Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
She Speaks
On the day she turned 10 months old our little Olive pointed right at the neighbor's dog and proclaimed "da!" Oh, I thought, how weird; it was almost as if she was trying to say dog or something. The dog's owners, parents of four, including twins a month older, flipped. "Oh my God she totally said dog! She's talking already???"
Nah.
And in the three weeks since it has become clear that Olive IS talking, and that she is not only understood by us but also others. WTF?
"Ah da" is, of course, all done. It is most commonly used to express that her high chair tray is empty. It has also been used, very sadly, on more than one occasion during wiping when she had diaper rash. That'll break your heart, your 16 pounder crying "Ah da! Ah da! Ah da!" The girl is cursed with my crappy super sensitive skin and the diarrhea her brother brings home from Kindergarten. Sad Ollie.
"MmmmmmmmMA!" means more (food) or "I see that you are eating and haven't offered me any. Dude!" Sensing a pattern here? Anyone?
She says "ma/mama/mom" a lot, mostly when things aren't rosy, and of course her favorite happy caretaker word is "da/dada." I swear to God she bats her eyes and has this "you're my hero!" look as she breathlessly slo-mo whispers "da" at J and then lunges from my arms to his. It's so disgusting it's actually cute. But disgusting.
Speaking of crappy skin, my traveling eczema recently took up residence in my belly button, which is especially itchy since I have scars there from surgery. Olive has decided that my reddened innie is a third nipple and keeps trying to nurse from it. Watching her dive bomb it is deeply disturbing. Experience with this? Anyone?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
Nah.
And in the three weeks since it has become clear that Olive IS talking, and that she is not only understood by us but also others. WTF?
"Ah da" is, of course, all done. It is most commonly used to express that her high chair tray is empty. It has also been used, very sadly, on more than one occasion during wiping when she had diaper rash. That'll break your heart, your 16 pounder crying "Ah da! Ah da! Ah da!" The girl is cursed with my crappy super sensitive skin and the diarrhea her brother brings home from Kindergarten. Sad Ollie.
"MmmmmmmmMA!" means more (food) or "I see that you are eating and haven't offered me any. Dude!" Sensing a pattern here? Anyone?
She says "ma/mama/mom" a lot, mostly when things aren't rosy, and of course her favorite happy caretaker word is "da/dada." I swear to God she bats her eyes and has this "you're my hero!" look as she breathlessly slo-mo whispers "da" at J and then lunges from my arms to his. It's so disgusting it's actually cute. But disgusting.
Speaking of crappy skin, my traveling eczema recently took up residence in my belly button, which is especially itchy since I have scars there from surgery. Olive has decided that my reddened innie is a third nipple and keeps trying to nurse from it. Watching her dive bomb it is deeply disturbing. Experience with this? Anyone?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Three Months
Last week marked the three month anniversary of it all; the realization that something is wrong, my mom's collapse, my dad taking her to the ER, the scan, the initial diagnosis, and yesterday, the surgery.
On the mindfuck continuum I think three months? That's all? On the we can hope for a year timeline, three months are gone and never coming back.
On the mindfuck continuum I think three months? That's all? On the we can hope for a year timeline, three months are gone and never coming back.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Predatory Lending Hits Home
Here are a few words I never imagined stringing together: MY FIVE YEAR OLD NEEDS A BAILOUT.
We get a "final notice" from the school breakfast/lunch program today. Funny, I don't remember seeing a first notice. Seems the Cracker, who, by the way, has breakfast at home every day and takes a sack lunch every day has ***unpaid*** breakfast bills.
It's gotta be a mistake. Right?
"Have you been having a second breakfast at school?"
Mumblemumblemumble.
"What?"
"Nothing." Looks at his feet.
Let me try this again.
Excitedly, "So whadya have?"
"Oh! It's great! They always have toast, and oatmeal...one time we even had pancakes!"
"How did you pay for it?"
"Well, I didn't have any money soooooo Gaige taught me how to charge it."
Excuse for a moment while I choke.
Charge? It?
Face drops, guilt-ridden. "But they don't let me anymore, because I didn't pay my bill."
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Some details:
He knows now that it was wrong, and he feels bad.
From what I know, it isn't the school directly, but a private contractor that runs the meal programs.
But then again, we've never used these programs before, so what the fuck do I know.
It's definitely breakfast, not lunch. He's not pitching his lunch and playing if you don't give me school lunch I won't eat today.
What if he had food allergies? Like eggs or something? Dairy? Gluten? Wheat?
