Cancer is NOT who I am...

So then why does it feel like my identity is so completely wrapped up in this f&#@ing disease? I mean seriously - - just when I forget about it for a moment and think, "Wow!  How cool that my colleague obviously missed me so much over the summer!" because someone has made a concerted effort to cross a room and speak just to ME, I realize, Shit.  When she just asked, "How ARE you?" it wasn't because she thinks I'm such a cool person, it's because I have cancer.

*SIGH*

All people who haven't seen me all summer inevitably get the look and ask the same thing.  People who don't know me that well hear me talking to other people and sure enough - their look is also transformed.  Thoughts and prayers are offered, for which I am infinitely grateful.  But damn it, I sure wish they could spend their time praying for people who really need it - people who are suffering from everyday challenges for which they get no additional support - people who have longterm illnesses that can't be treated with only six cycles of mildly annoying chemo therapy - people whose numbness is not only in their fingertips but throughout their whole bodies - people who are actually dying...

So yeah, I admit it's definitely not all bad.  I'm surviving quite well, after all.  And I mean, who doesn't like getting attention from people who barely noticed you before?  People I'm pretty sure disliked me b.c. (before cancer) are apparently able to get past their distaste a.d. (after diagnosis).  I totally get it -- it's much easier to like someone who is humbled by enduring disfiguring treatments for a possibly fatal disease.  But I seriously have to admit that cancer has actually increased my narcissism significantly...  I spend almost twice as much time getting ready in the morning now - check my makeup constantly - reapply actual lip COLOR every five minutes...  I even try to wear false eyelashes to supplement the pathetic six or seven hairs left on each eye.  (By "try" I mean I spend about twenty minutes wrestling with glue that is either too wet or too sticky, getting it on my contacts, adhering the strip a sixteenth of an inch above my lash line or so far down into the lash line that the falsies stick straight up and make me look terrified. Then after a couple hours I realize that the glue on the edges has come loose and the lashes are creeping up my eyelids, making me look less cat-eyed and more "sloppy drag queen."  So I peel them off and try to smear what's left of my eyeliner into a consistent smudge instead of a dotted line, interrupted by wads of remaining glue.  I'm seriously tempted to start drawing lashes on my lids, a la Minnie Mouse.)

So I also spend about three hours forcing my wigs (my wig collection is totally kick ass!!) in the direction I desire (probably the exact opposite direction it was designed to go) with about half a bottle of wig hairspray.  I'm guilty of directioning, spraying, pushing, pulling, and shaping, then brushing it all out and starting all over again -- a routine that takes forever the first time since wig hairspray refuses to dry anytime in this century, and if I use a blowdryer to help it along, I'll melt the synthetic fibers directly to my skull.  Anywho - once I have some semblance of a style pseudo "in place" then I'm constantly checking my "hair" because man, those things don't behave "naturally" in wind or in response to sweating, moving, or even breathing it seems. But I do get the significant bonus of looking totally different every day of the week for two and a half work weeks if I really want to.  And according to an extremely attractive male colleague, my "halo under a scarf" look is rather hot (I was actually mistaken for a student one day while sporting that look.  YESSSSSS!!), while a couple other men I know are particular to my sassy hats. (I get a pass on wearing hats to school. WOO HOO!!!)  My favorite men in the world, however, are the ones who seem to think I look totally hot bald.  (I hope to goodness they don't ask their wives to act out a "bald Barb" fantasy.)

Other benefits of my cancer "look" are as follows:  1) I can hide from people I want to avoid (like today when I put my head down and hid beneath my long blonde locks and jaunty hat while I pretended to be engrossed in the lid on my water bottle so as to avoid a former stalker-type who used to lurk outside my classroom).  2) I can mess with my boss, apparently, since one of the new APs at school told me today that he is totally thrown off when I appear in a different "cranial prosthesis" everyday since he thinks he's seeing another person he hasn't identified at school yet.  3) I can even be intriguing to young children (though I think I totally freak out some of them when I bare my bald).  And to grown women? 4) I'm awesomely positive!  Inspiring!  AMAZING!! 
All because of cancer. 

UGH.

Still, I am prayed for by devoted Christians who barely know more than my name -- and my diagnosis.  I am close with women who were either mere acquaintances or even unknown to me prior to cancer.  I have deep, meaningful conversations with people all the time!!!!  (This is truly the BEST benefit, as I love nothing more than poignant, "getting to know the real, raw you" convos.)  And they're not always about cancer!!!  (Though they always seem to be about something that has arisen as a result of cancer -- strength, perspective, motivation, goals...)  And I get to make ridiculously funny, pee-your-pants-laughing kind of jokes, such as when a colleague was fretting over her hair one day and I said simply, "I find it entertaining when people complain about their hair," or when I get to compare my nether regions to that of a ten-year-old girl.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Cancer benefits far outweigh its drawbacks.  Definitely.  But there are still days when I wish like hell I could just be Barb for a while - - bad hair and all. 

A girlfriend told me - right before I began chemo - that I would be forever transformed by this experience of having chemicals pumped into my body repeatedly.  Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, she said.  I do love that image.... but jeez, does it have to take so freaking long for the darned bird to burn up?? 

I'm dying slowly.  At least parts of me are, and I pray that they are the imperfect, in-need-of-major-improvement parts - not just the cancer. 

But I'm also being reborn - slowly - surely - wholly reformed into a person that can't take life for granted and never forgets to laugh, long and loud and probably rather obnoxiously.  And since all great things take time, I suppose I can endure this cancer identity for a while longer... just as long as the woman who emerges on the other end never forgets how to set herself on fire!

Bald Is Not MERELY Beautiful

Shaving my head is one of the most fun things I have ever done, believe it or not. Heck, when you make it a party, start by taking pics of your three-year-old pulling clumps of hair from your rapidly shedding head, pass the clippers from friend to sister to friend, AND let the three-year-old also take a stab at using them (and by “stab” I literally mean poking me in the head, as he somehow managed to flip the plastic guard off of them at one point and subsequently press the metal directly to my head, sans blood, thank goodness), it is an all out BLAST.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We should start with the night that I woke up and instantaneously thought, “My hair might be falling out!” and when I tugged gently on a few strands – in the dark, mind you – and felt them easily slide out in my fingers thought simply, “Yep – I knew it.”

While I don’t recall my daughter’s reaction the next morning when I demonstrated this cool new trick I could perform, I will never forget Jake’s total elation and eagerness to try it himself.

