37 years old. I had been trying to grow my bangs out …. in earnest ….. for about 15 years. I could get them nose length, lip length, once I even got them down to my chin, but I always caved in and cut them before they were long enough to pull back into a ponytail. Women everywhere know what I’m talking about, right? That pivotal moment, hair hanging in your eyes for how many days in a row, when you snap, “I just can’t TAKE IT anymore!” and hack away at the poor innocent bangs, dull kitchen scissors in hand. (Admit it, you’ve all been there, haven’t you?)

About two months after Kendrie was diagnosed, I had my bangs down to mid-eye length (the MOST offensive length, in my opinion, requiring the constant wearing of sunglasses to keep the bangs from poking you in the eyes all day long.) I was standing in my bathroom, brandishing the scissors, grumbling about the stress and hardship of growing out my bangs, and then I looked over. Over at my nearly-bald four-year old, who was close to losing the last few wispy strands of hair she had on her entire head.

I felt really small and ashamed of myself and my petty griping at that moment, and vowed right then and there that as long as Kendrie was on treatment, I wouldn’t cut my bangs. NOT cutting my bangs would be my symbolic gesture, my “giving the hirsute finger to cancer” and in some {insane} way, I just knew Kendrie would stay healthy as long as I didn’t cut my bangs. And so I didn’t. If that brave little girl could endure 2 plus years of chemotherapy, I figured the least I could endure was the well-known Growing Out Of The Bangs Phase. Thus began the employment of barrettes, clips, headbands, sunglasses, ball caps, and anything I could use to keep those wretched bangs out of my eyes for the next 26 months.

So the bangs grew. And grew some more. And now they are down well-below my chin, almost to shoulder-length, and if I say so myself, they look fabulous. What DOESN’T look fabulous are the wrinkles across my forehead that the bangs had been hiding all those years. From raising my eyebrows in shocked surprise at my children all the time, I am sure. But there it is, in all it’s glory: my big, fat, wrinkled-y forehead. Botox, anyone?

So, today I went for my first haircut since Kendrie finished treatment. Two guesses what I did, and the first one doesn’t count. The second one doesn’t take a rocket scientist, either. If you still haven’t guessed, go back and re-read this entry from the beginning.

What really cracks me up about the whole thing was Blaine’s response when he got home from work and saw me for the first time: “Hey, honey, your hair looks really nice. Did you get it colored?” because he knew darn good and well that I did. I told him that this morning. But you could totally see him, patting himself on the back for remembering, and thinking I would be oh-so-impressed with him for noticing. What he didn’t notice, were the bangs. That I haven’t had in over two years. That are suddenly there now. That he still hasn’t noticed, several hours later, as of the typing of this journal entry. I’ll lay you odds that he doesn’t notice at all, until he reads this journal update for himself, then he’ll most likely try to convince me that he knew all along ….. nope, honey, I’m not buying it.

You know who noticed? My friend Jeanette, because she is a hairdresser and notices everything that has to do with hair, and Kendrie, the Kid-Who-Used-To-Be-Bald. It was the first thing Kendrie said to me when I picked her up at school: “Hey, you cut part of your hair!”

I mean, it’s not like I’m so self-centered I thought everyone would stop and take notice. It’s not even a drastic change. There’s no need for a billboard or marquee. I just thought it was interesting that Kendrie, of all people, noticed. Maybe it takes being bald, or having been bald, to truly appreciate a haircut. To truly appreciate the choice of bangs or no bangs.

As for me, I haven’t decided if I like them or not. After two years of no bangs, it’s going to take some getting used to. And if I decide I just hate them, I can always grow them out again, right?

PS. UPDATE: 48 hours. That is how long it took Blaine to notice. And he didn't even notice then, he read the website and realized it that way. Truly, his observation skills are outstanding. And although I really don't think the bangs are photo worthy, here you go:


Although now instead of obsessing about the big fat wrinkles on my forehead, it looks like my new concern should be the bags under my eyes.

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER

Dear Brayden,

Happy Birthday! Nine years ago today Blaine and I managed to fool someone in Heaven's Baby Placement Department into thinking we were mature enough to be parents, and that afternoon, you were placed in our arms. I’m not quite sure what they were thinking, as we could barely keep a houseplant alive, but we were thrilled. In fact, we haven’t stopped being thrilled since the day you were born.



