Sundaes and cigarettes

Why am I crying during my Cat Scan? I felt fine. FINE. I had a busy but great day with my fur family, a nice drive into the hospital, made it to my scan on time but the minute I walked through those rotating doors I felt it rising up from my stomach, into my throat. Mortality strikes again. The “real world” is full of distractions, crutches and candy. The “hospital world” stares you straight in the face and makes itself known. Yellowed, shriveled patients line the halls in wheelchairs and stretchers. Old, young, moms, dads. We make eye contact and nod acknowledging our dual membership to the sick club. 

Back to my breakdown…

IV contrast is required to image my insides and mark the progression of my tumors. They access my port and the IV contrast begins to course through my body. It feels hot, burning almost. I follow it’s path through my chest, down my arms. When it reaches my hands it feels like fire. Each finger sparks. I feel like wolverine but I know I’ll leave with nausea and exhaustion instead of retractable claws. 

And that’s it. That’s the nail in the coffin. The final straw. My cupeth run over (yes I know the saying is “cup runneth over” but THAT saying has a more positive undertone whereas my saying has an emotional upheaval vibe). The water works start. Not sobbing, but the tears stream without control. One after another. My eyes fill and spill. Left then right. Well at least I’m inside a tube and no one can see me have “my moment.”  The machine hums, cracks and slowly pulls me out. I wipe my tears and discover that alas my magnetic eyeliner is not waterproof and my eyelashes have become unglued causing them to fall halfway down my eyeball. The machine stops. “You ok?” I hear as I exit the tube. Two attendants are waiting for me on either side of my bed. FUCKING PERFECT. If a bitch can’t have a mild breakdown inside a CT machine when can she?? 

“Is it him?” One of the nurses asks referring to the other male attendant. “Because if it is I’ll kick his ass.” She says with a wink and a smile. As I laugh one of my lashes fall in my mouth. I. Can’t. Make. This. Shit. Up. “No,” I respond, “I’m just having a moment. And my fucking eyelashes aren’t waterproof and all I want is a cigarette (No, I don’t smoke) and a sundae. ” She laughs and says, “That’s ok, you’ll fit in great around here. Almost everyone is bald and we all have our moments.”

The road to self isn’t always paved. Sometimes it’s a dirt path lined with horse shit and you need to decide what/how/if you want to change. Who am I? Who are you? Should we be designated to certain designs? Should we be forever transforming like caterpillars into butterflies? 

The hospital staff looks forward to seeing me every Friday. As I walk into treatment one nurse calls to another, “She’s here!” I look behind me to see who they are talking about. The nurse giggles, “We look forward to you coming in every Friday so we can see who you will be today.” 

Who I will be today? Which wig will I wear? Which persona will I encompass? I started this journey wanting to learn more about who I truly am. WhO ArE YOuu? But what I’m learning is, I’m a lot of things. Not only am I a mom, daughter, wife, business owner. But someone who makes people look forward to things. Someone who likes to make people happy. Someone who gets knocked down but gets back up again. 

We are all made of stars. And you don’t get to be a star by staying put. You shed. Rebuild. Grow. Glitter. Grab onto energies that surround you. Submerge yourself with love and light. Let that shit in. And then let it out. 

 

Toilet talk and then some

 

“Mom, you’re doing great with chemo,” Lilah says as I take my 14^th trip to the toilet before 8am. “Ya, and we’re doing great too.” Tommy chimes as he walks by holding his nose. 

I swear having cancer is a full time job. I set my alarm for 6am because I have come to learn that I need a solid 3 hours of toilet action before starting my day. 

Between toilet time, fighting with insurance companies to cover things like mouthwash which assist in sores that accumulate in my mouth thanks to chemo, receiving chemo, meeting with my drs, taking medication and then recovering from said above, cancer should pay me to exist in my body. I’m expected to be a mom, a business owner, a wife to a chronically ill husband and a cancer fighter?! My plate is FULLLL and I haven’t even had dessert yet. But in the same breath, it’s being a mom, a business owner and a wife that allows me to be a cancer fighter as well as a survivor. And if at the end of the day I feel tired from the things I love, then I’m doing something right. 