When this is happening is a mystery to us. He gets on the bus at 8:41. The bus arrives at 8:50. Kindergartners are escorted off by their teachers, who then take them to line up and enter the school no later than 8:55. School officially begins at 9. So...? We'd always assume the breakfast program took place during before care hours, you know, the before school child care program for kids whose parents work. I don't work. But again, what the fuck do I know? Apparently, not a whole lot.
Yes, I am PMSing right now. Thanks for noticing. I am so friggin bloated.
The bottom line: We, his parents, did not authorize it.
I should add right here that we live a cash only lifestyle and have since 2003. We do not charge anything, not for the miles, not for the rewards, not for the cash back. Nothing. Airplane tickets and other higher priced items go on our debit cards. We have extra cash in our easy to get to savings for emergencies. We do not even have charge cards in our names, initially because once paid off we didn't want to be tempted, but now because we haven't found a reason for needing them.
The grand damage is a whopping $3.15, 3 meals at $1.05 a piece. But never before has there been so much principle involved! Principle people!
You can bet your sweet ass I'm going to the school about this. Assuming it is an independent contractor and not his school that would take a loss, the Cracker can fork over $3.15 in previously owned Matchbox cars. You go around allowing kindergartners to open a new charge account without their parent's permission and I think you deserve to be burned.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
We get a "final notice" from the school breakfast/lunch program today. Funny, I don't remember seeing a first notice. Seems the Cracker, who, by the way, has breakfast at home every day and takes a sack lunch every day has ***unpaid*** breakfast bills.
It's gotta be a mistake. Right?
"Have you been having a second breakfast at school?"
Mumblemumblemumble.
"What?"
"Nothing." Looks at his feet.
Let me try this again.
Excitedly, "So whadya have?"
"Oh! It's great! They always have toast, and oatmeal...one time we even had pancakes!"
"How did you pay for it?"
"Well, I didn't have any money soooooo Gaige taught me how to charge it."
Excuse for a moment while I choke.
Charge? It?
Face drops, guilt-ridden. "But they don't let me anymore, because I didn't pay my bill."
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Some details:
He knows now that it was wrong, and he feels bad.
From what I know, it isn't the school directly, but a private contractor that runs the meal programs.
But then again, we've never used these programs before, so what the fuck do I know.
It's definitely breakfast, not lunch. He's not pitching his lunch and playing if you don't give me school lunch I won't eat today.
What if he had food allergies? Like eggs or something? Dairy? Gluten? Wheat?
When this is happening is a mystery to us. He gets on the bus at 8:41. The bus arrives at 8:50. Kindergartners are escorted off by their teachers, who then take them to line up and enter the school no later than 8:55. School officially begins at 9. So...? We'd always assume the breakfast program took place during before care hours, you know, the before school child care program for kids whose parents work. I don't work. But again, what the fuck do I know? Apparently, not a whole lot.
Yes, I am PMSing right now. Thanks for noticing. I am so friggin bloated.
The bottom line: We, his parents, did not authorize it.
I should add right here that we live a cash only lifestyle and have since 2003. We do not charge anything, not for the miles, not for the rewards, not for the cash back. Nothing. Airplane tickets and other higher priced items go on our debit cards. We have extra cash in our easy to get to savings for emergencies. We do not even have charge cards in our names, initially because once paid off we didn't want to be tempted, but now because we haven't found a reason for needing them.
The grand damage is a whopping $3.15, 3 meals at $1.05 a piece. But never before has there been so much principle involved! Principle people!
You can bet your sweet ass I'm going to the school about this. Assuming it is an independent contractor and not his school that would take a loss, the Cracker can fork over $3.15 in previously owned Matchbox cars. You go around allowing kindergartners to open a new charge account without their parent's permission and I think you deserve to be burned.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
It's Good to be Home
(Audio only. Transcript follows.)
Why yes, yes he did.
Answering machine message:
"Hi, this is XXX, the school nurse at XXX Elementary School. Just wanting to touch base with you in regards to the fact that I saw [the Cracker] today. Nose bleed. Ummm...I think he may have, possibly, put a pencil up into his nose..."
Why yes, yes he did.
Answering machine message:
"Hi, this is XXX, the school nurse at XXX Elementary School. Just wanting to touch base with you in regards to the fact that I saw [the Cracker] today. Nose bleed. Ummm...I think he may have, possibly, put a pencil up into his nose..."
Monday, January 26, 2009
A Night Without Fog
seems kind of creepy and wrong. Guess I've made most of my visits the last few years closer to the summer months.
PS No tourists tonight.
PS No tourists tonight.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
My Friday Night
Greetings from California.
