Three Sisters

If I didn't know me so well, I'd worry I was a tad bipolar. I realize this, as my pendulum is swinging towards manic at the moment. But as I do know me so well, I know that I don't swing dangerously, or debilitatingly in either direction, but swing I do, I'm a swinger.

I wish I swung more on the gender attraction scale, there would be so many more options, oh well. I'll take manic, manic is fun, manic is productive, manic makes me feel more optimistic.

Indeed, I'm starting the new year with a lot of energy. Maybe it's from sleeping until noon for a week, or maybe it was just time. I'm motivated, I have a lot of ideas and I'm actually getting things done. I went to the gym yesterday as planned and while that was downright painful, I am in terrible shape. Weak, I'm a weakling, I have hope that can be remediated. When my trip south of the border rolls around in seven weeks I want to feel strong. Powerful. Indestructible. Now is the time.

I bought this house nine years ago from the estate of the three spinster sisters that had grown up and lived most of their lives here. I never met the youngest of them, but I'm told she was the glue that held the other two together. The two that outlived her, Ettie and Suzie were battling bitties, Ettie went into a nursing home and died a few months later and Suzie followed her shortly, in her ripe old late 90s. Her funeral illuminated one heck of a life, filled with travel and adventure. Back in the day, she wasn't content to just be a "girl", she was a trailblazer. She started one of the first female-owned business in Rhode Island, something to do with telephones. Her life was inspiring, her funeral was powerful and poignant, despite her having outlived most, who knew her well.

I wanted this house two doors down from where we lived because it sat on a precious double city lot giving us a deep, side yard which provided the opportunity to get the ball throwing one out of the street. I also coveted the extra long, flat driveway which was great for trikes and scooters and bouncing balls. I thought a basketball net would be the difference between after school t.v. and outdoor activity and I was right.

We moved to this street when Griffin was two and as the old ladies let the neighborhood kids use the driveway, I often sat on the sloped lawn while G ran around the driveway, or rode his tricycle and years later with Jonah. Sometimes I laid in the grass and looked at the sky while he played, I couldn't imagine someone else buying this house and no longer having that opportunity. Often I'd look up and see one of the ladies or both, watching happily out the window with the sound of game shows in the background. They couldn't get along with each other, but they were both happy to have neighborhood kids trespassing.

Suzie, once in hospital and realizing she wasn't coming home, wanted the house to go to someone from the neighborhood and approved of her two nieces selling it to me. After she died it took a year of negotiating as they just weren't ready to part with this sentimental part of their lives even though they both lived out of state. When finally they were ready to sell, we had the place appraised and I simply bought it for the appraised value without a realtor or it ever going on the market, we wouldn't have been able to afford it then as the price would have gone way up. The house was a bloody mess. Filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, three layers of wallpaper and paint in every room. A tiny, dilapidated kitchen leaking gas, truly, cluttered mess. But I knew it was a good deal, solid old house on a double lot doesn't lose value. We sold the little house two doors up for three times what we paid for it seven years earlier, so essentially bought the new house for considerably less, put the extra money into fixing it up and hence have a nice investment with equity on my hands. 

I was the caretaker of the house for the year the nieces were making up their minds and I'll admit to stripping paint and wallpaper before I owned the place, but I just believed in my gut it would work out. I could tell these women had integrity and weren't going to screw me over. They just wanted to get to know me because they couldn't bear to just sell the house to anyone, visiting the aunties was a large and cherished part of their childhoods. I understand that. My husband thought I was crazy and was not a big fan of the idea because he didn't like change, even if it's moving two doors down and getting a great deal. So the sweat equity was up to me. I pulled every nail holding down the carpeting, I lifted the stained, cracked kitchen linoleum, and looking back, it seems odd, that I had to hit up a friend to help me drag the carpet out. I often gave in to his lack of enthusiasm on things, but with this house, and having a second child after a bad loss, I was a dog with a bone, relentless… had to have. He still resents me for these two things but admits that in retrospect they were really good decisions for which he's glad. Can you say, just can't win? He gets the payoff without any of the sweat, both literal and figurative, and gets to resent me.

