On To More Pressing Matters

Thanks to all for the kind notes about Blaine’s MRI results. We agree with the no-definitive-news-is-good-news theory. Because their *is* a mass there, and he hasn’t been able to lift his arm above a ninety degree angle since his surgery last November, we think his primary care manager will send him to see an orthopedist (of course we can’t be sure about that because his PCM hasn’t bothered to call him, in fact, didn’t even return his call about these results ..... however, that’s a rant for another day) but in the meantime, as long as the report didn’t come back with “flaming ball of shoulder cancer” as the diagnosis, then we’re pretty stoked.

Since Blaine hadn’t planned on being home from the hospital this early, he didn’t have to go in to work today. He stayed home, answering e-mail and for the most part, fiddling with his new Blackberry like a kid with a new toy which I guess he pretty much is helping keep the world a safer place.

He also wandered around a good portion of the day with his head cocked to one side, suddenly marveling at all the sounds he had been missing and had apparently forgotten about. I guess when you’ve been practically deaf in one ear for two years, and then suddenly get the majority of the hearing back, it would seem quite exciting. Birds chirping, dogs barking, it was all comment-worthy. It was cute, the first several times, when he marveled at the sound of the rain outside, and could hear Lager coming down the hallway in advance. Suddenly the TV wasn’t quite as loud, which I certainly appreciated, but the eighth or ninth time he wondered in amazement at the **woosh!** of our air conditioning intake, it started to get a little old. “Yes, Blaine, I hear the clock ticking, also … it’s not THAT exciting.” But tonight, he had to endure, along with me, the hours and hours of classical music “playing” our older two did, thanks to their elementary school music teacher’s decision to let every child in their grades learn the recorder. Let's just say that both "playing" and "music" are pretty generous terms. I’m fairly sure by the time we had listened to Hot Cross Buns for the 7,325th time, Blaine was wishing he was deaf again.

But enough with Blaine and this cancer talk --- we have a much more pressing issue at hand.

In fact, we’re in crisis mode, people!

It appears, much to my distress, despite the total and complete WRONGNESS of the situation, that my all-time favorite brand of lipstick has been discontinued!!!!

It’s a calamity of ginormous proportion; surely you agree???

I’ve worn the same brand and color of lipstick for TEN YEARS -- since before Brayden was born!! Revlon Colorstay Nude #4 has been in my house longer than my oldest child! I’d like to think that speaks more for my brand loyalty than for my lack of updating my own style, but considering I also still wear some of the same clothes from ten years ago, well, let’s just say Vogue won’t be calling me anytime soon. Unless it's for a makeover article.

So here’s my delimma: I went on ebay because everyone knows you can find pretty much anything you need on ebay … belt buckles made from duct tape, Sonny Bono yard gnomes, a kleenex used by Jessica Alba, etc. And sure enough, there are about twenty-five tubes of *MY* lipstick being offered.

So I googled the shelf life of lipstick and found an estimate of two years. Does anyone know if this is true??? I’m trying to consider how many tubes to stock up on. Because I can’t bear to run out. Of all the great wongs in the world, that would be one of the wrongest. And while I would hate to over-purchase, if they're just going to dry out, the good news is even if I buy too many, I can always stuff two tubes in my ears. Then, *I* won’t have to listen to *Blaine* babble on about how great it is to hear the trash truck coming down the street again.

One Brief, Shining Moment

When Blaine drove up to Ft. Gordon on Tuesday for his pre-op appointment, the doctors were pretty clear about the surgery he was having done the next day and what their expectations were. They were also pretty realistic about what *could* go wrong … after all, this is Blaine we’re talking about.

The plan was simple enough. His upper gums, removed in the initial surgery to get the tumor, were rebuilt two years ago with bone from his lower leg … later, they put implants in the bone. The surgery yesterday was to have titanium posts anchored into the implants, so that eventually they can attach replacement (fake) teeth to the posts. At least that’s the way it’s been explained to me, although goodness only knows I could be completely wrong.

A few of their concerns yesterday: according to the pre-surgery x-ray, it looks like that bone has been damaged by the radiation he received (a normal problem) but they were worried the implant couldn’t support the posts, and reserved the right to plump up the area with more fake bone if they needed during surgery. They worried the surrounding tissue had been damaged by the radiation (again, normal) and might not heal normally. Of course, the IV issue as always, but, putting him out with gas, then bringing in an ultrasound machine to find his veins is so commonplace with Blaine that the anesthesiologist didn’t even bother to consult with him this time. Been there, done that. And of course, pain management after the surgery, which is always an issue for someone who has been on heavy-duty narcotics for such an extended time. They told Blaine best case scenario, if his pain was managed, he could come home Friday … more likely Saturday, but maybe not until Sunday.

The doctor called me after the surgery yesterday morning (wondering, I’m sure, what kind of neglectful wife can’t be bothered to accompany her husband for his surgery) to tell me pretty much everything that could go right …………did. They were able to get the IV in without needing the ultrasound machine. The bone was not as damaged as they feared and was able to support the post. The tissue, they were correct, was too damaged for a normal suture closure, but they’re hopeful some extra healing time will be all that is needed. Bonus … they were even able to get a quasi-permanent tube in his ear, negating the need for an additional procedure.

Then, surprise of all surprises, Blaine wasn’t in that much pain. Really, nowhere near what anyone expected.

So they let him come home.

Today.

A day EARLIER than expected!

And when he got home, he could HEAR! And wasn’t in that much pain! And was one step closer to having TEETH!

And was home EARLY, in case I haven’t made that clear!!!

We are so accustomed to living the Murphy’s Law of Medicine, that we didn’t quite know what to do with ourselves.

His blood pressure hadn’t bottomed out during surgery. His trach tube hadn’t gotten blocked in recovery. He hadn’t had any uncontrollable bleeding, or excessive pain. There weren’t any medical or surgical surprises or complications. As best we can tell, he didn’t contract staph in the hospital. He didn’t hit a deer on the drive home, his engine didn’t blow up, he wasn’t arrested for drunk driving, or abducted by aliens.

By golly, he was home a day early and in pretty good shape, for an old guy with cancer.

For one brief, shining moment, we were so excited, we considered ripping off our clothes and painting our bodies purple and doing a happy dance on the roof of the local Baskin Robbins.

Luckily, good sense (and lack of purple paint) prevailed.

But we were definitely enjoying the euphoric high of a successful, non-complicated surgery.

Ahhhhh. Life is good.

Then the phone rang.

MRI results = inconclusive.

Well, shit.

The Look of Sheer Terror

Sorry it’s taken me a few days to update …. Not really sure what I’ve been doing. I haven’t been busy baking, as evidenced by the Kroger cake I bought for Blaine’s birthday this weekend. I haven’t been busy shopping, as evidenced by the lack of a birthday present and the Fathers Day card I gave him, with the Fathers Day message scribbled out and a Happy Birthday message written in. I certainly haven’t been busy exercising, as evidenced by the eight-pound weight gain I discovered when I got on the scale this morning. That’s always nice.

Oh well, six loads of laundry later, at least my family is Downey Fresh.

And I *am* doing the single parenting thing, while Blaine is in Augusta this week having his latest surgery.

So there you go. My short, and highly pathetic, list of excuses.

Just to recap our adventure from last Friday and my foray into public speaking, things went great. Well, maybe not great, but ok. If not OK, at least I didn’t throw up or trip going up the stage … thanks, *that* humiliating possibility hadn’t even occurred to me until someone suggested it in the comments section.

The morning started early with the alarm set for 4am. Of course, I was so paranoid I would oversleep that I woke up every five minutes starting at 3am. Kendrie and I drove to the Atlanta airport (almost two hours away) and met the Aflac Cancer Center representative who would be going to Kentucky with us.

We had a quick breakfast, flew to Kentucky, had a quick lunch (thereby incurring the nacho chili sauce on the boob incident) then went right into the Kentucky-West Aflac Quarterly Sales Meeting and Extravaganza, complete with loud music, noisemakers, disco-smoke, and strobe lights. Let’s just say, Aflac is SERIOUS about pumping up their employees!