Tonight, for the first time this trip, I finally got my lazy ass down to visit the bridge. It's something I usually do every night.
Hello bridge.
It was foggy and rainy and damp but surprisingly warm, and the smell of wet eucalyptus was everywhere.
It would have been a much needed clear my head moment had there not been a group of super annoying loud tourists who just would not leave. I guess I still think of Ft. Baker as for locals only, and the Headlands for everyone.
Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.
Tonight, for the first time this trip, I finally got my lazy ass down to visit the bridge. It's something I usually do every night.
Hello bridge.
It was foggy and rainy and damp but surprisingly warm, and the smell of wet eucalyptus was everywhere.
It would have been a much needed clear my head moment had there not been a group of super annoying loud tourists who just would not leave. I guess I still think of Ft. Baker as for locals only, and the Headlands for everyone.
Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Signs
As I was talking to her on the phone, two nights ago now, she was zoning out, more out than in. If I didn't know any better I'd assume she was tired, or doing something else while we were talking that temporarily focused her attention elsewhere. But I do know better now because we've seen this before, a lot, in the months before her diagnosis.
Believe it or not, there is an upside: she has no idea. The zoning out, the mini comas, the strange behavoirs...she is neither aware nor remembers afterwards.
Cancer...woo hoo.
Believe it or not, there is an upside: she has no idea. The zoning out, the mini comas, the strange behavoirs...she is neither aware nor remembers afterwards.
Cancer...woo hoo.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Very Bad Daughter
My mom is dying. I don't have hope. I want to, but I don't. This is going to happen. But I can't grasp it. I cannot imagine not having a mom anymore.
Do you know how much it sucks to not even have faith in her that she can overcome it? That I've already written her off?
...
They never see tumors that big, except on people who are already dead.
Her steroid regiment (for lupus) most likely kept them from finding it sooner.
Not that it would have made any real difference anyway.
There wasn't one tumor, there were multiple tumors.
Except the rest were smaller, and more importantly, inoperable.
They told her this the day she started treatment.
She started treatment, radiation and chemo, late, because they were closed during the holidays.
She has radiation burns on her face.
She won't take the pneumonia medication, because she's afraid of seizures, because she wants to drive again someday.
She won't be able to drive again, because while her left field of vision is intact, her brain can't process things on her left.
My dad and I saw this first hand in the weeks before she was diagnosed. When she was driving smack down the middle of a 4 lane, 55 mph highway at no more than 20 mph, with the Cracker in the back seat while my dad was screaming at her, cars honking and flashing their lights.
For, like, 10 minutes.
I was watching it in my rear view mirror; she was supposed to be following me.
Why didn't he grab the wheel and force the car over?
She has always said she can't imagine life without books; she is an avid reader who no longer reads.
The radiation and chemo are starting to really kick her ass. She's on week three of the initial six.
When they start the maintenance phase, chemo will be 5 days on, 23 off.
But the amount of chemo drug they give her then will be triple what she's on now.
She's having headaches again.
Which may mean a lot of it has already grown back, or that the other spots have grown.
Headaches = increasing pressure from growing tumors.
It is not uncommon for this type of tumor to grow back to pre-surgery proportions, or even bigger, before starting treatment.
Which she started late.
And the worst for last: she is having left side weakness. BAD!BAD!BAD!BAD! BAD!
...
What's going to happen when I call her cell phone? How long until it stops ringing, disconnected? My mom and dad are on a family plan, they share minutes. Is he seriously going to have to call and tell them he no longer has anyone to share minutes with?
...
I'm a planner. I need to plan.
I have no California appropriate funeral clothes. I start looking online. Spring is hitting the stores, so everything is bright and obnoxious. Black is gone. So I order a dress, online, from Black House White Market. And I haven't worn anything from there since middle school back when it was just White House. And I usually have to try on a gazillion dresses before I find one that fits my ill-proportioned body. And I'm cheap. But I want something nice. But fuck if I'm ever going to wear the dress I wore to my mom's funeral ever again. So I find this dress that looks just okay online, down from $178 to $59.99, and they have random free shipping, and I can return it in Albuquerque if it doesn't fit. But I can't handle actually driving to a store to try it on with bright lights and mirrors. I want it anonymously delivered to my doorstep. I just order. I don't measure. I have no idea what size. And it comes. And it fits, like it was made for me, or at least me wearing with muffin sucking underwear. I don't even try without. I even already own the perfect shoes, though as Jason pointed out, I have to go bra shopping. Blech.
Ollie has several options if it's in the next few months before she grows out of them. yeah us for thinking black and other dark somber colors are "cute" on a baby. The Cracker has a shirt that works if it still fits, and I bought him pants two days ago that he has yet to try on.