I digress, over that year and after being so moved by Suzie's funeral, I felt nostalgic about the house too, just like the nieces, I felt the need to honor them. And one of the ways I did this was by keeping some of their furniture including a large breakfront china cabinet in the living room. when I say large, I mean it, it's 7' tall and double wide and I paid the estate sale people good money for it without bargaining, I have no idea why, swept up in the moment I suppose. At the end of the day I realized that if I'd passed on it, they'd have likely given it to me for free, just to not have to move it, like the dining room buffet, but I paid an exorbitant amount for it and have regretted it ever since. I don't know why I obsess over this one piece of furniture the way I do, we've all had buyer's remorse. This piece is just not my style and it's in my living room… where I live and every day I've dwelled here I've grown to loathe it more and more. That's also tied up with it being more my husbands style than mine and him refusing to take any furniture with him when he moved out, choosing instead to take our savings and furnishing his apartment with all new everything. The guy has better cookware than I've ever had and he doesn't even cook. In my new year's energy burst, I finally listed the beast on craigslist for a painfully low amount which garnered no interest whatsoever and so I decided, out, I just want it out and so I've donated it to a local artist who paints and plays with, and resells old furniture. I don't know her well but I love her work and she has a deep and interesting life story, small parts of which I've gleaned from FaceBook over time. 

Yet, here I am again, obsessing about my stupid purchase seven years later. I don't know why I beat myself up this way. It's a new year and It's time to make this my home, my home, not our home. The beast is going to a good cause and I get a wall back and a fresh start. I'll buy a piece I like for the space, which I know I deserve, but feel so guilty about as I shouldn't spend scarce money on frivolous things. Truth be told, what I love more than anything is nice furniture, home goods are my weakness and I think the only purchased new thing in my house is the sofa which has seen way better days. Oh and the IKEA bookcase for which I also have buyers remorse. Most of the rest of the things in the house were also bought from the estate sale for a song, maybe not things I would choose out of a line up, but perfectly adequate an tolerable. Maybe once the beast is gone, I won't think about it anymore, it will stop taunting me. Ridiculous the little things that drive us crazy. It's a new year, so out with the old, in with the new.

Blizzard Coming

I survived my first day without cookies. I've deputized my children to intervene if they see me with chocolate. I've taught them the pep talk and J says that if I need a cookie he'll give me a hug instead, please, oh please don't let this child grow up. Except, asking that is asking for trouble, so okay, he can grow up, he should grow up, but his inner love bug should never diminish.

Despite blizzard on the way, disappointed boys had to go to school this morning after sleeping in for two weeks. Everyone made it, but mid-day, I succumbed to the tall one's texted pleas for rescue. So few people showed up they were just sitting around and I do enjoy our occasional hookie-lunches, so I took him to the Modern Diner. We had a very nice lunch and as I pulled out my wallet, he said "for once… I've got it, I'm flush with holiday money." And that boy bought me lunch. Of course it only means he'll run out of money sooner and be asking me for cash which we laughed about, but hell yeah, it's the thought that counts.

We are still waiting to hear about our appeal for more financial aid from the dream school. It's such an absurd amount of money we're talking about, the expectation of paying one bill that's more than you make in a year. Healthcare and college, the costs are criminal, that and the dreamy Rhode Island yearly excise tax on cars. It's hard to know how to play it -- demanding, offended, begging, pleading... I hope I'm doing the right thing. Phrasing things correctly, copying the right people.

We just learned that the offensive coordinator who recruited him, who we both adore, is leaving for a new job as head coach at a Division II school which is great for him, but sad for us. I say "us" but it seems just sad for me, G takes it all in stride, I don't like change. Knowing this guy gave me a level of comfort with the program and who would be his role model, now I don't have a mental image. I felt I could text this guy or call him up if I needed to, I don't feel that way about someone I've never met. Maybe it's for the best, I should really be staying out of things.