Several friends followed suit that day, giggling like school girls as they drew strand after strand from my head. Who could blame them? With all of our typical neurotic habits, who ISN’T excited to add repetitive hair pulling, even if only for a few blissful moments? It is somewhat akin to the joy of popping bubble wrap. I, in fact, indulged in about a half hour of it by myself in my bathroom that night, refusing to go to bed until I removed as many loose strands as possible. I’m still not sure if it was out of dread of finding clumps on my pillow in the morning or a mere inability to resist the temptation to pull, pull, pull, pull. I suppose it was a combination… The next day I found myself sitting with my head between knees on the backyard swing – yes feeling lightheaded, but only because I was further removing as much hair as I could possibly draw out as quickly as possible. Thus I was sporting several baldish, thin areas by the time the shaving party arrived that night (though as I write this an entire week later I STILL have significant stubble, and I rub my head with a washcloth every time I shower and encourage Jake and Ellie to “pull the pricklies out” as often as they like) – I just have a freaking TON of hair to shed!

In any case, the girls finally arrived and the shaving party commenced with clippers flourishing and cameras snapping pic after pic for eternal posterity. For a moment I even sported a sassy mohawk that several Facebook friends claimed I should have kept.

Alas, I could not bring myself to leave ANY of it on my head and suffer the constant annoyance of having hairs trailing down my cleavage and covering my shoulders. That stuff itches like CRAZY (though these short bristly hairs I’m still sporting somehow work their way into my bra and stab me nonstop, even worse than when I had “normal” hair, and every woman I know understands the annoyance of hair sliding into her cleavage).

So the mohawk was photographed repeatedly, then became history as Jake quite seriously took to his new barber career and started whacking at it randomly.

My friend Laura – clipper wielder extraordinaire as mother and wife – cleaned it up, and the complaining began. Not MINE, of course - - my friends’. Those brats couldn’t contain their jealousy over what an absolutely perfectly shaped head I have! Jessica further bemoaned her envy regarding my extensive new wig collection, and soon the girls were laughing as they modeled each of them in turn. Thus the idea of a wig-wearing outing was born, though I’m afraid they might argue over who gets to where which one. *SIGH*

I personally like being simply bald. Wigs are hot and itchy; they do NOT look sexy when they blow in the wind; I’m afraid if wig bangs move AT ALL they look wacky; and I desperately miss my lazy pony tails. But I do enjoy the eager anticipation my friends at church showed for seeing which new look I was showing off when I picked Jake up from Bible school throughout this past week, and the unsolicited compliment about how darned cute my hair was from a woman at a workshop, whom I believe had no clue I was wearing a wig, was especially appreciated.

 

We culminated our shaving party with mushroom fettucine made by my sis, Cari, and a third bottle of wine in which yes, I definitely indulged, because ONE night of drinking was not going to totally destroy my liver, and besides, shaving your head calls for being buzzed ;)

You've Got That Look and Other Cancer Calamities

If you've ever experienced a great tragedy, loss, major illness, or anything else for which people offer great sympathy, then you know what look I'm talking about - - that tragic face with the intense puppy dog eyes (ironic since it actually resembles the manipulation face Puss in Boots makes) that doesn't merely say, "How ARE you?? I'm worried about you!" but more accurately conveys to me, "Oh my GOD, you are dealing with a tragic, possibly life-threatening illness, and it must make your life a living HELL!" 

I'm always surprised when I get that look.  I don't feel deserving of that look.  Heck, I feel darned lucky to be surrounded by amazing people, to be showered with love and well wishes and greeting cards in my mailbox everyday (take THAT, junk mail!  Now I enjoy opening my mailbox!!).  But shoot, you can even HEAR that look over the phone!  So usually I find myself wanting to console the look-giver, mostly because I feel like this whole thing is still just an incredibly elaborate ruse that I have constructed in order to manipulate people into showering me with attention, and it has worked so amazingly well that I feel thoroughly guilt-ridden.  And I don't want my friends and family to be burdened with worry.

So here's the deal, people - I think we need to have a little lesson in gullibility. 

Perhaps those who are bombarding me with cards (even from women I've never met, thanks to my amazing sorority and its magical ability to communicate without my knowledge!) and messages and gifts (oh my goodness - THREE Mickey scarves and a canvas Mickey tote from my Disney travel agent, also whom I've never met in person!) have never known a pathological liar, in which case I can't blame them for blindly believing that I'm beset with tragedy right now.  I suppose I've gone to great lengths to "prove" it.  Cutting my hair was the first move.  Rarely am I without garish green bruises - in the crooks of my arms, on my wrist, across the right side of my chest...  People who see me in person see the port line, like an angry vein pulsing across my clavicle; many have even seen the bumpy plastic alien threatening to pop right through my skin.  I went so far as to have Jess to post a pic of me on Facebook as I sat in an infusion recliner!  And today I'm able to reach up under my scarf and pull out tufts of hair.  Heck, I'm a regular David Copperfield!  Because despite the very real experience, I STILL feel as if I've concocted a major scheme that plays on people's sympathies and earns me fabulous rewards.

And for the first couple weeks, even I didn't believe my story.  After all, I've heard similar radical stories that were complete falsehoods.  And with everything else that has happened in my life over the last couple years, the irony of me ending up with not just one but TWO types of cancer, especially after I assured myself, my students, and everyone significant in my life that the thyroid swelling would be no big deal even if it WAS cancer, is just too darned ironic.  Who could believe this was really happening??  I mean shoot -- only two years ago my home was being targeted repeatedly by a sadly disturbed woman who was not content to merely spraypaint horrendous accusations of my raunchy sexual exploits on my house and car - FIVE times - but had to continue them on a nursing home, a grocery store, and an elementary school before finally being caught on an extremely warm night as she headed down the street in a dark hoodie and ski mask.  Didn't I get plenty of attention back then when half the town assumed I must have done something to her like having an affair with her husband, and especially when she apparently began telling people that I had actually had sex with her teenage son AND given him an STD?  (The irony of that one was even greater than the cancer, I think, since I live a ridiculously chaste - i.e. sexually BORING - life.  And even if I were totally depraved, immoral, and desperate and her kid were in his thirties, he is one of the LAST men on earth I would ever sleep with.  YUCK!!) 

That was way more attention than anyone needs in a lifetime, I swear.  And yet here I am -- playing on the emotions of everyone in my life.  Seriously - - it seems as if I'm just desperately seeking sympathy.  I mean, this is really not that bad!