Every woman (and some men) have experienced “phantom hair.” Hair that you know is there, you can feel it tickling your arm, or stomach, or back BUT YOU CAN’T SEEM TO SEE IT. Today it was my turn to fight the apparitional hair. For hours I tried to find the long, invisible, blonde hair that tickled my skin. And then I realized alas! I DON’T HAVE ANY HAIR TO FIND! And that it has actually been months since I’ve had to separate my hair from the sink, or empty my brush, or finagle my floor. The hair I felt on my bod was a dog hair. Those I have plenty of.

I never considered that I would have cancer as I entered my 37^th year. It never crossed my mind. Never thought I would have zero hairs on my head, that I would learn how to apply magnetic eyelashes or have a plastic tube permanently placed in my chest. I never thought that at the ages of 8 and 5 my children would know specific names of cancer treatments or that my parents would have prayer circles started in my name. I also never thought I would receive endless kindness from total strangers, meals cooked from scratch and made with love, or instagram messages from young women around the world sharing that they survived similar horrors and that I will too. 

Cancer takes an awful lot. But it gives too. Just ask my toilet 😉

In the end it’s the magic that will save us

While walking with the kids I saw a bald woman driving. I got so excited that I ripped off my turban mid stride, smiled real big and waved like Forest on his shrimp boat. I wanted her to “see” me. I wanted to say “Heyyyyyyyyy loooook youuuu, meeeee, compadreeeee!” Turns out it was a semi frightened 80 year old man who looked more shocked than satisfied. C’est la vie.

Today marked my 7^th treatment. 7 down, 9 to go. Almost halfway there. My eyelashes and eyebrows have decided to depart which is a real kick in the junk. “Oh just draw em’ on,” echos the peanut gallery. EASIER. SAID. THAN. DONE. I spend more time “getting ready” now that I am a human turtle masquerading as a woman than I did when I was fully haired. One flick of the wrist and I go from Charlize Theron to Charles Manson. I have a new found respect for Drag Queens that’s for sure. 

But the kids. The kids are my magic. We laugh constantly. Smile incessantly. I feel sad for people that don’t enjoy the innocence of children. Our society is constantly trying to force them into mini adults. They’re not. They’re pure and new. They’re streams of consciousness that teach us to be curious, thought provoked and content. Adults have contrived their minds into believing that they NEED more. We don’t. We need hugs, laughter, small portions of food, trampolines and obstacle courses made of cardboard boxes and pillow forts. 

While enjoying the cool fall air and sitting on our front steps Lilah picked up an acorn and said, “Look Mom this acorn doesn’t have it’s hat on. It’s bald. Like you!” She was so proud to have found it. And even happier to share her discovery with me. It made me realize how my illness, my baldness and our family circumstance is constantly on her mind. But it also made me grateful that she could commiserate with a symbol of my current status and that she felt comfortable enough, honored to share it with me. 

Sometimes we all want to get into our car and just drive right? Drive from light to dark. Drive to the end of the Earth. End up in Key West with an Iguana on our shoulder and an ankle tattoo. I think that’s a universal understanding. Right? 

I’ve been feeling better physically. But the rollercoaster that is trauma and stress is one messy chick. Once the physicality of my makeup feels “better” the emotional side screams “HEYYYY REMEMBER ME?? THROW ME A LIFE JACKET WE GOIN DOWN.” So I face her head on. What’s the problem? You ain’t good? Well hold on, it’s about to get real and rickety. And that’s all I can say about it. My mom says, “When you’re in hell. Just keep going. Don’t stop.” Face as much as you can, process as much as possible. Feel your truth. But don’t dwell. Ain’t no one got time for that. Ya we’re in hell. I’m in constant physical pain, I could easily be a Bruce Willis body double, I’m isolating from society in fear of contracting an illness due to my compromised immune system and Steve is battling his emotional and physical world being flipped upside down.

But you know what? The kids are ok. The kids are magic. Listening to Tommy make Lilah laugh uncontrollably  because he loves Will Ferrell’s cow bell skit on SNL. “Hey Lilah, I gat a fever and the only prescription is more cowbell.” 

And there it is. In the end, the magic of our kids will save us. Love is all you need.