I have worn the compression sleeve for only a few hours each day, that thing is so tight it hurts. I know I've got the right size, I was measured and am right in the midst of size medium, but after a few hours my arm aches and finally, before I even know what I'm doing, I'm pulling it off. I'm really hoping that detoxing and losing weight will help the swelling so I don't need to wear it.

The sleeve I bought is made by a company called Lymphedivas. It was founded by a feisty cancer patient who needed a sleeve and like me, couldn't deal with the institutional look adding insult to her injury. So she started this company which is now run by her parents, as she succumbed at 37 years old. That's why I have trouble with the term "survivor" because everyone's a survivor... until they're not, it's meaningless at best, disingenuous at worst.

My insurance is supposed to cover the sleeve, it's a medical device and an Rx. Except that it doesn't. Even though the Lymphediva is made to medical specifications, because it comes in colors and patterns insurance calls it a "fashion accessory", say what? Even though I bought it through a medical supply company they won't pay even though it turns out to be the same cost as a beige one and a more breathable fabric.

I don't mind paying out of pocket, I wish that company all the best.

Badass

It's a new year, wow. I can't believe that it's only been a year since I finished treatment even though I've segued right into even more treatment, albeit for the chemo side-effects, nonetheless, it's been a great year. I have a hard time believing that this time last year, I was just exiting the bald zone, and barely had the energy to climb a flight of stairs. I must have had very short, fuzzy hair, I really don't recall as I currently like a crazed poodle with my unpredictable, full head of curly hair that keeps threatening to revert to straightdom {boo, I love the curly hair}.  I have a full and busy life where I can't conceive of being sick.

Cancer is still a huge part of my life, in fact, this morning I kept my promise to my patient and kind Lymphedema PT and put on my compression sleeve for the first time. I told her over and over that I would do it after the holidays and since that is today, I've kept my word. It's uncomfortable and makes my arm feel strangely cold. The gauntlet or fingerless glove probably isn't going to cut it... I think my fingers are swelling, so at some point I may have to resort to the full on glove which only comes in beige, no likey. Plus, in a glove, I can't type, slip on a kitchen glove to do dishes, it's just going to be much more of a nuisance.

I'd advise anyone considering getting cancer to do it on their non primary side, live and learn. Lately, I've had trouble even holding pen. Not so good for a maker of things small and delicate. I'm trying to conjure other ways of making money, as while we remain thrilled to death about the tall one's acceptance to his dream college, their "need blind" policy, seems, off paper and in reality, more of a we're-blind-to-your-need policy.

I've also kept my promise to have more balance in my life, to not put working and caring for others above living, and thus have planned a trip to Playa Del Carmen in Mexico {with a day trip to Cozumel and jungle expedition} for which I gleefully leave in exactly seven weeks. I have mixed feelings about this... part of me feels like every penny should go to helping G pay for college, as if our appeal isn't met with more funds, his potential debt is looking enormous. At the same time, putting my kids and their wants and needs before my own for so long, combined with my acute awareness of mortality, makes me unable to put off certain things any longer. I have no problem not buying clothes or shoes or dining out much. No problem keeping life simple, my raggedy couch is fine and my house in adequate if not stellar condition... I dream of bathroom rehabs, but I know I'll never really do one, I can opt not to spend money on many, many discretionary items, but I just have to make up for a life without travel and adventure. I have to repeat the joy, unmitigated joy and relief of floating and diving in the warm, blue sea.

And a bathing suit and skin tight wetsuit looming in my future is the motivation I need to get in shape. At least now I know not to try it with a skirted tankini, not easy to stuff that inside a wet suit without looking like you're wearing an inner tube inside. I am now equiped with binkini bottom and sports bra, although honestly, I don't think I should have to wear a top. For the next seven weeks, studio time is going to turn into gym time and physical therapy time, it's just plain necessary. I keep reading and rereading how gaining weight after treatment is detrimental to ones odds and while I'm absolutely clear that I'm quite, absolutely not suicidal, I've allowed my addiction to sugar and desserts jeopardize my health, as well as my comfort and self esteem and there's just no more excuse for that. So a new year and impending trip are just what I need.