We are going to work on Jason too, soon.
You know what? I don't even know if there is going to be any funeral, or any service. I just assume there is. Because that's what people like us do. But I can't ask her. And getting my dad on the phone alone is nearly impossible. She doesn't want us talking about her, and so she makes sure we can't. We have to sneak phone calls, and lie, but I don't blame her. I totally understand it, because I inherited that from her.
My friends are aghast. I am buying clothes for her funeral now, while she's still walking around. But I explain it's inevitable, and I need it to be done. I do not want to be doing this on her deathbed.
I'm trying to be ready...for my mom to die.
...
I am flying out to California on Tuesday for 10 days. I am taking Ollie, leaving the Cracker with Jason. I have never, ever left him before. There are a million reasons why I can't take him. I want to but I just can't. I'm too tired to list why right now.
All of this...surreal doesn't even begin to describe it.
Do you know how much it sucks to not even have faith in her that she can overcome it? That I've already written her off?
...
They never see tumors that big, except on people who are already dead.
Her steroid regiment (for lupus) most likely kept them from finding it sooner.
Not that it would have made any real difference anyway.
There wasn't one tumor, there were multiple tumors.
Except the rest were smaller, and more importantly, inoperable.
They told her this the day she started treatment.
She started treatment, radiation and chemo, late, because they were closed during the holidays.
She has radiation burns on her face.
She won't take the pneumonia medication, because she's afraid of seizures, because she wants to drive again someday.
She won't be able to drive again, because while her left field of vision is intact, her brain can't process things on her left.
My dad and I saw this first hand in the weeks before she was diagnosed. When she was driving smack down the middle of a 4 lane, 55 mph highway at no more than 20 mph, with the Cracker in the back seat while my dad was screaming at her, cars honking and flashing their lights.
For, like, 10 minutes.
I was watching it in my rear view mirror; she was supposed to be following me.
Why didn't he grab the wheel and force the car over?
She has always said she can't imagine life without books; she is an avid reader who no longer reads.
The radiation and chemo are starting to really kick her ass. She's on week three of the initial six.
When they start the maintenance phase, chemo will be 5 days on, 23 off.
But the amount of chemo drug they give her then will be triple what she's on now.
She's having headaches again.
Which may mean a lot of it has already grown back, or that the other spots have grown.
Headaches = increasing pressure from growing tumors.
It is not uncommon for this type of tumor to grow back to pre-surgery proportions, or even bigger, before starting treatment.
Which she started late.
And the worst for last: she is having left side weakness. BAD!BAD!BAD!BAD! BAD!
...
What's going to happen when I call her cell phone? How long until it stops ringing, disconnected? My mom and dad are on a family plan, they share minutes. Is he seriously going to have to call and tell them he no longer has anyone to share minutes with?
...
I'm a planner. I need to plan.
I have no California appropriate funeral clothes. I start looking online. Spring is hitting the stores, so everything is bright and obnoxious. Black is gone. So I order a dress, online, from Black House White Market. And I haven't worn anything from there since middle school back when it was just White House. And I usually have to try on a gazillion dresses before I find one that fits my ill-proportioned body. And I'm cheap. But I want something nice. But fuck if I'm ever going to wear the dress I wore to my mom's funeral ever again. So I find this dress that looks just okay online, down from $178 to $59.99, and they have random free shipping, and I can return it in Albuquerque if it doesn't fit. But I can't handle actually driving to a store to try it on with bright lights and mirrors. I want it anonymously delivered to my doorstep. I just order. I don't measure. I have no idea what size. And it comes. And it fits, like it was made for me, or at least me wearing with muffin sucking underwear. I don't even try without. I even already own the perfect shoes, though as Jason pointed out, I have to go bra shopping. Blech.
Ollie has several options if it's in the next few months before she grows out of them. yeah us for thinking black and other dark somber colors are "cute" on a baby. The Cracker has a shirt that works if it still fits, and I bought him pants two days ago that he has yet to try on.
We are going to work on Jason too, soon.
You know what? I don't even know if there is going to be any funeral, or any service. I just assume there is. Because that's what people like us do. But I can't ask her. And getting my dad on the phone alone is nearly impossible. She doesn't want us talking about her, and so she makes sure we can't. We have to sneak phone calls, and lie, but I don't blame her. I totally understand it, because I inherited that from her.
My friends are aghast. I am buying clothes for her funeral now, while she's still walking around. But I explain it's inevitable, and I need it to be done. I do not want to be doing this on her deathbed.