I am sorry, though, that you got “starter” parents and have had to endure some of the dumber parenting mistakes that have been made in our family. Like the time I hit the “collapse” lever on the stroller and folded the whole thing by accident, with you still inside. Like the time I accidentally got your tummy-skin caught in the high-chair buckle and couldn’t figure out why you wouldn’t quit screaming. Like the first time we flew with you, a 10-month old, and let you gnaw on the flight-safety-instructions …. only to have you come down with the worst cold EVER a few days later. Like the time I lost you at church (although really, that was sort of your own fault, since you got on the elevator and pushed the button all by yourself at eighteen months and were perfectly content to wander the upper floors of the church building all alone, until a total stranger brought you back down to me, as I was near sobbing and hyperventilating by then.) Like the time … actually, maybe I should stop before I incriminate myself.

What small bits of parenting wisdom Blaine and I have gleaned over the years have most certainly come at your expense. When you are “first”, your mommy and daddy have to learn on your shift. No book or magazine prepares someone for being a parent. It might help us to develop a theory or two, but let’s be honest, all practical experience is done on the firstborn, the guinea pig of the birth-order. Then the next kid comes along and we feel like pros. So thank you for giving us nine years worth of confidence.




Thank you for bringing us, also, nine years of joy, laughter, and happiness. We love you dearly. Happy Birthday.

Mom

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PS. In my previous post about the gentleman on yesterday’s flight, I want to make sure you realize that it wasn’t my intent to gripe about heavy people. I’m hardly a pixie-fairy, myself. Maybe that’s my point. Perhaps the airline should match people up at the same time they print the boarding passes, based on their physical size. I most likely wouldn’t mind sharing my seat with my neighbor’s ass, if I only weighed 100 pounds. BUT I DON’T, PEOPLE. My ass needed a seat all its own. That was my point.
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QUOTE OF THE DAY:

Kendrie: “Well, Kellen is one inch taller than Brayden, but Dalton (our OKC cousin) is one inch skinnier than Kellen.”

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PSS. M.E., we love you dearly and will be grateful to you always.

THAT WILL BE FIFTY DOLLARS, PLEASE

Day 59 OT

Attention to the hefty man who sat beside me on the airplane today: The cost for my round trip ticket to Austin was $300. That makes the cost for today’s flight home: $150. Since you took up not only the armrest, but also one-third of my seat, I think you owe me one-third of today’s cost; That will be fifty dollars, please. I take cash, check, or money order. I will use it to pay for the chiropractic appointment I need, after spending two and a half hours leaning half-way into the aisle, since I was unable to sit upright in my seat, thanks to your arm. Or perhaps I will need to give it all as recompense to the poor woman I tripped as she walked to the lavoratory, since I had to cross my leg and stick one foot way out in the aisle thanks to you and your thigh.

I didn’t want to come across as disagreeable, because you seemed pleasant enough, but next time, let me just tell you that falling asleep and snoring for an hour does not endear you to your cabin-mates. And that really, you should consider buying yourself a first-class seat.

Maybe I should use the $50 to develop a prototype of some sort of device to use on airplanes, with dividers at the shoulder, butt and thigh, so that it’s not possible for one person to appropriate another person’s space. Like a car-seat for adults.

Anyway, despite this one small inconvenience, I had a WONDERFUL weekend away! Julianna Banana, rest assured that the city of Pflugerville is all you had hoped and your term as mayor someday will be very enjoyable! And Jadine, Brianna and Madison all say HI!

As I was driving the 100 miles home from the airport, I realized how content I was. I didn’t die in a fiery crash, I thoroughly enjoyed my weekend in Texas, I was on my way home to children who would be sleeping angelically by the time I arrived, and Monsters of Rock was blaring in the cd player. Truly, nothing identifies me more as a child of the 80’s than my love for big-hair-arena-rock bands.

Life does not get any sweeter.

NOT QUITE WHAT I HAD ENVISIONED

Day 57 OT

I mentioned in yesterday’s journal entry that I was going out of town this weekend and would miss Kellen’s basketball game on Saturday. I AM the sort of mother who leaves her children two or three times a year to visit friends, or go on scrapbooking getaways …. I am NOT the sort of mother who feels guilty about it. Blaine takes perfect care of them (probably better than me, if the truth be told, since he’s willing to actually go outside and *play* with them, unlike me, who feels that feeding them and applying band-aids to bleeding wounds is enough to show adequate parental responsibility) and I know their world doesn’t stop turning simply because I go MIA for 48 hours.