I hosted a lot over the holidays. Had friends and family over for Thanksgiving, Xmas Eve, and New Year's Eve. I cooked for the first time in almost two years, cooked, beyond the utilitarian. I enjoyed it, but both times made my tried and true favorites and they didn't turn out as they usually do. My pasta sauce and meatballs and my chicken with apricots and olives didn't come out the same or as good as the zillions of times I've made them before, and I'm mystified as to what I've forgotten or done differently.

I'm grateful to have people in my life to share holidays with, and really enjoyed both my boys throughout. I had early-bird guests last night, tall one went out after dinner to be the Designated Driver, and my boy beloved and I finished the night by watching a few episodes of Avatar, our favorite cartoon series which I gave to the whole family as a holiday gift. I suggested turning on the ball drop at 11:55 and he said, "nah, that's always really stupid, let's just keep watching our episode." And yeah, the ball dropping, or moving painfully slowly down a poll surrounded by idiots in Times Square, is pretty stupid, so we just stayed snuggled on the couch and eventually went to bed with lots of kisses and hugs. Truth be told, we're all traumatized for life by seeing post-stroke Dick Clark french kiss his aging porn-star looking wife several ball drops ago. Dick's wagging tongue in high definition was possibly the most horrible image etched in my mind, there's no turning back the new year's clock on that frozen moment in time.

I turned fifty right after Thanksgiving and after obsessing for months over how to mark the occasion... a huge summer lawn party, a dinner, this, that, something else... when it came down to it, I neglected to make any plans at all. I called a friend at the last minute and we went out for a really nice, relaxing dinner and a few nights later a couple of other friends took me out, there was a gorgeous surprise cake brought to the studio, and it was really all I needed, why do we make things so complicated? A friend of mine turned 50 a few weeks before me and she said she's going to celebrate all year, so that's what I'm doing... celebrating all year. In seven weeks, I'll be celebrating with the fishies, and I hope turtles in Mexico.

Griffin and my brother conspired to get me a gift certificate at a local dive shop which really touched me. G was so proud of himself for getting it done and as he gave it to me he smiled so genuinely and said "pink wetsuit mom... seriously" and nodded to me with sincerity and affection. J gave me what I asked for -- a card that said the 10 things he liked most about me, and he outdid himself. He couldn't have described me in a way I'd enjoy more and each item had a Jonah-doodle and J-doodles are priceless. If I wasn't so afraid of infection from my low blood counts, I'd get one of his smiling stick figures tattooed on my leg. I love this card so much I put it in a safe place, so I could take it to Staples and have a laminated, mounted copy made to hang by my bed which yeah, means I can't find it and it's driving me crazy. Out of the clear blue sky I got a package in the mail that contained a badass, pink dive knife from an unexpected friend, who said they saw it and couldn't resist and that spontaneous act of thoughtfulness meant the world to me, icing on the birthday cake. The knife straps to one's calf and I know damned well I'd sever my own leg trying to re-sheath it, so while I'm not sure I'm ready to use it, I love, love, love it and it's hanging in my kitchen to remind myself daily that I'm a badass.

By the End of the Day

Last week I had my cursory check in with my surgeon where she not only told me to join weight watchers, but to do so by the end of the day. Man, that is harsh. I shared that I'm not a real group person, not a joiner, but she was having none of it, so I nodded compliantly knowing that while I know I need to loose weight, I am not joining weight watchers, let alone by the end of the day. My surgeon is a petite and formidable woman, she tells me that I should be worried about heart disease and strokes, as they are the number one killers of women. I straight out told her, "no, sorry, I won't do it, I worry about cancer and that's all I'm willing to have on my worry plate." Heart disease and strokes are just going to have to take a back seat in my worry van. She doesn't like this, so we've had to agree to disagree.