I'm trying to be ready...for my mom to die.
...
I am flying out to California on Tuesday for 10 days. I am taking Ollie, leaving the Cracker with Jason. I have never, ever left him before. There are a million reasons why I can't take him. I want to but I just can't. I'm too tired to list why right now.
All of this...surreal doesn't even begin to describe it.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
What is it about boobs?
The Cracker has a runny nose, which he likes to pick and rub and share. I am a reverse germaphobe. I don't want my kid infecting others. I'm totally insecure and I worry about what you'll think of me.
So he has this stupid runny nose cold, and OMG he's so whinny and overtired. Finally, we have to go out, because you know, holidays, gifts, stores being closed for a day...gah.
J, "Stop picking your nose!"
Me, "Stop touching things! And if you have to touch something use your sleeve!"
...
The Cracker walks up to a female manequin bust and pokes it right in the nipple like he's ringing a damn doorbell.
Me, "CRACKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Him, "WHAAAAT? I USED MY SLEEVE!"
So he has this stupid runny nose cold, and OMG he's so whinny and overtired. Finally, we have to go out, because you know, holidays, gifts, stores being closed for a day...gah.
J, "Stop picking your nose!"
Me, "Stop touching things! And if you have to touch something use your sleeve!"
...
The Cracker walks up to a female manequin bust and pokes it right in the nipple like he's ringing a damn doorbell.
Me, "CRACKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Him, "WHAAAAT? I USED MY SLEEVE!"
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Preparations
I've spent the last week in holiday overdrive, giving it my all to make up for lost time. I started with cards, finished the shopping, did the mailing, and am now making a last ditch effort to celebrate what's left of the season with the Cracker. Friday night I declared "fuck bedtime! Let's decorate the tree!" Saturday and Sunday I provided support as the Cracker painstakingly hand painted 24 double-sided ornaments for friends and family. Monday morning we wrapped and tagged them. After that we started an art memory book for my parents. He finger painted, watercolored, cut and pasted, rubber stamped, collaged, journaled, illustrated with pens and crayons, and then covered every square inch of it all with glitter glue. After 6 long hours, just as the Cracker was dreaming up a colored sand mural, I declared craft day over. I hauled ass down to Walgreens, in the dark, in the snow, where I learned that 1 hour prints that were due to be done 5 hours ago were not done, because the machine was broken, has been broken, and will be broken indefinitely. Fuck me. Tomorrow, I will try deal with getting the photos printed elsewhere so we can finish the book, and then move on to decorating gingerbread houses. I also hope to get an assload of laundry done as we plan to spend Christmas with the in-laws in Colorado, which is like two days from now. Ha!
More than one good friend has told me that I don't need to do this, more or less that I shouldn't because I need to give myself a break. What they don't understand is that I have to do this, and that I did take a break, and now it's time to rejoin the world. There will be more breaks later, but not this week. I have this amazing 5 year old who has been really good this year, who doesn't yet understand why his mom has been so off the ball lately, who is beyond excited about Christmas just like every 5 year old should be, who is about to have his whole world shattered just as soon as J and I can get together one evening after the kids are asleep and outline the discussion, make sure to list the key points, and prep for his questions, this discussion I hope to have after Christmas but before school starts but not at the in-law's.
...
In other news, Ollie is non-traditionally crawling. It very closely resembles traditional crawling...but it's not. Also in other news, Ollie *loves* shoes. No, really, little girlfriend *really*super*duper*hearts* shoes, and laces have nothing to do with it. While we've known about her shoe fetish for quite some time, it seems to be surpassing cute and heading for the unknown. Over the weekend Jason set her down in her room and she shot off in the opposite direction like an arrow with an obvious purpose in mind. "What's she doing?" "Looking for shoes." "No, really." "Watch." Shoooooz! Tonight when Jason got home from work he absent mindedly kicked off his shoes in the kitchen and got to work. Ollie saw his shoes, squealed in pure delight, and hauled ass like he'd never seen. A minute later, from the other side of the house I heard the most pissed off shriek ever heard in the history of the world followed by lots of screaming. "What did you do to her?" "I took my shoes back when she started to lick the undersides." "Oh, okay then."
...
My mom is making plans that include her not being here next holiday season, at least if in body not in mind. It's hard. We've talked about next year's holiday cards, and how I will make sure everyone knows why she is not sending them herself. I cry as quietly as I can on the other end of the phone. Slowly she is letting the people she cares about know, but there are so many old Vietnam-era Navy friends, etc, that they have not seen in years and never plan on seeing again, with whom they still exchange holiday wishes. Those are the people who will need to know.