So I think about cancer about a thousand times a day.  So what?  It doesn't keep me from doing fun stuff.  Like last week -- I thoroughly enjoyed the Petunia Festival.  So yeah - I drank club soda all night while my friends were getting their drink on the first night we went out.  That's fine.  It was no big deal when the bartender tried to serve me flat club soda (which is essentially bad tasting water) and then opened up diet tonic water because he somehow thought that was an appropriate substitute.  Eventually he got it right!  And who cares that people kept asking, "How are you doing?" and I had to concede that ultra-heightened menstrual cramps were paining me enough to want to sit down.  I still made it out until almost 1 a.m. - and I woke up withOUT a hangover!  And without regret over having done or said anything inappropriate in a drunken stupor in front of the handful of former students I ran into and chatted with at length at a bar.  I'd say that's about five points in FAVOR of cancer. :)  Plus we laughed HARD every time I was able to say someone (though I could hardly keep a straight face), "You have to come hang out with us because this could be my last Petunia Festival!"  (So I'm making jokes about death - so sue me.  It IS funny.) 

Ok, yeah - so Ellie was a bit upset yesterday when we had to turn around on our hike because I scratched my leg and was bleeding.  Certainly this was just a minor inconvenience.  I felt horrible, though, because I should have planned ahead and brought antibiotic cream with me, but I haven't yet learned what I need to anticipate in order to avoid illness and infection.  Once I saw that blood, however, all I could think was, "If germs get in there, I could contract a blood infection that my body can't fight, and I could die....."  And yeah, that's extreme, but you never know.  In order to fight cancer, you have to kill GOOD cells, too, and I have no idea what my white cell count looks like today.  I do, however, get excited every time I sneeze, assuming that my immunity is back up and rebelling against allergens. ;)  And the bottom line is that I was running through the woods yesterday and splashing through a creek and feeling just as alive as I've ever felt.  So how can cancer be that bad?

Cancer has allowed me to schedule a free massage and free Reiki session in the next couple weeks.

Cancer earned me a gift card to a spa, where I enjoyed a truly heavenly facial the other day, AND was thus introduced to new skincare products that have at last balanced my oily skin such that my makeup still looks fresh at the end of the day!! 

Cancer has connected me with phenomenal people I never knew before I had cancer, and it has brought me closer to both those with whom I was only distantly acquainted and those close friends with whom I haven't maintained sufficient contact, thanks to our insanely busy schedules.

I should think that this last benefit is what makes cancer a true gift - something for which I am actually grateful.  What makes cancer ridiculously fun, though is today's phenomenon:  the losing of my hair. 

I must admit this did cause me a bit of worry the other day as I indulged in that facial.  Though having a facial in the middle of the summer rather than in the midst of the school year did allow me to free my mind sufficiently to focus acutely on Caroline's magic fingers as they massaged my face, my back, my shoulders, my neck, my scalp, my arms, and even my feet, I was slightly distracted when my scalp massage included Caroline literally pulling at my hair (an incredible sensation -- I highly recommend it for those of you whose hair is NOT falling out in chunks when tugged upon) and I began to imagine her horror if it suddenly began coming out in her hands.  I also realized, with great chagrin, that if (when) I return for a facial, I will be unable to enjoy this sensation next time, as I will be BALD.  Would that be weird for her? I wondered.  Would it throw her off her game? Maybe creep her out to have to massage my bristly head?  Ah, well -- I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.  She didn't seem thrown by the alien protruding from my chest, so I'm guessing she can handle baldness.

But overall this concept is truly FUN.  For one thing, I get to play with wigs and scarves and hats, the most fun of these being the wigs, surely.  Who the heck gets to try out a new identity every other day??  THIS GIRL!!  And who else gets to reach up under her scarf and say, "Look!!" as she pulls out multiple strands of hair?  HA!  I could pull out HALF of my hair and still have a full head.  If only the idea of leaving a trail of hair everywhere I go didn't ick me out so much...  But the absolute BEST part?  Not only are my legs and armpits still totally smooth today after shaving yesterday (and typically experiencing five o'clock shadow within a couple hours), but I shall not have to worry about waxing "down there" for SEVERAL MONTHS!  (And that is one jungle that desperately needs to be razed.)

Overall, cancer has been a blessing.  (Did I mention that being on steroids is AWESOME for me?  I felt awake!!!  I got things done!!  I can't wait to be on them again!!!)  In every way except maybe two - - or three or four, I suppose - - cancer has brought GREAT things to my life.  If I can keep them up - maintain my new closeness with so many amazing women, remember to laugh all the time, and keep my bikini area smooth as a baby's bottom - then cancer just might be the BEST thing that has ever happened to me.  Aside from my kids, of course.  They make life pretty darned awesome ALL the time - even when I'm healthy. ;)

Chemo

I’m not feeling particularly entertaining regarding this first cycle of chemo, as nothing particularly notable happened. On that day, as it turns out, Jess and I were more chill than chuckle, and that’s actually a good thing. Had we had a blast laughing all day, the crash I experienced later would have been hardcore. Instead, I think the experience remaining low-key is something for which I must be grateful.


The best thing I have to report is that it went by quickly, as Jess can also attest (and I don’t think she’s bs-ing me just to make me feel better for taking advantage of her generosity of friendship). I’ve truly decided that the reason these hideously UNfun procedures can be so pleasant is that I approach them with my ever-praised “positive attitude,” as well as a bit of a sense of adventure. It’s like when I tell people that all of those things that go wrong on your wedding day (such as when the curtains caught on fire at the front of the church and the dog ran down the aisle in the middle of the ceremony on the day of my own nuptials) can make for awesome stories to laugh over later… Crap-surviving stories hold that same appeal.

But interacting with new people has always been appealing to me as well, and so the time passes quickly when engaged in meaningful conversations with other individuals who have devoted their lives to helping others. At my cancer clinic, at least, it seems that everyone I encounter is truly golden-hearted, and their smiles alone are a soothing balm to my nerves, my wounds, and any chemo-induced discomfort. Unfortunately, however, one of the very issues over which I bonded with my darling Angel (no lie – that’s my chemo nurse’s name!) turned out to be mistake #1 from which I learned a major lesson the hard way. Angel was curious about the nutrious snack choices I had packed to help ward off fatique, nausea, and other discomforts that are compounded when one has not fueled her body properly. That day, mine included organic freeze-dried peas, corn, tomatoes, carrots, and bell peppers, plus “Super Snacks” made of organic banana, coconut, sprouted sesame seeds, and spirulina. These are nutritional powerhouses, for sure, and complemented my “Magical Mineral Broth” quite well --- until evening came and the fiber that had built up in my midsection was causing me insane discomfort, as well as threatening to push everything I had eaten right back up my esophagus. Trust me: when chemo itself may lead to constipation, the LAST thing you want to do is OVERdo it on fibrous foods that – though eventually move easily through you – also keep you feeling full longer as they take an insanely llllllooooooooonnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggg freaking time to digest. I was in AGONY.