I DO, however, feel great angst whenever I fly. Specifically, I worry that whatever plane I am on will fall out of the sky, plummeting me to a fiery (although blissfully quick) death and my children will grow up motherless. Or worse, with a step-mother from Hell because Blaine just couldn’t wait to get married again to someone younger, prettier, and skinnier than me.

And it’s not like I’m flying off to the Noble World Peace Summit, or to save the rain forest, or anything like that. I’m just getting away for a weekend of chocolate and gossip --- enjoyed, but not particularly necessary. So I feel anxiety whenever I fly, wondering if I’m risking the future happiness and security of my children for my own selfish whims. Although, as Blaine-Mr.-Logical so eloquently reminded me this morning as I was yammering on about it, “Look, there’s a much greater chance you’ll get killed in a car accident on the way to the airport so just shut up about it already.”

So, in the off-chance I am killed in a plane crash this weekend (I know, what kind of reasonable person sits around and obsesses about this sort of thing???? …. Oh wait, I know --- MOTHERS) I wanted this morning to be a wonderful, happy, loving, laughing time with my kids. That way, their final memories of me will be warm and affectionate.

I bought Krispy Kreeme donuts for breakfast as a treat. Can someone tell me why my 7-yr old son has not yet learned to chew with his mouth shut? No matter how many times Blaine and I remind him, he’s like Bessie the Cow chewing his cud at the dinner table. We even tried putting five nickels in front of his dinner plate and taking one away every time we caught him smacking, thinking the monetary incentive would be helpful. Nope, not a bit. Not one time did he leave the dinner table with a nickel to his name. This morning, after asking him repeatedly to please chew with his mouth closed, I finally turned to him and snapped “If you smack that donut in my ear one more time I swear I’m going to spank you!” Ah, that was warm and affectionate, wasn’t it?

Then, Brayden and I got into a fight because I was quizzing her for today’s spelling test and she didn’t know ANY of the words, because she forgot to bring home her spelling homework not once, but twice this week, which made me angry. So I kept quizzing her, which made her frustrated, which made her argumentative, which made ME insane. By the time it was over, she had stomped (literally, not figuratively) from the room muttering, “I HATE this family!” under her breath.

Then Kendrie decided she wanted to wear Kellen’s Old Navy sweatshirt (never mind she has an entire closet-full of clothes herself) and he said no. They must have bickered for ten solid minutes before I threw my hands up in the air (figuratively, not literally) and stormed out of the room, yelling, “I don’t care if you go to school NAKED, just get dressed!!!!” {That sentence doesn’t even make any sense! But that’s what they’ve reduced me to.}

Fortunately, we still had fifteen minutes before it was time to leave for school and we managed to salvage the morning. No-one was *laughing* when we walked out the door, but the tears and yelling had all stopped (theirs, and mine). There were even hugs and kisses when I walked them to their classrooms and said good-bye.

So the point of this journal entry is that if I do indeed die in a fiery plane crash this weekend (or in a car accident …. Thanks, Blaine, Mr. Voice of Reason) would someone please let my kids know that the crazy screaming woman who sat at their breakfast table actually did love them more than life? And that they better learn to chew with their mouths closed, remember their spelling homework, and dress themselves without arguing, or their new evil stepmother will eat them alive.


PS. Did anyone hear me on the Radio-a-thon for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society fundraiser this morning??? Did I sound like the biggest goober on the planet??? That's just a *little* too close to public speaking for me to be comfortable, but I really wanted to do a good job, in thanks for all the LLS does for families like ours!

RUNNING THE GAMUT

Day 56 OT

GUILT FOR LYING: The emotion I felt driving Kellen to his basketball game Tuesday evening when he asked if I knew what team they were “versing” (his word, not mine) and I told him no, actually, I don’t.

RELIEF: The emotion I felt when he saw the giant mutant blue team walk through the doors (ducking their heads so as not to bump them on the door frame) and he didn’t immediately burst into tears or wet himself.