We were slated to talk after the first intermission. During that break, I had Kelly, our travel companion, take a photo of Kendrie and me together:



Have you ever seen a better example of “deer in the headlights”? Not since Janet Leigh saw that curtain ripped open in the shower scene of Psycho has a face revealed more stress and anxiety …. Check out my raised eyebrows and strained smile. Definitely a case of pre-speech butterflies at this point. That is, butterflies that are shaped like demented rats, carrying e-coli and little spears and fire-swords and running rampant through my intestines. You know, butterflies like that.

So, Kelly got up, spoke to the crowd about the Aflac Cancer Center and the goals they have … the need for funding …. And showed a film about the center and the research they are doing, and the strides they are making in searching for a cure.

Then, because the Kentucky-West region of Aflac had the largest fundraising increase for the year 2006, their “REWARD” was having an Aflac family come and speak to them.

Yes. That would be me.

Suddenly, the word “reward” takes on a whole new meaning, doesn't it?

So, here is my speech, or what I *think* was my speech. Since my mind was racing at 32 billion miles an hour, and my mouth, a sluggish 3 mph, I can’t be sure of what I exactly, exactly said. Plus, I'm pretty sure the pleasant smile I tried to arrange on my face looked much more like a terrified grimace. But here’s the speech I had written down, that I tried very hard to follow.

Regular words are what came out of my mouth. Italicized words in green are what were going through my head:

“Thank you for having me here today. {oh wow, what a let-down this is going to be for all of you!}

“If you had asked me prior to October 13, 2003, what my biggest fear was … I would have told you …. Honestly …. “Public Speaking”. {Thank goodness, they laughed!}

“But on that day, my youngest daughter Kendrie {I wonder if they can see the nacho chili stain on my boob?} was diagnosed with cancer, and I learned what fear really is. We stand before you today, three and a half years older, wiser, WITH hair {good, they laughed again} and thankfully, healthier. But, I can tell you, that public speaking is STILL in my top three. So, although I didn’t do anything to deserve it like you did, I helped myself to one of the glasses of champagne they were passing around a few minutes ago, hoping it would help keep me from shammer …. schtammer …. slammer …. STAMMERING my words … it doesn’t appear to be working, though! {oh my fuck I am too pathetic for words.}

“That fall, 2003, Kendrie was getting ready to turn four years old. She had a brother who was five and a sister who was six, and normally the three of them went 100 miles an hour, all the time. {Dear heavens it’s hot up here ... can they see me sweating?}

“She had just started her second year of pre-school and suddenly, we noticed that she couldn’t keep up. Not with her brother and sister, not with her classmates. She began to complain about her arms and legs hurting and ran fevers. We took her to her pediatrician, who said it was just a virus … push fluids. But it continued for several weeks, the fevers, the fatigue, and the complaining about her arms and legs hurting. I remember her sitting in her car seat, telling me that her legs hurt too much to walk and she wanted me to carry her. I remember, distinctly, telling her, in my kind and compassionate manner … ‘There is nothing wrong with your legs! --- WALK! --- You’re four years old now and you’re too big for me to carry!’ Obviously, no Mother of the Year award for me. {I probably wouldn’t be so hot if I took off this sweater-jacket}

“Then, in early October, on a Thursday night, she started running yet another fever, and nothing we did could break it. She had it all weekend so on Monday I took her back to the doctor. Again, he said virus, but this time he agreed to humor my concern that she might have mono… who knows? Even Lyme disease … so he agreed to run a blood test. {But then they could definitely see the stain on my boob …. What to do, what to do}

“Later that day, the phone rang. The doctor said, and I quote, that the results of her blood test were ‘interesting’”. In fact, he said Kendrie was severely anemic. “Anemic?” I said, “Well, that explains a few things”. But I was very specific, and asked him directly, “But it’s not cancer, right?” And he replied, “No, it’s not cancer.” Hmmph. Famous last words. {If I leave the sweater on, they can most likely see the sweat pouring off my body and I’ll have to start mopping my brow any moment. But if I take the sweater off --- dreaded chili boob. Ugh, the decisions!}

“We made an appointment with a hematologist for the following week, to find out why Kendrie was so anemic, but we never made it. The next day, Kendrie fainted on our front porch. We took her to the ER, and she was admitted, but didn’t respond to several blood transfusions. So, a bone marrow biopsy was performed, and then we got the diagnosis: Leukemia. Our four year old daughter had cancer.

“We live in middle Georgia, about 100 miles south of Atlanta, and we were immediately sent to Children’s Hospital of Atlanta (Scottish Rite) for treatment. I remember walking through the doors of 3N, and seeing the sign that read “Aflac Childrens Cancer Center” and well, no offense to any of you, but all I could think was, ‘Oh, no, I don’t want to be here!’

“We were inpatient for ten days at the beginning of treatment, and Kendrie had surgery to receive a port in her chest where she would get a large portion of her chemo. Then, her twenty-six months of chemotherapy was begun. The one “good” thing about her treatment protocol, if you want to call it that, is that although it was long, it was all slated to be handled outpatient at the Aflac Cancer Center, barring any complications or problems. {Hey, I think I’m starting to get the hang of this! The champagne must be kicking in!}

A few days after being released from the hospital, we returned for our first day of treatment at the outpatient clinic. At that time, it was still the “old” clinic. The waiting room was about the size of the master bath in my house, and the patients and staff were falling all over each other. There was barely room to turn around in the exam rooms, and all the kids got chemo in one room in the back. And we went two and three times each week --- gratefully. Thus began my long and intimate relationship with Interstate 75. {Look, I made them laugh again -- I so rock!}

“During that time, I could hear hammering and pounding and sawing noises coming from overhead. “That”, said the staff, “is going to be our new clinic, the one Aflac is building us … only six more months …. We can’t wait” Now, to be honest, at that point I was so shell-shocked that I wouldn’t have cared if Kendrie had gotten her chemo in a cardboard box in an alley. The important thing was that she was in remission, and she was staying there. Six months was too far in the future, I just couldn’t think about that. I was struggling to stay focused and simply get through each day.

“Then, I blinked. And six months had gone by.

“By then, the doctors, nurses and staff had become like a second family to us. They invited us to come for the grand opening of the clinic, and we wanted to support them, so we did. My husband, myself, and our three kids drove up for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

“That day, we got on the elevator and pushed the button for the 4th floor. Then the doors opened, and we stepped out … and oh my gosh. This facility, this clinic --- that YOU made possible --- was unbelievable.

“We walked into the front waiting room, with its comfy chairs and big screen TV. And we wandered around and saw the video games, and pinball machines, and craft areas and play areas, and places on the floor where the kids could jump and make the pictures on the wall change …. And the kid-sized chairs in the infusion area with their little, personal TVs attached, and the sedation rooms with their twinkling lights on the ceiling, and more big screen TVs. About that time, my older two kids, who were six and seven by now, looked over at Kendrie and said, “WOW! You are SO LUCKY you have cancer and get to come here to play twice a week!” {Ha! Totally laughing again! What’s even funnier is that my kids really said that!}

“Then we saw my favorite part of the clinic, the private chemo rooms in the back. Some chemo appointments only last half an hour, but sometimes, you’re there all day. They pre-medicate your child with anti-nausea drugs, which knocks them out, then they give five or six more hours of chemo, and they just have to sleep it off. Now, we have private rooms where your child can sleep in a real bed, in the quiet … and recliners for the parents to sit and relax next to them. That’s about when my husband turned to me and said, “Wow! You’re SO LUCKY you get to come here and take a nap with her twice a week!”

“I wish you could have seen the faces of the doctors, nurses and staff that day. Proud, pleased, excited … they were so happy, and that made me happy. And I can tell you that now, almost three years later, they are just as proud, and just as pleased with that facility.

“And the kids, they love the clinic as well. Now, you’ll hear that *ding* when the elevator door opens, and you look over, and you often see a kid RUNNING into the clinic. Maybe bald, maybe with an oxygen tube in their nose, maybe wearing leg braces and not moving too quickly; they’re going to be poked and prodded, yet they come running to see if Dora or Spongebob is on the big screen TV. They love this beautiful facility, and they love coming here, because it lets them know just how very special they are.

“Kendrie finished her 26 months of chemotherapy in December of 2005. {Wow, I can’t believe she has stood here so patiently this entire time …. This is going to cost me a lot of candy when all is said and done!}

“She is seven years old, in the first grade, and is perhaps, the biggest tomboy in the history of the world. She prefers skateboards to Barbies, Matchbox cars to tea parties, and laughed IN MY FACE when I suggested she wear a dress today {Wow, that got the biggest laugh of all! Did that lady just shout “You go, girl!” ??}

“She continues to be cancer-free and to date shows no late-term effects from the chemo. Most of all, she is my hero.

