DC Metro Moms

Putting My Faith in the Funny Stuff

They say whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But what do they know? Despite the fact that at this point I can probably lift a Hummer over my head, I still think I'd just rather lay down and die, dagnabbit.

Alright, maybe not die. But sleep would be nice. A really, really deep sleep, for a really, really long time. Or at least more than the four hours a night I typically get before my eleven year-old appears at my bedside shaking and mumbling, "Another bad one, mom," as he scrambles into his favorite spot between me and his dad, a.k.a. the man of his dreams.

Or, more accurately, the man of his bad dreams.

Almost every night, the poor kid has nightmares about his dad. He dreams his dad never gets better. He dreams his dad dies. And then, as if that's not enough to make him afraid to close his mischievous blue-grey eyes for the rest of his little life, he dreams I die and there's no one to take care of him and his big brother. Or keep them in cookies.

This, of course, leads me to one of the other things they say. And that's that when someone in your family has cancer, the whole family has cancer.

They got that right.

It's All Fun and Games, Until Somebody Lets the Cattle Out

We survived Snowmaggedon. But now that the forty-five inches of white stuff we got are melting, and Tug, our Golden, is anything but, I almost miss it.

 

Of course neither my husband nor I miss having our sons home for thirteen straight school days. That's right; thirteen. I had a maternity leave that didn't last that long. Talk about the perils of self-employment.

Needy, and not proud of it

I'm sitting at my desk putting the finishing touches on a chapter I’ve killed myself on. It’s taken weeks of writing and re-writing, massaging, editing, and walking away in utter frustration to achieve what my dear friend Trish calls “reads like you just spit it out, Sue” status.  I review it again, add a comma, delete it, and know in my gut I’ve nailed it.

At least I think I know. 

The piece is tight. It's funny. It’s poignant. It is, quite possibly, perfect. But what if it’s not? I mean, why should it be? It’s me we’re talking about here. Not Nora Ephron.

Here's to a Revolution in New Year's Resolutions

With the arrival of the New Year, Resolution Season is in full swing. All around me, people are declaring they're going to lose those last ten pounds, go back to college, or finally clean out the crisper drawer.  Like most people, I too make a plethora of these pronouncements. And, like most people, I stick with them for a whole, screamin' second.

Despite the fact that I exercise every day, on January first, I’m In Training for a Triathlon. On January second, I’m icing shin splints so severe it’s as if I’ve been a sloth for forty-seven years. (A bag of frozen peas strapped to each calf works well. Two pints of Peanut Butter Swirl and a spoon work better.)

Footloose and Cancer Free

I'm ashamed to admit this but, it's true; my husband and I were once cheaters. Not in the Tiger Woods sense of the word, of course. But in the fact that long ago, when we were wild and childless, we'd go to the movies, see the feature we paid for and then sneak into one of the other films and watch it (shhhh) without buying another ticket. 

We were strolling down memory lane and laughing about this and a dozen other things we did pre-parenthood on our way home today from the Lombardi Cancer Center. It was a wonderful way to pass the ninety minute ride, way better than re-hashing every single detail of the doctor visit we just left. We see my husband's oncologist about every two weeks, and every time I show up with my pen and my notepad and a heart so filled with hope I'm surprised my head doesn't pop off.

We'd Rather Fight Than Switch

It's funny, I hadn't thought of the old Tareyton Cigarette "I'd Rather Fight Than Switch" slogan in years. But the other day, as I watched the nurse access my husband's port to start his chemotherapy, it popped into my head. With just a slight tweak - I changed the "I'd" to "we'd" - it was suddenly the perfect description of the way in which we're struggling to hold on to our identity as a couple since he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in September.

Now it goes without saying that there's a whole lot to hate about cancer. For starters, there's the fact that it's, well, cancer, and it's having its way with someone you love. But there are dozens of other little, stupid, and not so stupid reason's cancer's completely reprehensible. Like the fact that it's not satisfied with trying to take a life. Oh no. It has to try to take your way of life, too.

Nailing the New Normal

 My ten year-old peers at me from beneath his thick, brown bangs, bites off a whopping hunk of his Sausage McGriddle, and mumbles, "You think dad will ever be normal again?"

"I hope so," I respond, surprised at both the directness of his question and my own stupidity for ordering a sausage, egg, and bacon biscuit. Breakfasting at McDonald's is a new thing for us. I don't really enjoy it, but since it usually tricks him into talking to me - I think all the lard lubricates his vocal chords - we usually go once a week, whether my stomach can stand it or not.

"You hope so?" he snaps, flipping his bangs out of his eyes so fast his head bounces against the wall behind our booth. Ooh. Even with all his hair, that had to hurt.

There's Gotta Be a Better Way to Save the Ta Tas

Facebook. Twitter. Instant messaging. Email. All this advanced technology. And still they’ve got to totally flatten my breasts to make sure they’re tumor free. Priorities, people. Priorities.

I remember my first mammogram. I stood there, pressed against the machine and thinking, “My God, this contraption’s like something out of The Crucible.” Did having small breasts make me a witch?

I know it makes me a bitch; I kvetch pretty regularly about being last in line when God gave out mammary glands. (Of course on Double Dose of Big Fat Derriere day I was the first one through the door, but that’s a complaint for another column.) But really, I hadn’t cast any spells, chanted, or even levitated my husband’s sweat socks into my bra. And yet there I was, feeling as if I was about to be pressed to death, one ta-ta at a time.

Anyway, I recall the nice technician telling me to put my arm this way, and lean my shoulder that way, and please stay still while she compressed my breast into the shape and – sadly – size, of a silver dollar. Then she actually asked me to hold my breath.

I looked at her like, people breathe during this procedure? Then she flipped a switch, and boom. It was over. Until we had to do it again. And again. How my petite petunias managed to cast a shadow I’ll never know. But they did. Twice. Each.

Drawing the Line at the Leech

I've got good news, and I've got bad news. The bad news is that my husband has cancer and the evil cells have made themselves at home in his pancreas, liver, and lymph nodes. The good news is that we’re about to serve them an eviction notice via a powerful form of chemo called Gemcitabine.

I’d love to be in there to catch the action when the Big G shows up. But since I can’t, and neither can my husband, we’ve decided to visualize our best chance for growing old together and arguing about who’s turn it is to make margaritas: we’re going to close our eyes and imagine the treatment kicking butt, taking names, and showing those dastardly cancer cells the door.

Will Farm for Love

I’ve come to the conclusion that God has quite the sense of humor. That or He’s really ticked off at me. Why? Because in the last two months, since my husband got sick, I have taken charge of our farm.

That’s right. Me. The city chick so flipped out by life in the boonies I wrote a book about it.

Trust me, it’s not a promotion I wanted or worked for or ever showed any interest in receiving. It was thrust upon me when my husband had emergency gallbladder surgery that unmasked a much more serious condition.

The kind that involves the “C” word.