I wouldn't say I'm a hypochondriac, as if I were, I would have gone to the doctor as soon as I felt the planetoid sized lump in my breast instead of ambling in two months later and I would have been insistent that yes, there was something awry and puleeze send me to a specialist instead of telling me it is nothing and not to worry about it. I chose the not-worry-about-it option, as it was so appealing, even though deep down, inside, well, not even all that deep, I knew, I guess I just wasn't quite ready yet, having just begun divorce mediation, I didn't feel ready for that too, but eventually, I realized, I had no choice.

I think what I am, what I've become, is a cancercondriac. No matter what my symptoms, I don't worry about heart disease and stroke or MS, or diabetes, or even being struck by lightening or eaten by sharks, in fact, I dare you shark, I just dare you... I worry about cancer, every day... every minute of every day. Not in a debilitating way, but in a real way, that sometimes induces panic and often not, but is a revolving fear, on a loop de loop. Everyone I know has been sick this season. Lingering viruses and flu's, my little dude missed a week of school and is still coughing, my studio-mate laid low for weeks. I haven't had more than a sniffle and I think that has to do with being allergic to my xmas tree, but I take it as a sign that I don't have metastatic cancer. I've decided that as my immune system seems to be functioning well, it must also be keeping me cancer free. It's maddening not to know what's going on inside my body. I am consumed with aches and pains and there's no way to know if it's age, effects of chemo and radiation, lack of exercise or imminent death inducing metastatic cancer.

The flip side of that is I feel like crap. I've been gaining weight, my LiveStrong days at the gym seem a distant memory, not a few months ago, and I'm developing syndrome after syndrome which is wearing me down. I've become my own worst enemy. I've been diagnosed with lymphedema in my right arm, my dominant arm and hand are now 3cm larger than my left and my handy-dandy lymphedema therapist wants to wrap my entire arm up to the fingertips in bandages for 6-8 weeks and I just can't do it, I refuse. I've been compliant for two years, I've done everything each and every cog in the medical wheel has asked, but this I just can't do. Next best thing she says is to wear a compression sleeve and glove 12 hours a day. Glove? no way, so we settled on gauntlet which is like a glove that has the fingers free. I have one of these get ups already that I've worn on airplanes to avoid getting lymphedema and they are murky beige, depressingly geriatric looking and very uncomfortable, and so I've been in denial. I even had to explain that I was in denial to my sweet specialist and she said she just had to mark my chart, that I knew I was in danger of a permanent and worsening condition by ignoring it and I said "yes, yes I understand, I just can't deal with it, I've reached my limit." I don't usually do denial, but I guess we all make exceptions.

I promised I would deal with it after the holidays and I just paid out of pocket for a fuschia sleeve which is more bearable than beige, I picked it up at the medical supply place today. My insurance would have paid for the beige one, but it's just too depressing so I paid extra for color. The cost of color. My fuscia is more pepto bismol than cheery purple/pink, but it will have to do. Thus far, I can't even bring myself to open the box.

I tried to carve a ham on xmas eve and neither hand could grip the utensils well enough to do it. It was surprising and dispiriting, what an odd thing to have to ask for help with. The neuropathy and the lymphedema are a bad combination. My hands cramp up and are stiff and weak, writing with a pen is increasingly difficult. So it's time to cut the crap, I suppose and return to being a good patient and get myself in that horrible garment. Boo, hiss, whine, complain. Tomorrow will be my last day of cookies {I really need the tall one to come home and eat them all which he will do quite efficiently, and any minute now} and I'm going back to the gym. In fact I'm putting my whole life secondary to getting in shape, O.K., kids still first, but work is going behind health on the list. Being a clever girl, I've decided the best exercise is the funnest exercise and that is in scuba-town, so I'm planning a trip for the end of February. I have between now and then to get scuba ready. Those wetsuits are tight and the tanks heavy and I couldn't possibly manage it right now, so I have slightly less than two months to get in shape. Between now and then it's gym, gym, gym, yoga, wearing the sleeve, and eating healthy.