“I am grateful to many people for the success story that is my daughter. The researchers, who you fund, who work so tirelessly to find treatments and a cure for all forms of pediatric cancer. The doctors and nurses and staff who kindly and competently administer those treatments to these kids. And to all of you, for giving, for helping, and for allowing them to do this incredible work in a place that is cheerful, and spacious, and wonderful. No family *wants* to be there ….. but if a journey through the world of pediatric cancer is something you have no choice but to do, how marvelous to get to do it with such style.

“Thank YOU, for giving us that style. Thank you for me, from Kendrie, and from all the families you have helped so much” {THANK THE STARS ABOVE ITS OVER AND I DIDN’T VOMIT OR HYPERVENTILATE OR FORGET THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, ALL THREE THINGS I WAS WORRIED ABOUT!}

“Now, Kendrie has something she would like to say.”

And thus began the Dance of the Goobers, as I tried to pick her up and put her on my hip so I could hold her up to speak into the microphone, only I was trying to put her on my left hip and she swiveled to sit on my right hip, then kicked me as I swung her around, then leaned so far forward to talk into the microphone that I lost my balance and practically dropped her on the podium and I’m pretty sure threw my back out a little.

“She wrote this herself on the airplane this morning” {totally true, although I did correct some spelling because I’m not sure everyone would know what the words “cansur” and “osome” meant.}

“Hi. My name is Kendrie. I got cancer when I was three years old. I had it until I was seven. Which is how old I am now. Thank you for the clinic. My favorite part is the big screen TV in the waiting room. I didn’t like having cancer. But the clinic was awesome. Thank you for giving money to help kids like me.”

And really, that pretty much says it all, don’t you think?

Dear Blaine,

{clearing throat}

"Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Birthday to you,

Happy Biiiiiirthday, dear Blaaaaine,

Haaaaaaaaaaappy Birthday to you!"

Ps. The last four years? Ever since you turned 39 and got cancer? Yeah, those four years have pretty much sucked. Big ones. And I’ve decided that you’re not getting another single solitary birthday present from me until you turn things around. Got it? Starting with tomorrow’s MRI, which fortunately, I learned will be done WITHOUT contrast. So shape up and turn things around, buddy, or pay the consequences.

{Tough love. Sometimes, it’s the only way.}

{And sometimes, it’s what you pretend to do when you were so busy hyperventilating from your public speaking engagement that you forgot to go *buy* a present.}

It appears I have discovered ....

The secret to successful public speaking. Or rather, the secret to successfully camouflaging extreme nervousness *while* public speaking. Simply dribble lunch all down the front of your white blouse. Because no-one will notice the nervous blotchy spots on your chest when they are so distracted by the giant blob of chili nacho sauce on your right boob.

Simple enough!

Tune in tomorrow, when I bore thrill you with all the mundane exciting details of our trip. I’m sure you can find something better to do, like de-grout your shower tiles hardly wait!!! One clue …. how we started out in middle Georgia, to give a speech in Kentucky, yet wound up in Ohio the same day. Go figure!

Which came first, the vomit or the faint?

Well, I think it’s pretty clear from the comments that I’m not the only one traumatized by my elementary school spelling bee experience. It’s just too bad we can’t all turn back time and demand a do-over to try and rectify the momentary lapses of spelling judgment we so sadly experienced, all of us Great Spellers of the World.

(sigh. L-A-C-E.)

In all seriousness, that 5th grade spelling bee debacle set me up for a lifetime of anxiety when it comes to speaking in front of people. Put me in front of a microphone, and I panic. My mind goes blank, and I forget to exhale. I remember to inhale, but forget to exhale, which makes it hard to talk when your lungs are FULL of oxygen and yet you’re still gasping for air like a beached fish. You might or might not remember that it took me until my 40th birthday, and a silo of amaretto, before I worked up the courage to do karaoke by myself in front of anyone.

Public speaking. It’s a situation I avoid at all costs. I LOATHE standing up in front of a group and talking. High school speech class? Hated it. College speech class? Practically needed valium. I even get nervous when I’m with a group that is going around the room introducing ourselves. Two or three people before it’s my turn, I start sweating, and getting a little hyper-ventil-y, and start cackling with this stupid nervous laughter because OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO SAY I’M GOING TO SOUND LIKE AN IDIOT I CAN’T REMEMBER MY NAME WHAT THE HELL IS MY NAME???? Like the women at a baby shower are going to point and laugh, do I really think that is going to happen??? … I get *that* nervous. Seriously. I even get this awful splotchy rash across my chest. You should see my wedding pictures; it looks like my boobs have roseola.

So imagine my extreme happiness and excitement when a representative from the AFLAC cancer clinic in Atlanta, where Kendrie received her cancer treatment, called me last month to ask if I would speak at a meeting of AFLAC employees from western Kentucky who had donated the most money to build the new clinic back in 2004. To ask if I would give a thank you speech of sorts, letting them know how much their generosity and kindness had benefited our family’s life.

And did I also mention that if I said yes, I would be giving my talk in front of 400 people?

That’s not a typo -- that’s FOUR HUNDRED!

Um, yeah. I would rather roll around naked, covered in tar, on thumb tacks and feathers, and have the entire thing played on YouTube. THAT'S how much I hate public speaking.

But how can you say no to a request like that? To saying a heartfelt and sincere “thank you” to the employees who donated their own money and commissions to help finance the clinic? The (did I mention?) $2.5 MILLION dollar clinic? I mean, am I really going to say, “No, I don’t want to say thank you. These people indirectly helped save my daughter’s life, but my tummy gets butterflies in front of a group, so I think I’ll pass. Thanks for asking!”

No, of course not.

I’m going to go, and make my speech, and most likely throw up on the podium.

Blaine gave me the always-helpful advice to imagine them all in their underwear. Honey, I don’t think Fruit of the Loom can even make that many at one time.

Last night, I told the kids I was nervous and asked if I could practice my speech in front of them, explaining how sometimes practicing in front of a crowd will make it easier when it comes time to do the real thing.

They responded with great enthusiasm, and even did their best job to help matters by courting me an audience:



Truly, have you ever seen a more rapt group of spectators?




Hanging on my every word?? Kellen counted, and there were 40 beings listening. Great, I’m only 360 short.




Oh, look, I mention the word “bald” in my speech twice. These two little girls should feel right at home.




Even the dog got in on the action. To be honest, they were a good crowd. Not one person heckled me or threw a tomato.


Please keep me and Kendrie in your thoughts tomorrow as we fly to Kentucky with the cancer clinic representative. First, that our plane not plummet to the ground in a fiery crash (you know how I feel about these things.)

Secondly, that if my only choices are vomiting or fainting, that I faint. I can always blame the pregnancy. **

Third, that the high-neck shirt that I’m planning to wear in an attempt to hide the blotches on my chest not constrict my airway any more than necessary. Otherwise, I really will forget to exhale and turn blue and pass out right there in front of all 400 people. I hope Aflac employees are required to pass some sort of CPR class, because I’ll most likely need resuscitation before all is said and done.

**No, I’m not pregnant, but my stomach is so fat I could get away with using that as an excuse. And hey, if I faint at the beginning, I don’t have to worry about forgetting the speech!

Speling Beeze.

My kids’ elementary school held its annual Spelling Bee this week for the 4th and 5th graders. Each teacher had a contest and the top two spellers from each class got to compete in the school-wide competition. Brayden, sadly, was not in the top two of her class. I would go so far as to guess she might have finished last, or near last, considering she can’t spell her way out of a B-A-G. She’s bright, but she’s not a natural-born speller.

So, because the competition was held on a Tuesday, and that’s the day I volunteer in the school each week, I decided to attend (pretty much, just to be nosy). And I have to tell you, I. Totally. Flashed. Back.

You might (or might not) know, but I am a complete, 100 percent, absolute and total spelling, punctuation, and grammar snob. That’s not to say I’m perfect, and Lord only knows you guys have all witnessed my use and abuse of both the exclamation point and the trailing period. But thanks to the modern-day genius of built-in spell check and my own anal tendencies, I get pretty annoyed when a spelling mistake slips past me and makes it into one of these journal entries.