I will probably not report this to Angel when I return.

What I will report, however, is the agonizing headache I endured from about 6 pm to 3 am. And I do not deal well with headaches. Luckily, my darling daughter does, and she was a fabulous nurse. The steroids did allow me to doze off later in the evening, and I woke to find myself on the couch in the dark at about 11 pm. Ellie had turned off the lights and t.v. and tucked herself into bed at some point, probably exhausted from getting up every fifteen minutes to get me water, tea, Vicodin for the headache I finally decided I had to treat with additional drugs, a smoothie, a different kind of tea, more water, a cold compress, how about some of that cup-a-soup that’s way in the back of the cabinet? Oh, and could you bring me a pillow and a softer blanket and turn down the t.v. and shut off the fan and adjust the lights and don’t breathe quite so loudly…….. That kid is a SAINT, I’m telling you. When I heard her getting up at 4 am to get a drink, she gladly brought me some water, too, and offered to get me my anti-nausea meds so that I could feel up to eating breakfast in a couple hours so I could start the round of steroids all over again without them eating a major hole in my stomach. When she got up at about 8 and found me back on the couch, sleeping through the Today show, she simply went in the other room and entertained herself, then gladly made me breakfast at 9:30 when I decided I would officially wake up for the day (I swear the hours between 11 and 4 only resulted in about 2 hours of sleep, after all, as the steroids kept me tossing and turning most of the time). Someday I hope she will be a strong, super capable woman for having gone through this with me now. That means this MUST be a positive experience for her, too, right?

But back to the chemo itself… I had no idea that I was going to have about twenty gallons of chemicals pumped into my body that day. I truly believe the way to get through chemo crap is to remain in denial until you are forced to face it head on, for if you were to vividly visualize the amount of toxic chemicals that would be coursing through your veins, you would run screaming long before they came anywhere near you with a needle. Luckily, the 9 or 10 huge vials that Angel “pushed” into my port by hand yielded none of the nightmarish side effects possible at the time, and the slowly increasing drip into my IV never had to be slowed or stopped from a reaction. Thus Jess and I were able to wonder in mere curiosity at the amount of fluid piped into me in what felt like record time rather than cursing it. The port allows direct connection to my jugular vein -- no tissue damage from blown IVs, no horrific pain at the site of insertion. I did, however, feel a lovely little “I’m on drugs” buzz that Angel said is a result of the Benadryl (YAY Benadryl!!) and enjoyed that fuzziness enough to sincerely not mind when Jess ate a delicious-looking salmon with Greek salad in front of me (I was unyet aware of the adverse effects my super foods were to have on me ). And since we were released early enough to avoid the major traffic delays, we made it home in decent time. All in all, not a bad day.

I would describe more in detail my relief at being able to poop and release the liquid that all of that fiber also soaked up like a sponge, but whoops – look at that… I need to jump in the car and go pick up my sister from the airport. At long last my true cancer-crap partner has returned from two weeks in Europe and I must regale her with lives stories of all the cancer fun I’ve celebrated without her. More later… But lucky for you, by then I will have gotten past digestive issues and moved on to something more pleasant – I hope.

Chemo, take me away!!

It seems crazy (thus totally befitting my character), but I’m seriously looking forward to chemo tomorrow. My fun and funny friend Jess is accompanying me, and I have no doubt we will laugh nonstop throughout the entire 6 ½ hour ordeal, just as we did last week when she joined me for a rousing day of shopping, a nuclear heart scan, a bone marrow biopsy, and dinner on a lovely patio with an incredible view of… a parking lot. But who cared? Not us. We had wine.

Jess and I laugh constantly. Last week we started our laughter when the semi next to us on the interstate blew a tire and we both almost had heart attacks. We laughed about what a fabulous driver I am that my hands didn’t even flinch on the wheel. (We should have laughed that my hands were even ON the wheel since I have a bad habit of driving with my knee.) We laughed delightedly over our Ann Taylor purchases. We laughed when I chose an umbrella table at lunch – inside the food court – just so we could feel like we were lunching on vacation. We laughed when we were commenting back and forth on her Facebook post while sitting right across the table from each other. We laughed when Google maps’ traffic reports showed red where a few minutes ago they were green. We laughed that wherever we drove, the red followed us.

We really laughed while Jess described how she intended to secretly photograph (or possibly directly accost) hot doctors and other attractive men as part of her plan for snagging me a wealthy mate in order to make cancer treatment profitable. We especially laughed that while I was having my heart scan, Jess was playing landing pad for a clutzy woman who fell over a sign and right into her lap (an event Jess referred to as the “little commotion in the waiting room” that I unfortunately missed).

We laughed pretty heartily at the fact that I tend to jump off the table when someone comes anywhere near my bum, even with gentle fingers since they are the precursor to sticking a needle in my ass, and then we laughed that the darling PA who did my bone marrow biopsy had such warm, soft hands that I only flinched once, and barely at that. We laughed when the first attempt at coaxing liquid from my hip bone didn’t work, initially because it didn’t hurt like I thought it would and then because we realized the lack of liquid was why it didn’t hurt. We even laughed when it did hurt, both at my constant repetition of “It’s not that bad – it’s not that bad – it’s not that bad” and my inability to pinpoint the level of pain. “Three? Maybe four?” Heck, I admitted that I don’t even know what a ten would feel like on the pain scale. “Not childbirth?” the very pregnant PA asked incredulously since I had already informed her of my body-on-fire-from-boobs-to-knees-for-what-felt-like-hours-but-was-really-only-a-half-hour labor experience with my son. (No worries – Jess and I both reassured her that the pain was worth it and entirely forgettable the very second that beautiful baby was safely ensconced in his mommy’s arms.) I figured if the pain wasn’t bad enough to make me pass out, it couldn’t have been more than an eight. And though I had compared the wrist pain from that holy-freaking-hell IV pushing two days earlier to labor pain, I also figured it couldn’t have been that bad when it was confined to such a small area. We laughed that I was so charming in the midst of having a corkscrew repeatedly drilled into my freaking BONE that the PA claimed – during my charming attempt at small talk – that though she generally disliked having to do bone marrow biopsies, she was actually having FUN for this one.

Of course we laughed when the car lurched forward then lurched to a stop as Jess adjusted to driving what she called my “go kart” (she’s used to a Jeep Grand Cherokee – I have a Toyota Prius), and having noted the mileage as she attempted to discern the various numbers on my dashboard, on the way home we were thus able to laugh when we realized we had only gone fifteen miles in an hour. Our biggest laugh of the day may have come then, also, when we both almost choked with laughter when Snoop Dogg suddenly burst out of the radio with “Drop it like it’s hooooootttt; drop it like it’s hooooottt.” And our final laugh was later that evening as I lay on my couch, pressing my slightly bleeding hip to my fist (through a heating pad) while I texted Jess that perhaps we should have realized that alcohol would act as a blood thinner. Whoops!