I have been slowly telling my own friends, and asking the friends who I am in the most frequent contact with to spread the word to other good friends. I just cannot keep telling the same story over and over. Talk about it? Yes, sometimes I need to pour my heart out. But start from scratch? No no no no no no. It's just too much. There is another issue: I suspect one or two people, who are less friends and more acquaintances, that heard it through the grapevine, are people that I need to part ways with. They seem less interested in us, and more interested in having a front row seat for the inevitable train wreck. Thanks, but no thanks.
I am lucky to have some really wonderful friends. A card, an e-mail that says I'm thinking of you, those are the things that count right now. And the funny things they are doing to make me smile, like posting "Have you seen my underwear?" on my FB wall. But the phone won't stop ringing, and it makes me want to take a really big hammer to it Office Space style. Occasionally it's people I want to talk to, but most of the time it's not. The phone needs to shut the fuck up. We used to have caller ID, but canceled it as almost everyone was "unknown." I suspect that all these years later it's even worse. But if it's not, sign me up.
Tonight my mom reiterated that my dad is having a really hard time. Then she proceeded to tell me that he has decided he doesn't want her things around once she is gone. That I can have what I want, that she's shown him where all her jewelry is, what family heirlooms she wants to see stay in the family, etc, but that he is going to want it out of the house quickly, so that he isn't constantly surrounded by her. It's not that I think this is wrong, but I do think he may regret it later. It's also that I cannot even imagine taking this step right now -- please don't ask me to. It's all too fast. I hope he changes his mind.
More than one good friend has told me that I don't need to do this, more or less that I shouldn't because I need to give myself a break. What they don't understand is that I have to do this, and that I did take a break, and now it's time to rejoin the world. There will be more breaks later, but not this week. I have this amazing 5 year old who has been really good this year, who doesn't yet understand why his mom has been so off the ball lately, who is beyond excited about Christmas just like every 5 year old should be, who is about to have his whole world shattered just as soon as J and I can get together one evening after the kids are asleep and outline the discussion, make sure to list the key points, and prep for his questions, this discussion I hope to have after Christmas but before school starts but not at the in-law's.
...
In other news, Ollie is non-traditionally crawling. It very closely resembles traditional crawling...but it's not. Also in other news, Ollie *loves* shoes. No, really, little girlfriend *really*super*duper*hearts* shoes, and laces have nothing to do with it. While we've known about her shoe fetish for quite some time, it seems to be surpassing cute and heading for the unknown. Over the weekend Jason set her down in her room and she shot off in the opposite direction like an arrow with an obvious purpose in mind. "What's she doing?" "Looking for shoes." "No, really." "Watch." Shoooooz! Tonight when Jason got home from work he absent mindedly kicked off his shoes in the kitchen and got to work. Ollie saw his shoes, squealed in pure delight, and hauled ass like he'd never seen. A minute later, from the other side of the house I heard the most pissed off shriek ever heard in the history of the world followed by lots of screaming. "What did you do to her?" "I took my shoes back when she started to lick the undersides." "Oh, okay then."
...
My mom is making plans that include her not being here next holiday season, at least if in body not in mind. It's hard. We've talked about next year's holiday cards, and how I will make sure everyone knows why she is not sending them herself. I cry as quietly as I can on the other end of the phone. Slowly she is letting the people she cares about know, but there are so many old Vietnam-era Navy friends, etc, that they have not seen in years and never plan on seeing again, with whom they still exchange holiday wishes. Those are the people who will need to know.
I have been slowly telling my own friends, and asking the friends who I am in the most frequent contact with to spread the word to other good friends. I just cannot keep telling the same story over and over. Talk about it? Yes, sometimes I need to pour my heart out. But start from scratch? No no no no no no. It's just too much. There is another issue: I suspect one or two people, who are less friends and more acquaintances, that heard it through the grapevine, are people that I need to part ways with. They seem less interested in us, and more interested in having a front row seat for the inevitable train wreck. Thanks, but no thanks.
I am lucky to have some really wonderful friends. A card, an e-mail that says I'm thinking of you, those are the things that count right now. And the funny things they are doing to make me smile, like posting "Have you seen my underwear?" on my FB wall. But the phone won't stop ringing, and it makes me want to take a really big hammer to it Office Space style. Occasionally it's people I want to talk to, but most of the time it's not. The phone needs to shut the fuck up. We used to have caller ID, but canceled it as almost everyone was "unknown." I suspect that all these years later it's even worse. But if it's not, sign me up.