I was like that at age 10, already. A pretty good speller. In fact, if I could toot my own horn (toot-toot!) a DAMN good speller. So when I got ready to attend my first-ever spelling bee in the 5th grade, it was with the utter and complete confidence that I would be the winner. Really, there wasn’t even a question. I would conquer. That’s C-O-N-Q-U-E-R. The title **would** be mine.

Here is the 10-yr old face of assurance, poise, and self-confidence:



Sadly, it’s a face framed by teeth into which I hadn’t quite grown, feathered hair that required half a can of Aqua-Net each morning, and the ugliest one-piece polyester dress ever known to mankind. If ever there was a need for The Swan, Jr. Version, you're looking at it.

But by golly, I could spell.

I don’t remember if we drew numbers, or how they determined our order. Somehow, I was number two. I went to a very small school, and the total number of fifth and sixth grade students (back when sixth grade was still elementary school) was probably less than a hundred kids. I don’t even remember how many competed, but I remember I was number two.

They called the first kid up to the microphone, and gave him his word: Lace.

And he spelled it: L-A-S-E.

And I remember sort of snorting under my breath at his moron-ness, thinking, in my totally compassionate and kind-hearted manner, “What a schmuck. Who can’t spell lace?”

As that poor, defeated student trod off the stage, I swaggered up to the microphone, brimming with confidence. Now, we obviously didn’t follow Scripps National Spelling Bee Rules and Regulations, because although this wasn’t the final round (not yet, but I’d be there soon enough!) as the next competitor, I was given the same word to spell: Lace.

And I sort of chuckled, as if to give the impression the judges were wasting my massive amount of brain energy and sheer spelling genius with such a lame word ….

And I leaned forward into the microphone, champion that I was, speaking loudly and clearly, and spelled the word: L-A-S-E.

Wait.

Holy crap, did I just …. What????

I can’t believe I just did that!

Wait, stop, DO-OVER!!!!!!

But that was it. It was over. I was out, in the very first round. And as I took the Walk of Shame to the back table where the kids who had been eliminated were to sit, I was seething inside.

SEETHING.

How could I have done something so monumentally stupid???? It was a trick, I tell you, a low down dirty rotten stinking trick! I was robbed!!!!

And as I sat there through the rest of the competition, I brooded on what an idiot I was, and how I had made such a colossal blunder. And continued to seethe. As the competition went on, other kids joined me at the table. A few even whispered and bragged about mis-spelling words on purpose to get out of the competition. Those little shits threw the bee intentionally, and I would have given anything for another chance.

Bicycle!
Paper!
Cloud!
Skating!

I knew them all!!!!!

I couldn’t even say I was wrongfully stripped of my title, since I never got the title in the first place. But in my heart, I knew. K-N-E-W that I was the winner.

It’s been thirty years, and I still seethe.

I will always seethe.

Just like I was always remember how to spell lace.

Just like that little girl at my daughter’s school, the first child eliminated from the competition last week, will always remember how to spell “pilot”.

Not P-I-L-E-T, but P-I-L-O-T.

Pilot.

(And in the meantime, lace. Still seething.)

Drum roll, please.

Blaine got the phone call at 3:30 this afternoon (good thing I hadn’t been holding my breath since 8am or anything) and the results of last week’s cat scan are:

Inconclusive.

Hmmm. Imagine that. Picture me, with a look of surprise and astonishment on my face.



Really?!?!?

Inconclusive? Wow, go figure.

So, now they want him to have an MRI done.

Let’s review, shall we?

Two weeks ago:

Doctor orders a cat scan.
We wait on the insurance authorization and referral.
Finally get appointment at imaging center.
They can’t start an IV, so the test is done without contrast.
We wait almost a week for the results, which are inconclusive.

NOW, the plan is:

Doctor has ordered an MRI.
We will wait on the insurance authorization and referral.
He will go to the appointment at the same imagine center.
When (not if, but WHEN) they can’t get an IV started, they will do the test without contrast.
We will wait for the results.

I’m glad to see we have a fresh game plan and are taking decisive action.

Who wants to guess whether or not the MRI will be inconclusive, and that ten days from now we’ll be no farther ahead than we are now.

I feel like a very big, very slow, very impotent, very frustrated hamster on the wheel of life.

I seriously need a drink.

And did you know that if you have stitches from your finger-quote-skin-cancer-surgery-end-finger-quote, that is considered an open wound and you are not allowed to donate blood? And sometimes you won’t find that out until after you’ve driven half an hour to the donor center and filled out the questionnaire and had all your vitals taken and had your finger poked not once but twice because that stupid blood always rises back up to the top of the solution don’t I eat enough red meat and you’ve answered every single question about whether or not you’ve ever had sex with a goat in Africa who ever had sex for money with a needle using heroin addict who ever had an organ transplant in the UK in the last five years???

And then, you’ll be asked to come back a week later, when the stitches are out.

Twenty bucks says I’m able to donate blood before we know anything about Blaine.

Any takers?

PS. Try to contain your own surprise that I wasn’t accepted at art school, as per my surprised-look face drawing. You *did* know that was a surprised face, right?

“The one where I roll my eyes and say ‘Whatever!’ and make little jokes when inside I’m about ready to scream or punch somebody in the neck or both"

Because that's healthy and theraputic.

So, cancer.

Several of you have been kind enough to ask, so I’ll fill you in on our little corner of the world. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to share, it’s just that I don’t know what’s worth sharing and what should be ignored as putrid nonsense spewing forth from the chaotic mess I like to call my brain.

Kendrie: Still kicking ass and taking names, baby. A recent upshot I’ve learned about her treatment is that one long term effect of the chemotherapy is a tendency to soften teeth. Which, considering the crooked chompers she’s got coming in, and the years and years of orthodontics staring us in the face, is probably a good thing.

Me: Had my finger-quotes-surgery-finger-quotes last week at the dermatologists. Five minutes and ten stitches later, I am apparently skin cancer free. Although my career as an underarm supermodel has been cut tragically short.

Blaine: (sigh) One step forward, two steps back. I’m not even sure what to tell and what not to tell. Let’s go chronologically:

Friday Jan 19th -- had outpatient surgery scheduled to have a tube placed in his right ear. Due to the scar tissue buildup from all the surgeries, and the radiation on that side of his face and head, he can’t hear out of that ear, so its believed that a tube (What is he? Like, three years old?) will help him hear better. I’m all for him getting the tube because I’m sick and tired of thinking he is ignoring me whenever I talk to him and he doesn’t reply. Unfortunately, the procedure had to be scrapped because they couldn’t get an IV going --- not in his arm, his foot or his neck. Can you believe they tried to get an IV started in his NECK???? Who *does* that? {shudders} Anyway, apparently after being poked nine trillion times over the past four years, his veins have basically responded with an “Oh no you DON’T any more!” and retracted into his body. Every single vein. So, no tubes. Still not sleeping for shit.

Wednesday Jan 24th -- Finally got the referral from the insurance company, and was supposed to have a CT with contrast so they could get a good look at the mass on his shoulder. Unfortunately, despite their best efforts, they weren’t able to …

Wait for it ………….. wait for it………..

Get an IV started. SO! They did the scan anyway, but with no contrast, which means the picture won’t be as helpful in determining what the heck is going on. But, they reassured him that regardless, the report would be delivered to his primary care doctor by Friday. Still not sleeping for shit.

Thursday Jan 25th -- awake at 3am (did I mention he’s not sleeping for shit?) and drove to Ft. Gordon in Augusta for his surgical pre-op appointment, which included an exam, consults with ENT and surgery, x-ray and bloodwork --- they did manage, somehow, to access a vein this day. Go figure. This is in preparation for the surgery he is having next month to have posts put in his implants -- one step closer to teeth! He requested they do a little (repeat) cosmetic work (collagen) on his cheek since it’s caved in …. Doctor said no, he didn’t want to mask any potential problems (ie, more cancer) that they will be checking for when he goes to Seattle for his next MRI in March. They do, think, however, that they can go ahead and put the ear tube in while he’s already in surgery. Discussed doing a picc-line so he doesn’t continue to have problems with IVs all over town. Appointment lasted all damn day long, and while driving home from Ft. Gordon that night, he was pulled over for what appeared to be drunk and reckless driving on the highway. Blaine’s reply? “I wasn’t drunk or reckless. I’m exhausted, and was just in a hurry to get home and go to bed.” Still, the police officer wouldn’t let him get back behind the wheel, so the kids and I had to go get him. Luckily, he wasn’t far from home and his pick up truck got to spend an exciting night in the Best Western parking lot. I’m sure later, we’ll laugh about the fact all three kids started crying when they saw the blue lights flashing and assumed their poor exhausted sleep deprived father was going to jail.

