In the shower, when I look down and unexpectedly see my blue toes it makes me laugh to myself, it can make me laugh all day, it delights me and I don’t ever use the word “delight”, I don’t like it much, but I can think of no better description of what the toes are doing for me. Who knew that colored, tended toenails could act as a serotonin reuptake inhibitor. The secrets are in the simple things.
When I see myself in the mirror, that does not delight me. The poofy hair makes me look like one of the golden girls and I erred in letting the pink ribbon people frighten me out of doing my hair my usual pink, purple doesn’t suit me. A few more inches and I’ll be past the nana stage... I hope. I look like a Q-tip, well, I’m a bit heavy to be a Q-tip so suffice it to say, from the waist up, I look like a Q-tip.
After weeks of pestering, it finally comes to light that the tall one has no shorts that fit, except ratty sports shorts, so I was shopping like a mad woman at 10:00 last night and having given up on discerning what on his floor is clean and what is dirty and leaving it in his reluctant hands, I’ve given in and am on laundry load #8, it’s time for a fresh start in the boy cave.
I left a few too many work tasks to the last minute and while I expected to be packed early, I’m waist deep in sock matching and laundry folding, but nothing can dampen my excitement for this trip. Jonah is raring to go, but before we’ve even gone, he say’s our next trip should be to another country and I agree. Sad truth, Mexico and Canada aside, I’ve never left the country. He and I even agree that we should go to Italy or costa rica where both of us scaredy cats are going to zip line. The tall one is being gracious enough to not complain about going on vacation. He has missed baseball games, S.A.T. studying and social things on his mind, but I know that once we get there he’s going to have a great time. We are all going to have a great time. I’m so used to having bad luck I’m actively trying not to break a tooth or throw out my back or have some random thing rain on my parade, which I know is impossible, the fickle hand of fate can not be controlled.
This vacation is the only thing that takes me back to the chemo chair because it's all I thought about, well, other than coping. It was the thing I focused on over and over, just beach, breeze, palm trees which is so funny because I never go to the beach, I'm most definitely not a beach person. But that's where my mind went, that's where my beat up body wanted to be, floating in the warm ocean and so that's where we're going because if I didn't go, it would feel like unfinished business. This trip is closure. I like moving forward, I'm not one to go backwards, I don't like redundancy, I'm a been there, done that kind of girl, so the thought of having a relapse seems more and more unthinkable. Yeah, I have bad luck, I'm not surprised this uber sucky thing happened, but it's not going to happen again, because that would be going backwards and I don't do that. My life is baby steps, but baby steps always moving forward from one thing to the next, nothing dramatic, just my slow, slow, sloth-like forward moving trajectory, you know, when I'm not bouncing off the walls. A relapse would fuck up the whole pattern of my existence, so it's just not in the cards, it wouldn't make sense.
I’m as prepared as I’ve ever been, we have SPF protectant shirts, I have not only a shirt, but a long, wide scarve, and a wide brimmed hat which J says makes me look like an old fashioned movie star. Sun plus me, was always a bad combo, but throw in all that chemo and radiation, I’m likely to spontaneously combust. If I could have found a fashionable, lightweight, SPF burka, I would have gone for it guess I just didn't find the right catalogue.
48 hours and we’ll be hovering over Florida. I’m unplugging, only bringing my phone for emergencies, no laptop, no iPad, just the distractions of the moment, life in real time, which I am oh, so grateful for having, granny hair or not.