BIGGER RELIEF: The emotion I felt when the first quarter team lined up and Kellen was NOT guarding the giantest of giant mutant boys, #13. Here’s a visual shot from the last game, in case you missed it:




EMBARRASSMENT: The emotion I felt when Blaine looked over at me during Kellen’s first quarter of play, my fists clenched, and reminded me, “It’s just a game, honey.”

HOPEFULNESS: The emotion I felt when half-time rolled around and our team was actually ahead by four points.

ANXIETY: The emotion I felt when the teams lined up for the third quarter, and Kellen *WAS* guarding giant mutant boy #13.

GRATITUDE: The emotion I felt when the quarter ended and giant mutant boy had not squashed my son flat as a pancake.

EXCITEMENT: The emotion I felt as the minutes ticked down and it looked like our team might win the game.

EMPATHY: The emotion I felt for the little (well, comparatively speaking, anyway) boy on the other team who double dribbled three times in a row and lost the ball each time in the fourth quarter.

EXHILERATION: The emotion I felt when the final buzzer went off and we had WON!!!

SHAME: The emotion I felt when I realized that MY adult inner happy dance was at the expense of the young boys on the blue team, who were now standing to the side, trying manfully not to cry, just like our boys were doing last week when *they* lost.

LIMP WITH RELIEF: The emotion I felt when I realized the game was really and truly over and I could quit holding my breath.

DREAD: The emotion I felt when the coach reminded us that now we are tied with the blue team for first place and will most likely play them again in the championship game. Here we go again!

No wonder I was exhausted by the time we got home that night!

They’re seven, for Pete’s sake. Blaine asked me, “If it’s this bad in elementary school, how are you going to be when he’s playing for a high school championship?” and I replied, “I’m writing a sick-note that day to excuse him from the game…. I just can’t take the pressure.”

I am not a competitive person! We refused to play Pictionary with our neighbors in North Dakota twenty years ago because the wife would continually jab the pencil in my direction and yell “In your FACE!” whenever she drew a better stick figure. I don’t need that kind of tension in my life ---- yet there I sat in the stands, sweaty and anxious, for a 7-yr old basketball game. Soccer didn’t do this to me; neither did baseball. What is it about that round, orange ball that mocks me …. Calling my name …. Heckling me???

Thankfully, I will be out of town and unable to attend Kellen’s game on Saturday. I think a little breather, a little time away from the sport that taunts me so, might be just the thing. Lord knows my cortisol level could use a break.

ODDS AND ENDS

Day 54 OT

Just in case any of you think now that Kendrie is off-treatment and our lives are plugging along (more or less) like normal, that we’ve forgotten or are less involved with the friends and families we met along the way, let me reassure you that isn’t the case. I still belong to my online support group and can’t imagine letting go of that yet. I still spend WAY too much time reading Caringbridge sites (the dust on my living room furniture will attest to this) and I still worry, celebrate, cheer, and grieve for all the kids we’ve met along the way.

A few families struggling right now that could use some support are:

Keegan, who had a relapse scare last fall, only to find out he actually *has* relapsed at this time. He is beginning a tough new protocol this week and I know his family would most likely appreciate a note of encouragement in his guestbook, if you have a spare minute or two.

Cam, who is dealing with numerous leukemia relapses, yet keeping his game face on and living life as normally as possible while awaiting yet another transplant. Truly, if you look up “tenacious” in the dictionary, you will find a photo of Cameron there! Drop him a note of support, if you can.

Alexia, also dealing with a leukemia relapse, but dealing with a whole lot more…. She and her family have relocated from their home in South America to North Carolina, just three weeks ago, so Alexia can have the transplant necessary to save her life. Although I don’t like to, I can imagine Kendrie relapsing …. I can imagine going the transplant road, although I cringe at how awful and stressful it must be and hate that ANY family has to face it. But what I can’t imagine is doing it in a foreign country, speaking a different language, far, far away from family and friends. Please drop them a quick note; Alexia’s transplant will be in less than ten days!

So don’t think that we care less, or worry less, just because the journal entries I write now are filled with the chaos, insanity, and total gooberness of our mostly-back-to-normal family. We still care about our online friends and know they would appreciate any support you can give them, too.