Friday Jan 21st -- found us anxiously awaiting results of report. Called primary care doctor not once, but twice that day, to see if report was in. Also e-mailed nurse twice. Primary care doctor didn’t call back that day; we gave up hoping he would call back when he hadn’t by 9 pm that night.

Can anyone deduce that I’m not having a pink puffy heart relationship with Blaine’s primary care doctor? I realize he’s not the boss of the report and if it wasn’t delivered to him, well, he can’t just pull the results out of his ass. But don’t you think the polite, professional thing to do would have been at least return the phone call to let us know he doesn’t know? To say “Hey, I’m sorry, I know you’re waiting to find out if the cancer has come back, but so am I. No news here either” --? Are my expectations really that unreasonably high?

So, in a nutshell, he’s been poked, prodded, jabbed and stabbed. He's sleepy. And we still don’t know any more than we did. Except he’s deaf, with retracted veins and a big lump on his shoulder. I guess we could rename him Quasimodo and be done with it. Just get him some church bells to ring and call it a day.

He’s getting discouraged and anxious, which makes me discouraged and anxious. Then I get annoyed with him for making me discouraged and anxious. I’m starting to wonder if therapy is far off. The kind of therapy where I put him in a big canvas bag with a lot of heavy rocks and throw him off a bridge into a river. Or the kind of therapy where I clear out our savings account and move someplace with a sunny beach and umbrella drinks and well-oiled muscular men to wave me with palm fronds. Oh, wait, there’s those pesky kids to think of. So I guess in the meantime I’ll just continue with my current therapy, which is eating my weight in chocolate and drawing mustaches and horns on photos of his doctor.

Because *that’s* healthy and therapeutic.

It's all about having fun.

PS at the beginning --- can I just tell you guys that the comments regarding the previous entry have been cracking me UP for the past two days?? You guys should all sign in every single time because honestly, I have been laughing and laughing at with you. Thanks so much for posting --- you've made my entire week!!

Now, back to our regularly scheduled kvetching:

So, you might remember last year when Kellen played his first season of recreational basketball. You might remember that he played against giant freak mutant boys like this (now remember, Kellen is TALL for his age):




And that despite my long and honorable history of not having a competitive bone in my body, I wound up at his games with face paint and a big foam finger, screaming my lungs out, and pounding my clunky yet fashionable Nine West boots on the bleachers, every single Saturday. Truly, not some of my finer moments.

About a month ago, they were having signups for the new season of rec ball. I asked Kellen if he wanted to play again, and his comment was, “No, that coach yelled too much.” See? A chip off the old block. We are just not competitive. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Then, I returned home one evening and got the following message off the answering machine:

“Hi, this is Coach H from Kellen’s basketball team. I just wanted to make sure you knew sign ups are going on this weekend and I’d love to have Kellen on my team again.”

Oh, wasn’t that nice? Listening to the message, I was starting to think that Kellen could learn to live with a little constructive criticism …. After all, maybe we both need to toughen up, and instead of being embarrassed of my deeply buried competitive streak, perhaps I should nurture it and fan the flames to life. Then, just then, the Coach dropped this little bombshell:

“But, when you go down to the rec center to sign up, do NOT take Kellen with you. Fill out the paperwork, and on the spot where they ask for his height, take six inches off what he really is and write that down. That way, they’ll hopefully assign us TALL kids to fill up the rest of the spots, if they think everyone on our team is short. See you at practice!”

OK, wait. Did he just say what I think he just said?

Did he just ask me to LIE on a 3rd grade recreation basketball application, and take six inches off my son’s height?????? Seriously????

Um, yeah. *That’s* who I want as a role model for my son.

So instead, we went down to a local church and signed Kellen up for a program called Upward. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a Christian-based sports organization that offers (depending on the church) basketball, soccer, flag football, and cheerleading. The emphasis is on bible study first, sportsmanship second, teamwork third, and learning the fundamentals of basketball fourth. It’s supposed to be about fun and learning, not competition and winning. In theory, I agree. Wholeheartedly.

In reality, I’m thinking maybe Kellen needs to spend a little less time memorizing Bible verses and a little more time practicing on a court. I submit the following evidence:



OK, how can anyone this knock-kneed run at all?




"Reaching? REACHING? No, I wouldn’t call this reaching! I would call this ….. creative defense!"




"Damn gravity. Gets me every time."




Kellen, honey, while I appreciate the spontaneity of whatever dance this is you’re doing at your end of the court, it appears the ball action is taking place at the OTHER end. Perhaps you should try turning around????




Ah, look. NOW he’s getting the hang of it!!


Honestly, he’s enjoying it quite a bit and actually scored his first basket of the season today. Plus, his team won their game and the snack-mom brought Fruit Gushers, so all told, an incredibly successful day.

But I must confess, I’m missing my foam finger just a tiny bit.

Quirks. Idiosyncrasies.

Previous Song: TSO; A Final Dream
Current Song: It’s All About Me; Tokyo Joe

(That’s for you, Dawn!)

Well, as you all know, the usual m.o. around this web-blog is for me to talk about myself, endlessly, tirelessly, without ceasing, ad nauseam. After all, it’s all about me. Well, ok, it's really not. But for today I'm going to pretend that it is. And although I do have a tendency to babble on, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been tagged, as my friend Tammy did this week. So, to respond to Tammy’s Quirks and Idiosyncrasies tag, here we go:

1. You all know how I feel about bare feet. (shudder). I really don’t think I even need to go there.

1a. Interestingly, the bare feet of my own children don’t bother me too much. The thought of touching someone else’s bare foot makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth, but when my kids were younger, I used to smooch on their bare feet all the time. Obviously, it’s that maternal-survival-instinct kicking in because if we didn’t love our kids so damn much, bare feet and all, we’d just ship them off to sea to live with the pirates.

2. I’m pretty sure you also know how I feel about my Diet Dr. Pepper and my Styrofoam cups with rabbit pellet ice. It’s pretty much crossed the line from habit into sick, twisted obsession. One that I have no desire to change.

3. I MUST-- no ifs, ands, or buts -- sleep on the right hand side of the bed. It doesn’t matter how big the bed is or if that side of the bed is nearer the bedroom door or the bathroom door, I must be on the right hand side. It also it doesn’t matter if I am in the bed by myself or with Blaine or one of the kids, I will sleep on the right hand side, and 99 percent of the time I am sleeping on my right side with my face away from the person next to me because I can't stand anyone breathing in my air. It makes me severely claustrophobic.

3a. Speaking of claustrophobia, I also can’t wear any shirt or sweater that has a high neck, or a hood, because the hood will hang down my back and rise in the neck and I will feel as though I am choking. Nothing tight around my neck or near my face, at any time. Period.

4. I cannot go to bed without Chapstick or mentholatum on my lips. It is impossible for me to go to sleep if my lips are dry.

5. I always take the pickle and onions off my McDonalds hamburger before eating it. I don’t bother to special order because I’m scared the workers will spit on it, so I just scrap them off, oh-so-lady-like, onto the tray.

6. Although I don’t drink coffee, I do start every day with a tall glass of skim milk with two and one half spoonfuls of Nestle Quik in it. Not two, not three. Two and a half. That is an important and precise measurement and woe to the person in our household who uses the last bit of Nestle Quik without telling me.

7. Towels absolutely must be folded right side out and stored in the linen closet. If we had a linen closet, that is, and didn’t just shove the towels under the bathroom sink because there’s not one stinkin’ closet in this house not one is that asking so much because where am I supposed to keep towels and sheets and what man in his right mind designed such a crazy, inadequate floor plan anyway???? While I appreciate the help Blaine gives me around the house, it makes me insane if he does laundry because he folds the towels wrong-side out and you can see the tags. I despise that.