So if anything, I know that tomorrow I will be laughing -- possibly at the same time I am also crying, but that’s not unusual for me.  And it's the laughter that counts.

I also know that I will be confined to a bed in a room that someone else has cleaned to the point of sterilization, with no piles of crap that someone else has created and I don’t have time to deal with. It will be 6 ½ hours of lounging. Thus, in comparison to these last few days, it will be heaven.

People can say, “Don’t worry about getting things done! Someone else will do it!” but that’s not true. As a single mother, not only am I the only adult living in the house, I am the ONLY adult, period, who is truly invested in what happens in my house and what it looks like. So perhaps someone else IS willing to come help, but inevitably others have their own agendas, their own schedules, and their own ideas of what should be a priority.

I’ve never been one to feel pressured to keep up my house a certain way to please others. This is not about that pressure to be the perfect wife or to conform to some unrealistic societal standard. This is about what makes me comfortable – and after years of disorganization, what makes me comfortable is keeping my house organized. The problem with that is that in the midst of my trying to do so, I have children who are – at the exact same time – creating chaos behind me. And though I may want to achieve my peaceful state of mental nirvana well before they hook me up to a vat of chemicals tomorrow, others figure that as long as it gets done, it doesn’t matter.

But to me it matters very much. I need to feel as if something is accomplished. And as I write this, I feel as if nothing is. There are dishes all over the kitchen (from what, I have no idea, since I haven’t cooked a meal here in days). The living room is stacked with crap. Everything that inhabits my bedroom is currently piled all over my bed and cannot be replaced in its original dwelling spot until the carpets dry – at about 8 o’clock tonight, the same time I am supposed to be leaving for Chicago. The almost $500 worth of organic fresh produce and baking materials I so diligently picked out are sitting in the kitchen, waiting to become “Magic Mineral Broth” and “Anytime Bars” as nutrient rich, energy-creating nosh for tomorrow’s ordeal, but I can’t don my chef’s hat until other things are finished first – such as dealing with the piles of crap in the sunroom that has been freshly painted (but isn’t quite done yet) and has to have a rug laid before the furniture being moved out of my little apartment tomorrow can be moved into it. Both mine and my parents’ vehicles are filled with boxes and other things that were already moved out of the apartment, and though I’m not sure where it’s all going to go (because if there are boxes of crap ANYWHERE in sight when I return from chemo tomorrow, my anxiety level will go through the roof), it’s got to go SOMEWHERE, and on a day when temperatures are supposed to reach 100 degrees, that cannot be the garage. The dining room table is still stacked with papers I haven’t had a chance to go through – Jake’s new legos are still on the living room floor – his curtains still aren’t hung – the tile in the hallway is spotted and in need of mopping… Shoot, even the sheets on my bed (the ones currently buried under four feet of stuff) need to be changed.

And so I’m wishing that chemo required hospitalization.

I’m trying not to fret over what I’m going to find when I return home tomorrow. I’m trying to be appreciative for the help that has been given to me. But I’m frustrated that this disease has already put me through the kinds of procedures that have left me unable to simply complete these tasks on my own. I’m fearful that I will run out of money, despite my great insurance, because of travel costs and the fact that I may have to miss so much school this fall that I burn through my sick days and have to take dock days (which, for a teacher, means a hell of a lot more money than for those whose salary is based on 250 days of work instead of only 188), and organic, cancer-fighting foods (especially the miraculously healthy raw, sprouted grains) cost way more than I’m used to spending on groceries (to mention that they take a lot more time to prepare than picking up over-processed, health-threatening fast food).

The WORST part is that I’m particularly angry that these frustrations and fears actually led me yesterday to the point of thinking that I wished I had a husband. WHAT THE F#@%?!?! You KNOW the shit has gotten bad when I reach that kind of a low. So I had to have a talk with myself in order to remind me that a husband would take up too much space, invade my privacy, prevent me from calling ALL the shots ALL the time, and generally piss me off way more than he would help. I fought back a little, throwing in that a husband would be big and strong and capable of getting things done that I couldn’t do – and that cuddles and kisses from a toddler are one thing, but a husband (any husband of mine, anyway) would be a deliciously sensual kisser, and would have the kind of strong arms and chest that could envelop me in total safety any time I was feeling weak or scared or just exhausted by life, not to mention sex… But that’s when I cut myself off and reminded me of the challenges of being in a relationship - challenges I'm just not up for dealing with right now.

So to encourage stress relief independently, I succumbed: I ate a bacon cheeseburger. And fries. And drank two beers – which, pathetically, was not even good beer!! Just some cheap light crap that Jake’s dad had left in my fridge. (But at least there was beer in fridge, since there is – shockingly – no wine in my house.) And for “dessert,” I proceeded to eat my body weight in “Hint of Lime” Tostitos. (If you have not tried these, DON’T. You will become addicted.)  So now today I'm stressed over all of that.  Geez, Louise.  I need to indulge in some healthy dark chocolate and get over it!

So this morning I’m rallying. Or at least trying to. Though I haven’t had time to blog in days, today I decided my first step toward self-“medication” would be to make time. And when my mother showed up ever-so-thoughtfully toting an under-the-bed storage container for some things I suggested yesterday I would store under my bed, I expressed gratitude. I’ve tried to keep my snappishness to a minimum. And I’m reminding myself silently that they are being ridiculously patient with the fact that while my parents are now clearing out the sunroom, I have my bum planted on the couch while I type. They don’t know that I’m blogging – they don’t know that I’ve chosen this as a form of therapy this morning. But they’re not saying a word - - - they’re just working, and asking minimal questions when necessary. GOD BLESS THEM.

But now I’m down to eight hours until the Lioness Club meeting I am determined to attend tonight begins and so I must hit “publish” and bask in the glow (albeit a dim one) of having gotten something completed today. Heck – it’s a step in the right direction anyway. :o)

Chocolate is the BEST medicine!

I am a total sucker for chocolate.

But by “chocolate” I do not mean that over-processed, emulsified, polluted crap in a wrapper. In fact, in this context I don’t even mean the fairly pure, 70% or above real cocoa confection that I have learned to enjoy as a semi-sweet indulgence that is actually – as studies have shown – good for my psyche. Instead, in the context of being subjected to needle pokes, nightmarish IV injections, alien insertions into my body, radioactive ingestions, and being surrounded by a whirling, whining device seemingly straight out of a sci-fi flick, I mean HOT chocolate.