Tonight my mom reiterated that my dad is having a really hard time. Then she proceeded to tell me that he has decided he doesn't want her things around once she is gone. That I can have what I want, that she's shown him where all her jewelry is, what family heirlooms she wants to see stay in the family, etc, but that he is going to want it out of the house quickly, so that he isn't constantly surrounded by her. It's not that I think this is wrong, but I do think he may regret it later. It's also that I cannot even imagine taking this step right now -- please don't ask me to. It's all too fast. I hope he changes his mind.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Not Enough Time
The pathology is in: stage IV Glioblastoma multiforme, otherwise known as GBM, the "most malignant" of brain tumors.
With successful resection plus radiation and chemo the median survival rate is 12 months. The two year survival rate is nuh uh, rare, under 3%.
I can't swallow.
With successful resection plus radiation and chemo the median survival rate is 12 months. The two year survival rate is nuh uh, rare, under 3%.
I can't swallow.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Older Than Older Than Dirt
"Because when you were little things weren't so colorful."
"What?"
"Well, you know, they hadn't invented all the colors yet."
"What?"
"Well, you know, they hadn't invented all the colors yet."
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
First Snowball
This is eventually not about cancer, if you can get that far.
Last night, in what I can only assume was the universe trying to make nice, our area was gifted with first snowfall of the season. I seriously heart snow. But snow, even first of the season on my actual birthday, does not trump moms with brain tumors. Denied.
In the one-thing-I-have-to-get-done-today-or-I-will-go-mad errand, we dropped by the Cracker's old preschool, to drop off...wait for it, wait for it...our contribution for a family who was with us there last year, who has the most beautiful and sweet 6.5 year old twin boys you will ever meet, who just lost their father to cancer. Good times.
While there Ollie and I were invited to join them for a snack of snow one of the teachers had collected early this morning. Armed with a big ice cream scoop they were dishing out the most perfect snowballs of "ice cream" and dusting them with cocoa powder. Ollie, of course, passed on the toppings, but was delighted nonetheless. Turns out snow is totally something she digs, and she doesn't dig much in the way of food these days. Finally, fed up with the tiny bites at a snail's pace I was offering off of a spoon, she lurched forward and grabbed the snowball out of the bowl with her own two little hands. For a good solid minute and a half she chomped away as happy as could be, a squirrel with her nut. But then she abruptly stopped, took a few seconds to reassess, and produced one of her blood curdling screams. I couldn't stop laughing as I tried to pry it out of her hands while she looked up at me through the rage with eyes that said "It's not the snowball that's the problem, it's that my hands are really fucking cold."
And then we all laughed some more. My Ollie, seven months and three weeks old, the ability to do and think independently, but not always at the same time.
Last night, in what I can only assume was the universe trying to make nice, our area was gifted with first snowfall of the season. I seriously heart snow. But snow, even first of the season on my actual birthday, does not trump moms with brain tumors. Denied.
In the one-thing-I-have-to-get-done-today-or-I-will-go-mad errand, we dropped by the Cracker's old preschool, to drop off...wait for it, wait for it...our contribution for a family who was with us there last year, who has the most beautiful and sweet 6.5 year old twin boys you will ever meet, who just lost their father to cancer. Good times.
While there Ollie and I were invited to join them for a snack of snow one of the teachers had collected early this morning. Armed with a big ice cream scoop they were dishing out the most perfect snowballs of "ice cream" and dusting them with cocoa powder. Ollie, of course, passed on the toppings, but was delighted nonetheless. Turns out snow is totally something she digs, and she doesn't dig much in the way of food these days. Finally, fed up with the tiny bites at a snail's pace I was offering off of a spoon, she lurched forward and grabbed the snowball out of the bowl with her own two little hands. For a good solid minute and a half she chomped away as happy as could be, a squirrel with her nut. But then she abruptly stopped, took a few seconds to reassess, and produced one of her blood curdling screams. I couldn't stop laughing as I tried to pry it out of her hands while she looked up at me through the rage with eyes that said "It's not the snowball that's the problem, it's that my hands are really fucking cold."
And then we all laughed some more. My Ollie, seven months and three weeks old, the ability to do and think independently, but not always at the same time.
Yeah...That
Yesterday was another step forward towards rejoining the world, acting like a normal person. With it I found myself in a new stage of grief/acceptance/denial/whatever. Today it was even more evident.
As I sat and talked with my best local friends, most of whom were hearing the news for the first time, I did not cry. I hardly showed emotion at all. Robotic, even.
Yet they were crying. My friends have all met Nana and Pappy, the Alpha grandparents, many times. Heck, my parents laugh about getting recognized and greeted while out on their own here.