8. I am obsessed with list-making and make lists for everything. Grocery lists, dinner lists, chore lists, shopping lists, to-do lists. If I do something that is not on my list, I will write it on the list just for the pleasure of crossing it off the list. If I think I have lost my list, I hyperventilate until it is found.

9. People who tap, or jiggle, or bounce their feet on the floor, or click their pen or make funny noises with their mouth or whistle or any of the twelve thousand annoying little things that people can do make me crazy. Sit still and be quiet, for Pete's sake.

10. I have a tendency to over-do things. For example, this tag-list was supposed to stop at six.

And while normally it’s all about me (and you KNOW that it is!) tomorrow is all about Catie’s mom Jenny and Catie’s dad Tre’, as they welcome their new son or daughter into the world. The gamut of emotions they have gone through this past week boggles the mind, so please continue to keep them in your prayers a little longer.

Thanks!

So, now, it’s all about YOU. Tell me about your most bizarre or uptight quirk in the comment section.

Weddings and Funerals

My maternal grandma died in 1992. She had been sick for about a year, with leukemia. While her death was not unexpected, that still doesn’t mean you’re ever ready to lose someone you love.

She died on a Thursday, and family poured in from all over the southeast part of the country over the weekend, until at last it was the morning of her funeral. We all enjoyed seeing one another again; it seems like the only time the extended family gets together is for a wedding or a funeral. Why is that?

Right before it was time to leave her and Grandpa’s house to go to the church, all the family was there. I scooted into the bathroom real quick, just before time to leave. Sat down, did my business, stood up to get everything straightened back down ----- and got the chain on my charm bracelet tangled in my panty hose. The charm bracelet was on my right wrist, and I’m right-handed, so I didn’t have much luck untangling it with my awkward left hand. I didn’t want to just jerk because I knew that would rip a big hole in my panty hose (this was back in the day, when women actually *wore* panty hose with dresses) so I did the only logical thing I could do.

Yelled for my sister to come help me.

She then yelled for my mom, who then yelled for two of my aunts, and before you know it, we had five or six grown women in the bathroom, laughing hysterically at the sight of me, hunched over in the bathroom with my panty hose and underwear around my knees, tangled up in my charm bracelet.

It felt good, that day, to laugh. Especially after so many days of feeling sad.

Jenny and Tre’ gave us a great gift as they shared Catie’s journey, struggles and triumphs with the rest of us these past three years. Sunday at the visitation and Monday at the funeral, they also gave us the gift of laughter at a difficult time. Monday was truly a celebration of Catie’s life, and it felt good to enjoy those memories, and enjoy the company of friends, with their blessing.

There were twenty cancer moms and dads, who had come from all over Georgia, at the visitation Sunday evening. Afterwards, we went out to dinner together. We chatted, we laughed, we remembered Catie, a speech was made, and we toasted to her and Jenny and Tre’. I hope when I die, that the people who care about me can come together and enjoy one another’s company and laugh … there can be no better legacy than leaving a smile on the faces of those left behind. We all cried, too, but mostly this weekend, we smiled when we thought of Catie.

If Jenny and Tre’s aim for the Celebration of Life Service on Monday morning was to honor Catie, and evoke the memories of her that brought all of us the most joy, well, they were certainly successful. The photos were beautiful, the video montage was heart warming, and in almost every picture, Catie was smiling and laughing. Sometimes hysterically. And so we smiled and laughed as we remembered her.

My favorite comment from the service was when Catie’s Aunt Nikki spoke of her, and reminded us that, “Catie’s life isn’t over …. It’s just happening in a different place.” What a wonderful thought, and one that made me happy.

The grace and composure evidenced by her parents was amazing. Jenny stood and spoke of her sweet, sweet daughter, something many wouldn’t have the strength to do. Tre’ played a tribute to Catie on his trumpet. Although we joked with him later that his new nickname is “Sweet Lips” …. Let me tell you, I’ve never heard applause at a funeral, but after his playing, we applauded.

Another touching moment for me was at the graveside service, when Jenny and Tre’ opened a box, and released a dozen (two?) monarch butterflies into the air at the cemetery. It was such a perfect tribute to a wonderful little girl, watching those beautiful butterflies flutter up into the nearby trees.

It was healing for me personally, and I hope for the others, to remember and honor Catie in such a positive way. I hope, most of all, that it was healing for her family. They were so kind to welcome and include all of us cancer parents, and even invited us to the church for the family lunch afterwards.

And because it wouldn’t be a true event without a Kristie-moment, I can tell you that Catie’s great-grandma, who sat at our table at the luncheon, asked me when my baby was due in front of everyone. Now, her mind was sharp as a tack and she could hear everything, but she is 86 years old so I’m telling myself that obviously her vision is failing. Why else would she have asked that? It couldn’t have anything to do with the huge, overflowing plate I had just brought back from the dessert buffet, would it? :)

I share these details with you because so many of you have been kind enough to ask about Catie and share your comments. I’ve gotten private e-mails, as well. You didn’t have to know Catie and her family personally to care about them, and that’s been evident in all the guestbook signatures on her site. I’m sure your kind notes have brought much comfort to Jenny and Tre’. Thank you for doing that.

And thank you to my friends from Atlanta/Moultrie, whose caring and compassion, along with the generosity of Jenny and Tre’, turned this into an uplifting gathering. Spending time with all of you was the most beneficial thing for my spirit. But since most of our kids are young, we’re not waiting on a wedding to get together again. That could take years.

And in the meantime, we’ve got more laughing and smiling to do.

Good-bye, Catie-bug.

I am leaving today to drive to Savannah for Catie's visitation and memorial service. People are traveling from near and far, both driving and flying, for these events. Please keep everyone in your thoughts for safe travels. Please also continue to keep Catie's family in your prayers during this difficult time.

Please also remember Baby Donovan's family, as Donovan earned his own angel wings last night. Donovan was a leukemia patient; I only knew his family online through my leukemia support group, but I'm sure they are in need of our thoughts and prayers as well.

Two beautiful children, received in Heaven, healed and perfect, but missed beyond anything by those left behind. I hope they are playing together. I hope Donovan is telling Catie all about the Indiana Colts, and Catie is introducing Donovan to all the cute puppies she has already met.

I hope their families find peace.

Catie Marie

Catie Marie
September 26, 2002 - January 18, 2007

My heart is just sick at the loss this wonderful family has suffered. So many people, thousands and thousands of people, have been logging on to Catie’s site last night and today to leave words of encouragement, support, and condolence for her family. I feel luckier than most … we knew Catie personally. We consider her and her family to be our friends.

I have often wished that Jenny and I lived closer to one another because I think we could be really *good* friends. (Maybe Jenny hasn’t wished it, but I have!) Although younger than me, and not a mother as long, she is definitely the kind of mother I aspire to be. In the two and a half years we’ve known them, I have never, not once, seen her lose her patience with Catie or the terrible situation they found themselves in. Never raise her voice, never get frustrated. Never voice an unkind or ungracious thought. Catie was her universe, and anyone who watched them together for even a moment knew that. Those of you who have followed their journey via Caringbridge knew that. Jenny and Tre’ were so blessed to have Catie as their daughter. Catie was so blessed to have them as parents. And Heaven is truly blessed to have welcomed such a sweet angel through its gates late last night.

I wish I lived closer to Atlanta as Catie’s final hours drew near last night. So many of my cancer-mom friends were able to go to the hospital and be with Jenny and Tre’ and the rest of their family; to say good-bye to Catie, give one final kiss, to support them, and support one another at the end. I should have driven up yesterday afternoon, but to be honest, my heart still believed that Catie would pull through, as she’s fought back so many times. I wasn’t ready. I’m sure Jenny and Tre’ and the rest of Catie’s family weren't ready, either. … anywhere near ready.

As a Christian, I am comforted by the belief that Catie is standing tall and straight in Heaven today, running and skipping and jumping and playing as she was never able to here on Earth. I think she has hair long enough for bows, and lots of friends to play with. I hope Jenny is right, and lots of puppies, too.

I went back through Kendrie’s cancer scrapbook, looking for photos of Catie. In every photo I have, she and Kendrie are right next to one another. They got along so well, and I’m sorry that we weren’t able to get them together more often. Looking at these photos today brought back many happy memories for me, which is good, since smiling through tears is sometimes the only bearable way to cry.