My boys should be home any minute and we will commence our yearly holiday Lord of The Rings marathon. We have the extended version DVDs, so I am not exaggerating when I say marathon. The geeky darling has challenged me to a game of Doctor Who Yahtzee which is what Santa brought me this year and tomorrow we'll all go see the Hobbit. It's so rare that the three of us are on the same page at the same time, but indeed, this is the movie for us all. Popcorn for all!

Return of the Blog

And on Christmas day, my blogging hiatus ends as I am sitting in front of a fire, in a quiet house, with a newly purchased, long overdue, refurbished MacBook on my lap. I can now return to the soothing tippity-tap, tippity-tap, as opposed to the vertical fingered bang, bang, banging required of my old companion. I can now type "9"s and "M"s with reckless abandon without cutting and pasting them from other documents. There is, of course, a "9" in my zip code, so it's been annoying enough over the past many months to just put the device down and walk away. This toy is quiet, no grinding sound, recently accompanied by an unsettling tick, tick, tick of an ersatz bomb waiting to go off, documents up in flames, or at least melted from the heat, increasing in fortitude from the bottom of the machine. No more children yelling "mom, get a new computer, it's time, just admit it." As one application after another stopped working, I have finally admitted it.

Now the dreadful task of updating costly software, inputing all my addresses, one by one, as the old address book was corrupted and can neither save or export. Figuring out if my older backup system will work and the laborious process of moving over documents and music and pictures and whatever else. Getting a new computer is not fun. Sure, it's shiny and pretty, but it's deceiving, there is so many nerve wracking tasks involved, I dread it, so I put it off as long as possible. My old faithful served me for seven years, it was my first laptop an some change I don't like one bit. I miss the way the old keyboard felt, I miss the way the outdated desktop worked, but sometimes you don't have a choice. New computer, divorce, cancer, sometimes you just don't have a choice.

I've had a lovely holiday season. I always forget I work in retail and so am always surprised by how busy and frazzled I get, but the fact that we've all finally admitted Santa is a fable, some of the pressure is off and it's more fun making up who the gifts are from. Little boy got gifts from The Great God of Good Socks, Gandalf, The Doctor and yes, some from his mom. The tall one got lots of very warm clothing to take with him to college in Maine next year. This time next year, he will be home visiting for the holidays, wow. Our Colby College dream has come to fruition with an early decision acceptance, but our expectation of a "need blind" experience, where the financial need of all those accepted is fulfilled by this prestigious, well-endowed school, turns out to really mean, they are blind to our need. While I am doing my best to negotiate some more funds, the dream is now going to include massive quantities of loans and debt. This is very disappointing. I still, however, fully believe that this is the right college for my boy and will offer him a life-changing experience and opportunity for positive personal growth and building of character. How do you walk away from that? He remains, smitten and in love and wanting to play college football and baseball while getting a world-class education, how does he walk away from that? I don't think we can, I think we will need to find a way for it to happen.

It's been a while, I've had some issues, I'm spending a lot of time in rehab, of the physical therapy variety, not drug and alcohol. But that's for another day, because I love the holidays and it's been a holly jolly month. I threw myself on the mercy of a friend with a truck who carted me home a frozen sold tree which thawed nicely and looks festive as can be. I learned that next time I plant a frozen tree, indoors, in a stand, I should not fill stand to the top with water because frozen, implies moisture, and all that water is going to soon start dripping downwards and there is a lot of it and if your stand is already full, well, you get the picture. We had our yearly festive xmas eve gathering last night, with the old friends who over they years have become family and some new ones for good measure. It is such a beautiful and powerful thing to see kids grow from babies to the precipice of launching. Stressful, fragmented evenings filled with diaper changes and temper tantrums are now relaxing and mellow with everyone doing their own thing, the generations and age groups interweaving naturally, sans anyones interference or orchestration.