Still, I do not mean the steamy, creamy drink that is served best with peppermint schnapps. While deliciously tempting (especially the alcohol part, especially while being tortured as mentioned above), winter comfort drinks were not what eased my agony yesterday. No, the sinfully scrumptious treat that saved me from wallowing in first-day-of-major-abuse cancer despair was an utterly dreamy, milk chocolate man with deliciously dark chocolate eyes.  His name was Jerome and he served as the technologist for my port placement, which took place in one of the creepiest rooms I have ever seen in real life.

Our initial meeting was normal:

     Nurse Kim: This is Jerome; he’ll be your technologist.

     Me: Hi, Jerome

     Him: Hi blah blah blah blah blah (stuff I wasn’t concentrating on because I was already drowning in those dark
     chocolate pools)

I think Kim continued talking about what was going to happen, but I was looking around, noting some crumbling plaster on a wall across the room and thinking, “The walls on Grey’s Anatomy are smooth! Take me to Seattle Grace STAT!!” when Jerome walked over to me and grinned. And holy shit, McDreamy has nothing on Jerome’s dimples. I was so struck I stupidly blurted out something to the effect of, “Oh my goodness, look at those dimples! Now I feel better!!” His smile was so effective, in fact, that I was grinning like a fool when he handed me one of those surgical shower-cap thingies that are about as attractive as a hairnet. And no, they had not added the sedative to my IV yet. Luckily, though, it was starting to leak slowly into my veins when Jerome began unsnapping one arm of my ever-so-stylish surgical gown and pulled it down to what I swear was below nipple level on my chest. But whatever. We had already spent plenty of time getting to know each other – comparing notes on our same-aged daughters (his lives in Minnesota – he sees her about twice a month – her hormones drive her mother crazy, but not him, of course) – so I figured we knew each other well enough to get to second base. (Man those drugs are gooooood.)

I’m pretty sure the conversation that followed was soulmate bonding kind of stuff, but I don’t remember it. What I do remember is vaguely hearing, “I’m doctor Blahblahblah” and then feeling as if someone were forcefully and repeatedly pushing me right in the chest, just below my right shoulder. Turns out the pushing was the securing of my bandages and the procedure was over, just like that. I don’t know where Jerome was - - he may have said goodbye, and I may have mumbled a garbled response, but my happily fuzzy brain was no longer worried about the details at that point. I just wanted to sleep.

Unfortunately, when cancer causes you to endure multiple episodes of crap in one day, there is no time for sleep. And even worse, the lovely but apparently clueless nurse Elizabeth informed me that my discharge time was in fifteen minutes. WHAT THE HECK?!? But my bestie, Tammy – my cancer-crap partner for the day – came to my rescue and asked where I could recupe while waiting for my scans, which were scheduled more than two hours from then. I vaguely recall Elizabeth suggesting I could hang out in a waiting room, but before that insane suggestion was able to penetrate the fog in my brain, Tammy had her calling to bump my scan time up and request a wheelchair transport. Thus I got to chill on my current bed until someone could fetch me, and the only agony I had to endure for the moment was the annoyingly aching IV that had been placed, quite unfortunately, directly in my left wrist (by a gorgeous, exceedingly sweet milk chocolate woman, though, so I forgive her).

Once in the PET / CT scan area, I only had to wait briefly before being escorted to another coldly non-decorated room featuring a hard, plasticky recliner in which I would (barely) recline for the next hour and a half while radioactive material dripped into my veins. But first, Tony – yes cute, yes dark eyes, but no match for Jerome – had to shoot ice directly into the bones of my hand (or was it fire? All I know is it hurt like hell) to check my IV line. What the F&%#?!?! It’s insanely misleading to suggest that scans don’t hurt when the IV injection pain can be horrifyingly akin to labor pain, but - thank goodness - it lasts nowhere near as long.

Tony didn’t linger, and an hour passed miraculously with me snoozing (a lead barrier placed strategically between myself and my cancer-crap partner’s chair to protect her from my radioactivity) until the most incredible woman on the planet brought me about a quart of liquid to drink. HALLELUJAH. It was now 2:15 in the afternoon and I had not had a drink since 11:48 p.m. the previous night (not counting the teeny bit of water I accidentally swallowed while brushing my teeth that morning – whoops), so that liquid was the second best thing to happen to me that day (Jerome still rated #1). And as it turns out, contrast liquid does not taste like metal but instead tastes like highly diluted Kool-Aid or – in the context of my utter dehydration – like liquid heaven. But it also chills you to the bone, so by the time my darling drink-provider returned to escort me to the PET scan room, I was shaking. But no worries! She produced multiple heated blankets, and I was ready to hold super still for about 25 minutes worth of radiation being directed at every area of my body between my sinuses and my crotch.

From PET I went to CT, where I thought I was in the easy stretch with the finish line boldly visible. What I didn’t see was the devil looming in a crack in the pavement, waiting to cruelly crush every bone in my left hand and wrist. With great consideration, he waited until the lovely older gentleman (yep – a beautiful rich chocolate with supremely kind, dark eyes) shot the ice-fire through my IV again, and fooled this wonderful man into thinking he would hold back some with me, for when I asked how the IV contrast would feel, the response was, “It won’t hurt as much as when I just pushed the saline, and it will only last a minute,” but the reality was HOLY HELL!!!!!

This experience was not without its comic relief, however, as when this darling man, old enough to be my father, asked, “Is your body starting to feel warm like I mentioned?” I chuckled slightly (through gritted teeth), and managed to grunt, “It actually feels warm in my groin,” to which he gave a grin and a mischievous, “That’s the part we don’t tell you” before he retreated to his little room and set the machine a-whirring again. And the IV agony subsided. But damn that devil! He snuck in again in the midst of that scan to give my wrist one last wrenching twist before I was being pulled out and told “You’re all done!” With infinite relief, I responded “THANK GOD!” and then was met with my final ohhhhhhh-so-pleasant surprise of the day when I found the man laughing over me not to be my lovely older gentleman, but in fact to be LL Cool J’s long lost twin brother. And I was back in heaven once again!

“Never let them put your IV in your hand or wrist,” he told me as he removed the offensive needle that had been plaguing me all day, “for that’s where it hurts the most. But don’t worry, with your new Power Port even the IV contrast can be put directly into your chest next time….” Wait, what – next time? But I hardly had time to think about that because MmmMmm Cool J was smiling at me with eyes that said, “Baby, we should get out of here and run away together to somewhere tropical where we could frolic naked in the surf and make love all night long….”