On to other stuff:

Kendrie stayed home from school on Thursday with a head cold. Nothing more than a case of the sniffles and the need for a good afternoon nap. Of course, always one to “practice what I preach”, I laid down with her for a few minutes and we were enjoying some together-time. Do you remember when your babies were teething, and wanted to be hugged and cuddled most of the day? Dinner didn’t get cooked and the house was a mess and the laundry piled up like Mt. Everest, but it was ok, because you got to cuddle with your baby? You knew they weren’t seriously ill, so you could just enjoy the one day where they weren’t running around like a cyclone and were content to lie on your shoulder and sleep??? Well, *I* remember it and felt like I got a small taste of that on Thursday with Kendrie. I even said to her, “I’m sorry that you don’t feel well, but I’m happy to have you home with me today so we could spend some time together” and she replied, “I remember when I first got cancer and I stayed home with you all the time. Then I got too old to hang out with you.”

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This is public plea to the makers of young girls’ clothing in America (or China, or Bangladesh, or wherever the heck it is they make those clothes) to please add at least an inch or two to the waistband of blue jeans. I monitored 5th grade testing last week, and watching those girls bent studiously over the desks, pants inching down like it was a 10-yr old plumber’s convention, was not attractive! Personally I’m going to pray to the patron saint of buttcracks that something be done to stop the insanity.

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I don’t know if I ever mentioned it, or said a public THANK YOU to all of you who gave donations to Kendrie’s End-of-Treatment collection (that was *supposed* to be done in lieu of gifts, even though too many people did BOTH!) We were able to make a $170 donation to Caringbridge and a $170 donation to CureSearch in honor of Kendrie, thanks to everyone’s generosity. Thank you so much!

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I’m sorry we won’t be able to join all our friends at Camp Sunshine’s Family Day at the Circus this weekend. We went last year, and except for the huge fit Kendrie pitched beforehand because I had brought her the wrong clothes to wear, we had a great time. I hope all of you have a wonderful time this year, also.

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One last thing --- Kendrie has re-named herself “The Handsomeness”. More specifically, "Troy ‘The Handsomeness’ Bolton", after the lead character in Disney's High School Musical. (PS Marni, I think it was you that sent the picture …. She adores it!) I only know she has given herself this new nickname because one morning last week on the way to school I heard her talking under her breath. She was practicing a public speech of sorts, mumbling things like “Don’t worry, don’t worry, you’ll all get a turn to sit next to The Handsomeness ….. wait your turn, everybody, there’s enough of me to go around” and I said to her, “Kendrie, who are you talking to?” She informed me that she was practicing what she would say when she got to school that day and all her friends wanted to be with her. I don’t know whether to call that arrogance, confidence, or just a really active imagination!

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Well, wish us luck. Kellen’s basketball team is having their second game of the season against those giant mutant boys tonight. I can only hope one or two of the biggest ones have tested positive for steroids at this point and will be kicked out of the game. Otherwise, coming off last week’s loss, things could get ugly. Very, very ugly.

OVERCONFIDENT

Day 50 OT

***DISCLAIMER***The following journal entry contains graphic language and imagery. It is most likely not suitable for minors, anyone who is squeamish, or anyone with a penis who has never given birth. Please read at your own risk.

I am a terrible parent. Obviously, I got cocky after the chocolate sauce episode, and seeing that shiny white tooth come out of Kendrie’s mouth. Cocky and overconfident. All that came crashing down. Twice -- not once, but twice -- in the past 24 hours I have been reminded that Blaine is actually a much better parent than me. I’m not sure why, but he is. In fact, I should hope he doesn’t file for divorce anytime soon because not only would he be granted sole custody of our children, I wouldn’t even get unsupervised visitation.

First, it was the basketball episode last night. Kellen’s team, undefeated (or “undefeatable”, as he liked to say) for the season, lost their first game. It was one of those extremely painful losses, where your team is only behind by one point with ten seconds left and you actually have a chance to sink a shot and win, and then someone on the other team steals the ball and makes a long, lucky shot and then you’re behind by three points with eight seconds to go and you know its hopeless. Painful like that. And even though they are only seven years old, and it was by no means the Final Four Championship Game, they took it pretty hard. Kellen wasn't the only team member with a quivering lip at the end.