This was the first christmas morning the boys father chose not to come over which surprisingly freaked  both boys out but we wound up having a perfect festive morning. We were all glad Aunt Ivy slept over as she always does. We're a small group, but it was perfect. It was also the first year I wasn't invited to the in-laws, or ex in-laws, which freaked me out. It's an odd thing how you can know people for 25 years and then just be exiled, but I guess it's time for new traditions and it turns out I'm perfectly happy home alone today and fine with the boys having a holiday tradition without me. They'll be back tomorrow an our annual Lord of the Rings marathon will begin and well go see the Hobbit to top it off. I've gotten a lot of cleaning up done, I'm doing a laundry marathon, it's warm and cozy, I'm eating leftovers, way too many cookies, and using my new computer. It's just gotten dark and I'll flip around and find a movie and I'm at peace with the universe. I have local friends in on who I could drop, but I'm feeling no need, I'm quite content and hope you are too.

Gotham City

Last night I walked past the little {not so little anymore} guy's room and he peeped "mim" which is what he does when he wants me, but knows he's supposed to be staying put, the day officially over. So he peeps "mim" instead of outright calling "mom", and he does it extra cute, so that somehow, it doesn't count and well, he's got my number, I can resist, especially when he gently patted a spot on the bed and said "have a seat, let's have a little chat". He was lamenting that he was having trouble sleeping lately, waking in the middle of the night and knowing he should stay in his room, but winding up in mine. He wanted to stay in his room and didn't know why he couldn't manage to, he was frustrated. After telling him not to worry about it and all that, I shared that I felt all confuddled too, I don't usually share my worries but I'm starting to because I don't want them to be blindsided. Confuddled is one of our words, a hybrid of confused and befuddled, every family should have their own words, I believe. This I believe. I told him I just didn't know how to do all the things in a day that I was supposed to do and I felt badly that every afternoon I was falling asleep on the couch when he came home and then making dinner late and everyone being hungry and gabbity gab, and he said "you're like a rubix cube, but one of the colors is on the wrong side." I agreed, but said it wasn't just one square, the whole thing was jumbled up. And then I stroked his forehead and his hair while he closed his eyes. Whenever I stopped for a second, thinking I was going to leave, he made a frowny face, so I kept going. I was plotting how to escape and then I wondered why would I want to? I'm sitting here in the dark, looking at this angel face, feeling his warm, soft skin and making him feel loved and safe, why would I want to do anything else, and what could possibly be more important.

I went to the lymphedema clinic today at the hospital because of my swollen hand and arm. I thought the goddess Jessica would do her usual massage thing, loosening up my lymph nodes, moving them around, and give me a pep talk about not needing to worry about it. Instead she was kind of alarmed. She measured all up and down both arms and compared them to six months ago and my right arm is 3 cm larger. She wants to wrap my whole arm and hand in tight bandages for 6 to 8 weeks. Say what? 6-8 weeks? And have me come in 3 times a weeks, aghhhh. I asked if I could just wear the compression sleeve like on the plane, but she says that only prevents lymphodema, doesn't help improve it. Not happy, not happy at all, I'll admit to squelching the tears in my eyes, because I don't want to get sucked back into the system, and I'm already freaking out about how to earn money and I'm already without my feet, without my hands, the paradox deepens. I told her I just couldn't leave wrapped up, I had to finish some projects this week and I'd go buy a compression glove tomorrow which I guess, with the sleeve is better than nothing and I'd come back next week. Just, ugh! Jessica told me to not go home and start googling lymphedema, I laughed, and said "I'm going home to google it right now." Jessica doesn't know me very well. I didn't go home, I went into work for a bit, then I picked up J at his dad's because he needed to print something here and now I'm writing this, but at some point... I'll definitely be googling.

In between now and then, I ran into someone I hardly know, but who, well, due to logistics, I run into a lot and who always wants to talk about her close relative with stage IV cancer. Today she shared that the chemo was no longer working and there was nothing else they could do and I told her I was really, really sorry about this, and I was also sorry that I just wasn't the one she could talk with about it, because, I'm just not.