And so I grinned stupidly over my shoulder as he led me into the hall where I reluctantly turned to go find Tammy and celebrate having survived my initiation into the world of cancer. Thanks to my delicious hot chocolate men, I may even still be glowing (or maybe that’s just the radiation). In any case, I can’t wait to see who gets to touch and poke and undress me tomorrow!

Bad Mommy!

Last night my son decided – about a half hour before bedtime – that he wanted to go to his grandparents’ house for the night. When I asked him why he liked being there better than being at home, he responded that I put him in time out. Ironically, he had not been in trouble at all last evening, and his grandparents do also put him in time out, of course. So it could simply have been that with his sister away for the week, he didn’t want to sleep in a room all by himself, and he knew I would not cater to his pleas to sleep “in Mommy’s bed.” He hates bedtime anyway, so it could have been that he believed going to Grammy and Papa’s would prolong his waking hours. It could have been. What I worry it was, though, is the fact that he had asked me several times to read him a book, but I was too busy looking at wigs online.

Shit, I’m a bad mom.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just a phase my three-year-old has entered where he wants to have ultimate control. Shoot – we all want that, don’t we? And he didn’t even mention his grandparents until I gave the dreaded “half hour until bedtime” warning. Heck – they’re grandparents, so they do tend to spoil him. Maybe he just wants to be spoiled for a while. But that’s exactly the point -- I am too wrapped up in myself lately to focus on what he needs.

Now, before I make myself look too bad, let me stipulate that the book he asked me to “read” was a seek and find book – not a story – and I had said to him several times, “Go pick out an actual story, and then I’ll read to you.” And when I was done online, he shifted to, “I play Angry Birds, Mommy?” and I figured, sure, that would give me a chance to deal with the aftermath of the tornado that had hit my bedroom this week. (Angry Birds, as it turns out, is the ultimate toddler distractor.)

Still, it hurt to think that my child did not want to stay home with me, and I can’t help but believe that it’s because I need to be a better mom - - a more focused, in-the-moment mom - - a mom who isn’t constantly thinking about cancer and chemo and hair and wigs and household cleaning projects and syllabus development and how I'll now be missing workshops and institutes and school days thanks to the freaking cancer.

But honestly, I wasn’t a focused mom BEFORE the cancer. Cancer is simply a convenient excuse.

What I want is for cancer to be a kick in the ass. I want it to shake me hard until my brain is bruised and the only way to heal it is to start doing all of the awesome things I know I should be doing – have always WANTED to do – keep telling myself and my kids and my sister and my parents and my friends that I’m going to do… things like exercise and meditation, cooking and eating nutritionally spectacular meals, being more patient and kind and loving and generous and giving and forgiving… and spending more time just playing with my kids – focusing on them – really looking at and listening to and interacting with them.

So Jake is at my parents’ house, and instead of getting out of bed when I woke up at 6, I languished there until 7. I picked up a few more things, so the house is pretty well straightened up now (albeit filthy dirty), got packed for the next few days (all ready to bounce back and forth between school committee meetings in Rockford and scans, procedures, and biopsies in Chicago), sorted through the junk in the front seat of my car and gathered my materials for today’s meeting… and wasted about an hour playing on Facebook, messing around with how to tie a scarf on my soon-to-be-bald head, and applying about eight layers of mascara. And now I’m blogging about spending time with Jake intead of actually heading over to pick him up for his doctor’s appointment and actually spending time with him. What the hell??

I honestly need someone else to hold me accountable – someone bigger than my 3’2” little man. Why doesn’t cancer automatically come with a private life coach?!? Maybe I need some sort of electronic shock collar to zap me when my actions don’t fit the goals I swear I want to achieve. I could say maybe I just need time to sort all this through, but shoot – that’s all I’ve been doing for days and weeks on end it seems. It is time for ACTION.

So I’m getting off the computer - I really am this time!  I swear it! - putting a couple of Jake’s favorite books in my purse, and heading off to see my favorite little man for a while before I shift to focus my energies on developing numeracy skills across the curriculum.  Being able to participate in academic thinking is keeping me sane (or at least keeping my insanity limited to school stuff), and at least I know that while I’m gone, he’ll be having a blast with his grandparents!


DISCLAIMER:  Actually, I had to cheat - - my internet connection wasn’t working, so I’ve already returned from the appointment and I’ll be darned, but that little stinker swears he wants to live with Grammy and Papa right now. Guess I’d better spend my next couple days away thinking up something really good to entice him back home….

Lie to Me -- I Promise I'll Believe

My hair stylist is an absolute doll, and she did a phenomenal job of creating the perfect pixie cut for me yesterday - the exact cut I asked for.  She even somehow magically planted a man in the salon to tell me just how fabulous I looked.  I was mesmerized; on the way home, I couldn't peel my eyes off the image in the rearview mirror and almost rear-ended someone -- twice!

Yet halfway there I found myself sobbing in the car.  At that moment I didn't care whether it was cute or flattering or stylish or empowering -- I just cared that it wasn't ME. 

How many times have I attempted identity transformation throughout my life?  Shoot - my students claim I don't wear the same outfit twice, and a colleague recently commented that I did something different with my hair everyday (which honestly - in the last month of school - meant that I either scrunched and sprayed the hell out of it in a quickie 5-minute non-do or somehow forced it into a sloppy barette or pony tail I convinced the kids was not "bed head" but was an intentional style choice).  I even bought a retro eyeshadow/pencil combo and started sporting an 80s icy blue I never  wore in high school.  But super short, non-adjustable hair?  I've never gone quite that far.  And I would have loved to have made the choice on my own - voluntarily - not because cancer was threatening to take over my head.

I must have spent a half hour in my bathroom, fighting with what now seems akin to stubble on my head in comparison to what I now perceive to have been silken locks (though on my last day with those locks, I got so fed up with them that an hour of straightening and styling led to another ponytail).  It took about that long for me to dissolve into tears again when I reached the agonizing realization that no matter which direction the stubble pointed, the woman in the mirror was not going to look like me.  At least not the me I knew.  Not the me I was.  And maybe that's appropriate, since I will never be that me again.

I must have changed my lipstick three times (in addition to powdering my face and readjusting my eye makeup) before taking at least a dozen pictures in a half dozen locations with different backgrounds and varied lighting before I finally sucked it up and posted the promised pic on Facebook.  I hated it, of course.  My nose looked as big as ever - my coloring looked extremely overexaggerated - and it was obviously one of those over-posed self-portraits I generally scoff at.  But I'll be damned - - the compliments began pouring in before I even had a chance to edit its caption.  And I have never before been so happy to be lied to.