It’s about a twenty minute drive home from the gym and Kellen was very upset. I ran the gamut of unsolicited parenting advice: “Son, losing is a part of life … at some point in time you’re going to lose homework, a job, even a girlfriend (I stole that from his coach’s talk) and there’s no reason to be upset. As long as you did your best and had fun, that’s all that matters.”

That didn’t work, so I tried a new tactic: “Kellen, it’s ok to feel sad and disappointed because you didn’t win, but it’s not OK to be a quitter” (This was after he informed me he hated basketball and never wanted to play another game.) New, cheerleader attempt: “Kellen, you’ll get ‘em next time!” but nothing was working. We got home, he went straight to his bed, pulled the covers over his head and cried for twenty minutes.

So Blaine went in the room and shut the door. Ten minutes later, Kellen came out, if not SMILING, at least markedly less depressed. I asked Blaine, “What did you say to him?” and Blaine replied, “I just told him losing was a part of life, and it happens to everyone and it’s ok to feel sad and the next game will be better.”

Um, ok. And *what* was it I had been saying the entire drive home? But obviously it worked better coming from Blaine. Episode #1, proving he is a better parent than me. I’m still not sure how or why, but chalk one up for Blaine.

Then, this morning at breakfast, we somehow got on the subject of the kids when they were babies, and newly born. My kids, like many others (I can only assume) love hearing details about their births and subsequent first year of life ….. “Who was the fattest when they were born? Who had the most hair? Which kid was it that pooped on you the first time you gave her a bath?” Those sorts of things. (PS. Kellen, Kellen, and Brayden, in that order.)

Somehow, this morning’s conversation started with Kellen commenting that all boys come out of the stomach (he was a c-section baby) and all girls come out of the pee-pees. Let me just reiterate the conversation for you, so you can form your own opinions:

Kellen: “Boy babies come out of the stomachs and girl babies come out of the pee-pees.”

Kendrie: “That’s not true. Some boy babies come out of the baginas.”

Kellen: “Well, I’m glad *I* didn’t come out of a vagina!!!”

(At this point, the giggling has started in earnest. I suppose when you’re in elementary school, “Vagina” is the funniest word on the planet.)

Kendrie: “Well, I came out of a bagina and it was fun!”

Kellen: “Fun??"

Kendrie: “Yeah, it was fun!”

Brayden: “Oh, like you really remember?”

Kendrie: “Yeah! It was like a roller coaster ride!”

(even the adults are giggling at this point)

Kendrie: “Yup, it’s a good thing I had my seat belt on!” and she proceeded to throw her arms up in the air like she was going down a big hill. “Wheeeeeeeeee!!!”

All five of us are laughing now at how silly she is being, and I see what I think is the perfect opportunity to redeem my lackluster parenting episode of last night by furthering the frivolity at the breakfast table. I say to Blaine, “Hey, hand me the salad tongs” and then I hold them up and wave them around, saying, “Yep, but at the last minute you wouldn’t get OFF the roller coaster, so the doctor took a pair of these and pulled you out this way!” (me, smiling, thinking all the kids would think that was sooooooo funny)

Instead, total silence.

Kendrie, with a horrified look on her face: “That’s not true. That didn’t happen.”

Kristie, still laughing and thinking we were all having big-fun: “Yes, it is. Your head got stuck so they grabbed hold of it with a big pair of tongs and pulled you out that way.”

At which point Kendrie renders an earth-shattering scream, runs from the table, and throws herself on her bed, crying hysterically.

And once again, I’m left sitting there, thinking, “What the hell did I do wrong? I thought we were having fun.”

Blaine looks over at me: “Smooth. Real smooth”

So he goes into her bedroom, talks to her for five minutes, and then she comes back out, giggling once again, and points to Kellen, “Yeah, but Dad says when you born, you were blue!” which she finds hysterical. (Never mind that it’s not even true.)

My point is, everything I say is wrong and everything Blaine says is right. Why is this so? I mean, *I* was the one with a baby’s head stuck in my bagina, why is she upset with me for pointing it out???

Obviously I need to re-take Parenting 101 and brush up on the chapter on age-appropriate information. Otherwise none of them are going to want to talk to me about ANYTHING! Of course, with the birds and the bees conversation coming up in a few years, maybe that’s not a bad thing. The way things are going, Blaine will be better at dispensing *those* golden nuggets of wisdom, anyway. Knowing me, I’ll just brandish salad tongs and traumatize them further.