It's unusual for me to speak up like that, and normally I'd have felt terrible, just terrible, filled with guilt for letting someone down, but today I just felt like, you know... I have limits too and I am full up right now. I just don't want to hear about anyone else dying of cancer, just don't. I want a Make a Wish Foundation for adults and I want to go to the Galapagos Islands and see lots of critters. On Nov. 15, San Francisco is going to become Gotham City for a 5-year-old with cancer who wants to be Batman. It's going to be huge, flash mobs, the Police Captain, faux bad guys to capture, City Hall ceremony with a key to the city. Amazing.

This country spends 707 billion dollars per year on defense, $51 billion on weapons alone. $51 billion spent on ways to kill people and only $4.9 billion on curing cancer. We spend 10 times more of our tax dollars on ways to kill people over ways to save their lives. If I were talking about the whole military budget it would be well over 100 times more. We spend less per year now on cancer research than we did a few years ago. We spend $47 billion a  year on homeland security and a hell of a lot more people have died of cancer than by terrorists. And I won't even start on how little we actually spend on the food stamps everyone keeps bitching about, but it's not much, barely a needle in the haystack. You know, those food stamps I'm gonna wind up on despite having supported someone on their road to affluence for decades, thinking it was our road. Heck of a thing to realize that it was never your road at all, you weren't even on the map.

I'm turning my own stomach with all this whining. Today started off really well, brand new day, I chatted with familiar high school students at the café across from their school because I was dropping off son and there was parking so I went in for tea. Shortly after, I stood in a parking lot with my face in the sun, soaking up some vitamin D, having a moment, but then I got off track again. Two lousy days in a row, I resent that universe, I do.

Scruffy the Cat

Someone I didn't know all that well, but whose music I loved... someone I hadn't seen in thirty years but can still see vividly in my mind, someone who was my age and had much to live for and many who loved him, died today of cancer.

The person that broke the news, has had cancer, the person through whom I knew the songwriter and musician, has had cancer. What the fuck is with all this cancer? We're not in our 70s and 80s, we're in our 40s and 50s, is this normal? Was it always this way, or is this a glimpse of the future where some are living longer, but so many of us aren't.

This hasn't been a good week for me and cancer. I'm trying desperately to get back to work, my savings are dwindled, I don't want to uproot my family, I can't even imagine the process of that, so I need more income and I need to stay put but stinky cancer after-effects keep getting in the way. My tumor, and hence lymph node dissection and radiation were on my right side and I'm right handed. I made a display two weeks ago and drilled about 70 holes into wood and then screwed in cup hooks with my thumb and first two fingers, it hurt, I got a blister, that's fine, but two weeks later my fingers are still numb. My hand is swollen and my arm just feels kinda dead. I work with my hands... this is a problem. That shoulder hurts, I bet you didn't realize that you pull your dominant arm backwards to put on a coat. I didn't realize it until it hurt like hell to do it, and now I'm trying to learn how to put on a coat like a lefty, which is harder than it sounds.

I missed a Friday Night game on a beautiful night last week because I'd hit the wall of exhaustion and my neuropathy feet were screaming and my hand was throbbing. Missing things I want to do makes me mad. Before I got sick, I was pondering the paradox I find myself in. I'm supposed to be self supporting or working towards being self supporting while also being a full time, single parent with miniscule assistance from other parent. It was untenable then and now it's even less tenable and I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to be solving this conundrum. What is the secret code that deposits more hours and energy into every day and makes my hand work, my body work, and keeps me healthy instead of burnt out and eating badly because it's quick and easy? I don't like not being able to figure something out no matter how long I obsess over it, I don't like defeat, but I just can't figure out this equation, it does not compute.

I'm complaining, what a waste, someone died today, it wasn't me, someone faced what I'm scared to face cause they had no damned choice, and maybe someday I'll have no choice, so I hate wasting time, but I just can not seem to figure out how to make my circumstances fit into a box that works.

Someone died today. Hearts are broken today. And it's just another day like any other, people die every day, and they're gonna keep doing it. Every day.