All I could think about was how cold-hearted I must look.
Later, back at my friend L's house, she and I talked some more. We often joke we're soul sisters, because she has this way of putting what I cannot into words, and vice versa. We have these deep long conversations that go incredible places and I always leave her feeling like I've just figured out the meaning of life. Oh...and she's a die-hard crunchy con Republican, btw.
"I've cried so hard that I've made myself ill. I'm so stressed that my period has been 5 days of spotting, so light that I'm not sure I can even call it spotting. That has never, ever happened to me before. But mostly, I am so tired. I cannot believe how tired I am. And I do still cry, just never at the appropriate times. It happens when my mind is blank, and before I can even register what is happening I'm sobbing hysterically. And I have zero idea what the fuck triggered it."
"You're so tired that you're numb."
Thank you.
Tomorrow we are expecting the pathology from UCSF. Pretty sure I am about to miss tired but numb.
As I sat and talked with my best local friends, most of whom were hearing the news for the first time, I did not cry. I hardly showed emotion at all. Robotic, even.
Yet they were crying. My friends have all met Nana and Pappy, the Alpha grandparents, many times. Heck, my parents laugh about getting recognized and greeted while out on their own here.
All I could think about was how cold-hearted I must look.
Later, back at my friend L's house, she and I talked some more. We often joke we're soul sisters, because she has this way of putting what I cannot into words, and vice versa. We have these deep long conversations that go incredible places and I always leave her feeling like I've just figured out the meaning of life. Oh...and she's a die-hard crunchy con Republican, btw.
"I've cried so hard that I've made myself ill. I'm so stressed that my period has been 5 days of spotting, so light that I'm not sure I can even call it spotting. That has never, ever happened to me before. But mostly, I am so tired. I cannot believe how tired I am. And I do still cry, just never at the appropriate times. It happens when my mind is blank, and before I can even register what is happening I'm sobbing hysterically. And I have zero idea what the fuck triggered it."
"You're so tired that you're numb."
Thank you.
Tomorrow we are expecting the pathology from UCSF. Pretty sure I am about to miss tired but numb.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
January
(I know not everyone lives in the Northern Hemisphere or celebrates holidays in December, but go with me here...)
You know how in January, after the New Year's festivities have passed, and the holiday decorations are down, and things are suddenly looking so bland, and colorless, and barren, and the bills are starting to come in, and it's too dark too friggin early, and too cold, and too windy, and things just kind of seem, for lack of a better word, yucky?
I feel like that now.
So what the hell is January going to feel like?
You know how in January, after the New Year's festivities have passed, and the holiday decorations are down, and things are suddenly looking so bland, and colorless, and barren, and the bills are starting to come in, and it's too dark too friggin early, and too cold, and too windy, and things just kind of seem, for lack of a better word, yucky?
I feel like that now.
So what the hell is January going to feel like?
Thursday, December 04, 2008
More Waiting
Wednesday was The Big Oncology Appointment. The results = inconclusive.
Upon examination during surgery they thought it (the tumor) was an astrocytoma. It was then sent off to pathology to be graded, stage I-IV. Turns out there are two tumor types present: astrocytoma AND lymphoma, just from the one biopsy.
Dr. Google never mentioned that possibility.
So off it's been sent to UCSF, where in a week they hope to enlighten us on which is the bigger battle. I've been told to cheer for lymphoma, which has a brighter though still terminal outlook and would mean only chemo instead of a chemo/radiation combo. I will be the first to admit that I don't exactly understand all of this, and as much as it makes me crazy itchy to keep my mouth shut, I just can't bring myself to ask my mom to elaborate until the final diagnosis is in.
No matter which way you spin it the outlook is grim: there is no cure, just the possibility of buying time.
Happy fucking holidays.
Upon examination during surgery they thought it (the tumor) was an astrocytoma. It was then sent off to pathology to be graded, stage I-IV. Turns out there are two tumor types present: astrocytoma AND lymphoma, just from the one biopsy.
Dr. Google never mentioned that possibility.
So off it's been sent to UCSF, where in a week they hope to enlighten us on which is the bigger battle. I've been told to cheer for lymphoma, which has a brighter though still terminal outlook and would mean only chemo instead of a chemo/radiation combo. I will be the first to admit that I don't exactly understand all of this, and as much as it makes me crazy itchy to keep my mouth shut, I just can't bring myself to ask my mom to elaborate until the final diagnosis is in.
No matter which way you spin it the outlook is grim: there is no cure, just the possibility of buying time.
Happy fucking holidays.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)