The song that is playing now, I played on the site the first night Kendrie went off-treatment and went to bed without chemo. It’s called “A Final Dream” and is about a little girl and new beginnings. I think it’s perfect for Catie, as she began again today. It’s not the new beginning I wanted for her. Selfishly, I wanted Catie to have her transplant and then begin her new cancer-free life here on Earth, surrounded by her family and friends who love her so very much. Instead, it was time for her new beginning in Heaven, also surrounded by people who love her. But her family and friends left behind are hurting; please remember everyone in your thoughts and prayers.



This was July 2004, the first time we met Catie's family in person after communicating online. It was a Lighthouse family retreat in Florida, and our families were assigned to stay in the same condo. Kendrie and Catie hooked up fast and adored one another. They weren't really that close in age, Catie was almost two and Kendrie was almost five. But they really enjoyed one another. In this picture, they're laying on the floor watching tv together.




This was a month later, when the girls both had chemo appointments on the same day. We met up at the clinic and then went out for lunch afterwards. I think *I* enjoyed it as much as the little ones did. :)




A few months later, and there's even some hair growth for Kendrie at this point! Our families were having dinner after the Lighthouse Christmas party in Atlanta. (Catie was apparently having something with marinara sauce!) :)




Again, chemo appointments on the same day.




Jenny and Catie had been staying in the Ronald McDonald house in Atlanta while Catie finished up her treatment ... or at least what we all hoped would be the end. We had a clinic day, so we bought lunch and took it to the RM House to hang out.

In hindsight, that's what a lot of our time together seemed to be about ... just hanging out and making the most of a difficult time for both families. Chemo in Atlanta is much more endurable if you know you're having lunch or dinner with friends afterwards! But it's so much more than that, as the parents in this cancer world can attest .... it's getting to know these families and these beautiful children and coming to care about them so very much.

And at its most basic, the most simple part, is something every decent human being understands. Its recognizing a beautiful little girl and her wonderful family, and counting yourself lucky to consider them friends.

We will miss you, Catie.

Prayers

No funny stories tonight; no cool music.

Just an earnest request for all of you. If you are inclined toward prayer, please do so. These families desperately need them:

Baby Donovan, pray for his family at this very difficult time, and

Our friend Catie, as she is very, desperately ill in PICU right now.

Pray for peace, healing, calm, and even continue to pray for miracles.

It's never too late.

Juke Box Heroes

When my children were given Wal-Mart gift cards for Christmas … well, you all know how I feel about shopping at Wal-Mart. So I thought I was being sneaky and very, very clever when I suggested Blaine take them shopping with their new cards, knowing he has infinitely more patience than I do. What I didn’t anticipate, perhaps to offset the patience, was his total lack of anything remotely resembling common sense.

How else do you explain that two of my children came home with these??



I mean, really, what on earth was he thinking???

So, I tried to be a good sport.

It was sort of cute, after all, in the beginning, that after they would practice outside, they wanted us to listen to their “songs”. It was sort of cute when they joined forces with the two little girls down the street, who have plastic mariachis, and decided to form a band. They let Brayden be the singer, and they named themselves “The Hurricane Kids”, which I still thought was cute, until Kendrie told they picked that name, “after Tyler’s dad, who is in Iraq right now, helping the people build their houses after the hurricane”. Now I’m a little worried about her grasp, or total lack therof, on current events.

But it was still cute, primarily because they made plans for music careers, and began designing their costumes, and discussed how they would travel by bus to their concerts. And it was cute how they kept flashing the rock and roll hand sign.



Which Kendrie can’t quite manage the pinky action.



And it was cute when they planned to put on shows for dogs. Because nobody appreciates a good guitar riff like the neighborhood schnauzer.



It was cute to watch them through the window, out on the driveway, with the radio playing in the garage, totally rock out. For the record, my children’s primary exposure to the world of adult contemporary music is my own personal love of 80’s big-hair arena bands. So the fact Kellen thinks Survivor’s "Vital Signs" is classic rock and roll, and that nobody rocks quite like the Scorpions, while unfortunate, is understandable.

But it QUIT BEING CUTE when the weather got cold and rainy here. Now they are “practicing” inside and I am forced to listen. Endlessly. To the “music”, which is a kind and generous term for the sounds coming out of these guitars. Are they even guitars? I’m not sure, they look a little like banjoes.

Regardless, after two days of cold weather, and countless hours of inside practice, I have decided they are not cute. They are the instruments of Satan.

The guitars; not the kids.

And I am charging my iPod as I type this. And will be eternally grateful for the earphones.

Maybe, Sometimes

You know how maybe, sometimes, your mind wanders?

You get so bored with what you’re doing that you totally start to daydream?

You know how maybe, sometimes, you’re daydreaming so much that you just plain forget where you are and what you’re doing?

You know how maybe, sometimes, if you’re not careful, you can act in an inappropriate manner? Not necessarily anything *BAD*, just not necessarily proper?

You know how maybe, sometimes, if you’ve been sitting at your kids’ school for three hours on a hard metal chair, cutting two-hundred and fifty monkey faces out of brown construction paper, by yourself in the teacher’s resource room, for three never-ending hours, with no one for company, except your iPod, and the voices in your head, and so then when a really jamming song comes on ….. oh, I don’t know, like THIS ONE THAT IS PLAYING RIGHT NOW …. You might maybe, sometimes, decide to join the voices in your head with the voice coming out your mouth and start actually singing along and chair dancing because you are OUT OF YOUR MIND WITH BOREDOM CUTTING OUT THESE FLIPPING DAMN MONKEY FACES and so you start grooving and chair-dancing and waving the scissors around and you’re so into your own American Idol performance that you don’t even notice the teachers who come into the room and see everything you’re doing?

Um ….. no?

Oh.

Well.

You know how maybe, sometimes, you’re not allowed to volunteer in an elementary school with small children anymore?????

I’m just saying.

Because We Love To Share

(Addendum) OK, so *technically* it's not the flu, just a stomach bug. But this song was the closest I could find. :)
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Kendrie started complaining Thursday night that her stomach hurt. Although I suspected she was simply fibbing, trying to stall her bedtime, that suspicion was quickly squelched when she started throwing up a few minutes later. And then started throwing up into a bucket because she was sitting on the toilet at the same time, if you get my {gross} drift.

And because I taught my children to share, she did. First with me, then Kellen, then Brayden. It’s been a truly lovely weekend around here. Blaine is the only one to dodge the bullet, and he probably thinks catching it himself would have been easier than playing nursemaid to the four of us these past few days.

As of right now, my stomach is better although my body is still achy. Kendrie is *still* complaining of stomach pain but at least the vomiting has stopped. Not the other, though. {again, gross} Brayden is complaining she’s cold and Kellen is running a fever. I’m surprised people don’t confuse our house with Disneyworld, as much fun as we have around here.

But in the spirit of continued giving, I thought I would share with you a few of the {remember, gross is the theme around here this weekend} thoughts that went through my mind earlier when I was making my own deposits into the porcelain reservoir.

1. This toilet is so not clean. I am getting a new maid because the current one* is obviously not doing a very good job.

2. The heck with Harvard or NASA -- my kids totally rock because all three of them can hit a toilet and/or a bucket, and I’m telling you, you can’t put a price on that kind of skill!

3. Well if I had known *that* was going to happen, I would have taken advantage and enjoyed some carbs first!

4. There has got to be a less disgusting way to lose five pounds.

*wait, that’s me. I suck.

Still Waiting ....

I want to thank all of you for your kind, concerned, and sometimes hysterically funny comments in the guestbook about this recent, um, what should we call it ….. “oddity” regarding Blaine’s recovery and health. I was going to go back in the comment section myself and comment on the comments, like I’ve started doing lately because quite frankly, it’s fun! And entertaining! And you guys crack me up! but there were just too many of you. I know, what a nice time-management problem to have!

Despite the fact it must appear I can’t keep my mouth shut about anything, the way I ramble on endlessly and seem to share every aspect of my life with the internet, let me reassure you that I do have *some* discretion. I don’t share everything, all the time, immediately, despite how unbelievable that must seem. Had I suspected, for one nanosecond, that something was truly wrong, I would have waited for test results to write about it. I just feel the need to clarify that, so no-one thinks I’m sitting here panicked. Or that Blaine is sitting here panicked. We’re slightly annoyed. We’re slightly bewildered. Personally, I’m very, very hungry because I started that #(*$&#(*& Atkins again and I’d pretty much kill for a piece of cornbread or cake right about now. But no, we are not panicked.

And also so the anonymous person who wrote to tell me I was the most conceited person on the planet to think I deserved a blog all about myself would know, well, so they would know “shut up, I deleted you and your stinky comment.” I share things as I see fit, and thanks to all of you for responding with kindness. And rib-splitting curse words. And the suggestion of a DDP machine in my stroke rehab village because I am SO putting that on my list of requirements! Right behind “cute male nurses who will wave me with palm fronds and feed me grapes.”

Two and a half days, and still no referral. No referral, no appointment. Given Blaine’s history, it’s a little frustrating, but Tricare is well-known for their mind-boggling, glacier-melting pace at times. Of course, many large-scale insurance companies move just as slowly, so I suspect Tricare is no worse than most. I’d love nothing more than to make a grand statement by sweeping into the imaging center and DEMANDING the cat scan this INSTANT, but they won’t see him without the authorization, so sweeping and demanding would only make me look silly. Add a feather boa and complete the picture.

Plus, I’ve promised never to complain about Tricare again, after receiving our most recent statement from Seattle in the mail, for $55,000 (hospital charges only) and being able to experience the unbelievable, awesome relief of knowing it would be paid, and not out of our pocket. Tricare might be slow and infuriating at times, but without a doubt, they have saved our family from bankruptcy not once, but twice. So, to all you taxpayers, thank you.

I’m sure the appointment will happen soon, and I’m sure things will be fine. I *am* kind of curious about what this lump could be, since my comments about watches and speculums were in jest. I mean … it’s not …. It couldn’t be …. you don’t think …. Do you? Naaaaahhhhh.

In the meantime, those of you who have followed along in Kendrie’s journal and are familiar with the writing project Terry and I have going, I have the next topic up for discussion there now. Please take a moment to visit, and even more please pretty pretty please with a cherry on top, e-mail me if you have experiences, advice, wisdom, or opinions you’d like to share.

In the meantime, I’ll be expanding my stroke facility list:

1. Cute male nurses
2. Diet Dr. Pepper machine
3. A dietician who has never heard the word Atkins.

Suggestions???

Funny Like a Root Canal

So, a few funny stories about cancer from yesterday:

1. First, how funny that I didn’t fool a single one of you with my claims of papaya juice and string cheese. Nah, you’ve known me too long! Plus, really, is there *anybody* that drinks papaya juice? I don’t know, that just sounds nasty.

2. How funny when my girlfriend Jadine called me a kiss-ass for commenting back to the comments in my guestbook. Ha, ha, yeah, funny like a root canal. Can I help it if I’m totally co-dependent? (PS I did it again today.) (PSS Jadine, you know that I *heart* you, pet rats and all!)

3. Ok, this really *is* funny. My dermatologist’s office called me to schedule my “surgery” to have the skin cancer removed. Why they insist on calling it a {finger quotes} surgery {/finger quotes} I have no idea, but they do. So the receptionist was transferring me to the surgery scheduler and I was on hold. This office also does a lot of cosmetic work, and I was listening to a recorded message that discussed procedures available for patients such as Botox, chemical peels, and even liposuction. This is where it gets funny. I was literally on hold, balancing the phone between my ear and my shoulder, LISTENING TO A PITCH FOR LIPOSUCTION, when I shifted in my chair, and disconnected the phone with my big fat chin!!! Ha! I hung up on myself!! I need liposuction for my chin!

4. REALLY funny story about the conversation Blaine and I had yesterday, about how we’re going to have to do some searching and find a place that has a cancer care clinic, and a stroke rehab clinic, right next door to one-another, so it will be easier for the kids to visit us on Sundays. And Blaine said, “Well, they just damn well better bring flowers and yogurt when they come!” Ha! How funny is that??!?!? It’s knee-slapping funny, that’s how funny it is! Don’t you think so?

Wait … What? You don’t know what I’m talking about? Oh, well, sorry. Let me fill you in. It’s a funny story, actually.

Immediately following Blaine’s surgery in Seattle in November, he noticed he couldn’t raise his left arm more than 90 degrees. Although they didn’t operate anywhere near that part of his body, but actually on his left-lower arm, he assumed it was some kind of muscle pain or weakness or trauma following surgery and it would go away on its own. When it didn’t, we started joking that maybe the nurses dropped him on his shoulder while they were transferring him to the operating table and he just didn’t remember thanks to the anesthesia. Which actually *would* be pretty funny, if you think about it. Of course, we thought it was funny to call Blaine “The Tuminator” when he was originally diagnosed, so maybe our sense of humor is a wee bit warped.

Tuesday night I came home from Kellen’s basketball practice, and Blaine said to me, “Come look at my shoulder …. Does it look right to you?” and I suddenly realized, taking a good look at it, and then touching it and feeling it and poking and prodding it, that no, it doesn’t look right. In fact, it looks deformed. Like a deformed chicken wing. And we realized, holy cow, his shoulder is dislocated … how did we not know that? Shouldn’t it hurt? But there’s a long sort of protrusion running along the back of his shoulder, that we assumed was his clavicle, just not where it was supposed to be.

For the record, it totally cracks me up because Blaine is like, “Is that my collarbone? Or is it a shoulder blade? Where is it supposed to be? Why is it sticking out like that? Is it sticking out on the other side? It should be symmetrical, right? Is it symmetrical? You took biology in college, and worked in a doctor’s office; you should know the answer.” He asks me these questions every time something is wrong … and given what he’s gone through the past four years, that means he asks me these types of questions, a lot. And I always want to remind him that yes, I took biology in college …. SIXTEEN YEARS AGO! I dissected a CAT, not a person! I was an INSURANCE SECRETARY, not a pathologist!!!!” Why does he always ask me these kinds of questions???? Do I look like Quincy??? But instead, I continued to peer and poke at his shoulder as if I actually had a single clue about what I was looking at. Then I simply said, “Hmmm. That looks funny.”

I’m not a doctor. Nor do I play one on the internet.

So, yesterday, he went to see his general practitioner. Who clearly indicated his overall level of interest in Blaine and his situation by greeting him with, “So, what’s wrong with you today?” when he walked in the exam room.

Because, you know, so many hypochondriacs and drug addicts have huge portions of the inside of their HEAD surgically removed, and then voluntarily undergo five weeks of radiation, for the fun of it. Whatever, with a big ole’ capital “W” with my thumbs and forefingers.

So the doctor examined him and immediately agreed that, “Yeah, uh, that doesn’t look right.” Good to know my observation skills are right on target.

Instead of a bone sticking out like we thought it was, though, he called it a mass. And asked Blaine to remind him what kind of cancer he had again????

And sent him for an x-ray and an ultrasound, both of which yes, did show a mass, but gave no further information. “Too fuzzy” “Not clear” “Fades out” ….. ugh.

A mass of what? Blood? Tissue? Bone? An accidentally left-behind gauze strip from surgery that has somehow traveled the entire length of his arm and lodged itself into his shoulder?

What the hell is it????

It is NOT cancer. I know that. Logically, I know that. The kind of cancer Blaine has rarely metastasizes, and if it did, it would go to his tongue, or throat, or somewhere up in the head-like-general-head area. Not down the back of his neck to his shoulder.

Plus, the timing is too fluky …. Immediately after surgery? Immediately, immediately following surgery? Blaine’s type of cancer takes years to grow large enough for manual detection, and this mass just shows up in one day? Wouldn’t that be a little Toooo coincidental?

Oh, wait. This IS our family we’re talking about.

So now, his doctor wants him to have a CAT scan. And naturally, the base hospital doesn’t do them. So we’re waiting, once again, for an insurance authorization so he can go to the imaging center here in town. So he can have a cat scan. So they can identify “the mass” and tell us they’ve finally located the missing Heart of the Ocean jewel from the Titanic, and it’s in Blaine’s shoulder. Stuck to a gauze strip and perhaps the surgeon’s watch and maybe even a speculum.

But in the meantime, we’re scouring the country, looking for side-by-side cancer care clinics and stroke rehab facilities. Because I swear on all that is holy if he gets diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in his shoulder …………….

MY. HEAD. WILL. FUCKING. EXPLODE.

Isn’t that funny?