Now I'm not saying that people thought my hair looked ridiculous and decided to manipulate me into believing the opposite.  But I do think they exaggerated in a loving attempt to make me feel good in the midst of crap.  Heck, even my dad's typical "You look fine" somehow magically morphed into "Even if you hadn't cut it under these circumstances, I think it would be an attractive style on you."  WHAT THE HELL?!?  It turns out cancer is a miracle worker!!  (Well, except for one male friend who decided it would "lighten the mood" to compare me to a woman who - while truly a lovely soul and treasured friend - is not particularly stylish or visually appealing.  I definitely wish he had flat out lied.) 

When my most inspiring survivor friend sent me three gorgeous summer hats and I posted another ultra-posed shot today, the hyperbole continued.  The following are some of my favorite "embellished truths":
    - Still a babe!
    - You need to anchor the news with that haircut!
    - Hottie!  She's a hottie!
    - You're gorgeous.
    - Love it, sexy bitch!
    - You look like you belong on a red carpet promoting your latest movie!
    - Now how darn cute are you Ms. Sassy Pants!
    - I've always been envious of your sense of style.
    - A-DOR-ABLE!
    - What a babe.
    - Girl, you are FIERCE.

And my all-time favorite, courtesy of a man with whom I graduated from high school and who repeatedly publicly praises his wife on Facebook (lucky, lucky woman!):  your hotness transcends hair and the big hat.  I love that one.

Haha!  While I write, my son's dad just walked in and did a double take.  His momentary "wow!" moment just may have made him forget his own troubles for a brief second.  Maybe that's another gift cancer provides - - perspective to those who don't have it.  I truly hope it does.  I hope that by giving me the lift I so desperately needed yesterday and today in regard to this hairstyle that so clearly belongs to someone else - not me - my friends are able to feel needed, appreciated, valued...  all the things that people deserve to feel on a daily basis and yet so often are deprived of experiencing. 

Typically I HATE being lied to.  But today, I feel particularly blessed that my friends love me enough to lie to me just when I need it the most.  It's not everyday I get to feel that much love. ;)

Hair Nation

I hate my nose.  In my family we refer to it as the "Mathias nose," as my mother's side of the family was all cursed with it.  Not my sister or my cousins, just my aunts -- and me. 

Normally I don't obsess over it.  I lament that it prevents me from being photogenic -- that, and my perpetually shiny skin (unevenly pigmented), apparently awkward photo smile, and some other weird aspect of still photography that seems to strip me of my spirit in photographs -- but I figure I can distract people from it with my winning personality, a lot of eye makeup and lip gloss, and cute hair.  Yes, of course I'm a big fan of the pony tail, but even when I wear my hair completely pulled back, there are still some sexy little strands framing my face.  I can still balance my beak with bangs that are cute.  Curse my need for cute hair!!!!

I have always envied those women with sweet little pixie faces, the centerpieces of which are their tiny, adorable, perfectly perky noses.  They look awesome in their super short pixie haircuts.  When I get mine cut today, I will probably look like an old woman with a big face who is too old or to incapable or too lazy to do her hair and so just gets rid of it.  Unless I can make my eyes look really cool and so distract people from noticing.....

The hard part is that here in America, the land of the free, we are obsessed with hair.  There is no true freedom!!  We may think we are free to choose what style we choose to sport, but really we are all just slaves to the desperate need to have a style!  Regardless of whether our hair is long, short, medium, nonexistent, blonde, brunette, red, salt and pepper, pink, blue, or rainbow bright, WE MUST CHOOSE A STYLE -- and that style thus defines us.  We cannot choose to be style-less.  People who are style-less become invisible - to store clerks, wait staff, the opposite sex..... And though my style has changed throughout the years - sometimes drastically! - I have never been so much as even tempted to sport the Sinead O'Connor look (speaking of which - have you seen her lately?  What happened to that gorgeous, doe-eyed creature?!?).

When I was only fifteen (fourteen, maybe?) I started bleaching my hair.  I tried Sun-In at first, but after that yielded insufficient results, I doused my head with three-quarters of a bottle of hydrogen peroxide (the results of which I still claimed to be from the miracle natural highlights product that was actually a major waste of money), and voila!!  I returned to my childhood blonde.  And there I remained, playing with various shades of blonde, until college when I began to really play around.  DARK brown, strawberry blonde, ashy-grey crap blonde... At one point I burned off most of my hair with a perm and went short for the first time in my life (and not a cute short -- those are some pics that desperately need to be burned.)   In my mid-twenties a hairstylist who was prepping me for a theatre role asked if I was married to my color, and when I agreed to go "darker brown" turned me jet blue-black (and chopped my bangs to about an inch above my eyes -- made up for the show, I resembled Betty Boop).  For a month and a half I had to wear mascara -- ON MY EYEBROWS.  And I've got some pretty darned dark eyebrows.  When the color was finally stripped out, it left behind a vibrant copper-penny red that could not quite be covered even with a cool brunette shade, and thus my auburn phase was begun. 

But today begins a much more poignantly significant phase:  hair empowerment.  My pixie shall be short-lived, as I will likely be losing my hair completely within the next three or four weeks, maybe sooner, but I thought this step would be empowering.  Rather than clinging to hair I'm not particularly thrilled with at the moment anyway, I may as well take my head by the horns (yep - I know many of you suspected they were hiding in there) and start my hair transformation NOW.  Despite my concern that I will not look my prettiest (there's that vanity rearing its ugly head), I think I just might look my best.  Every time I see a woman with nearly non-existent hair, I am mesmerized by the aura of strength and confidence and power that she exudes.  I am drawn to the beauty of her facial features, whether bold or delicate.  I am awed by the pride in her carriage.  I am envious of her.

Over the past decade or so, I have made significant progress in gaining confidence in the value of my beauty within, but I would be lying if I said that I did not still care about my beauty without.  It has been a part of my identity throughout my life.  And though I have many times lamented being noticed and admired strictly for my looks, I have never been comfortable with the idea of losing them completely.  I guess now it's time to get comfortable.

The truly beautiful thing about this, though?  I honestly do believe that in toughening my outer shell, the gleaming pearls I'm cultivating within shall greatly increase in size and value.  And that is an investment worth making.  After all, what do I want to teach my daughter

The shit just got real...

I have cancer.  HA!  Still feels like I'm making up ridiculous lies when I say that.  CANCER.  Me - - fairly young (since 42 must be like the new 26 or something, right?), stubbornly independent, single mom of a hormonal 'tween and rambunctious toddler, passionately focused high school English teacher (i.e. CRAZY woman), spiritually based, self-reflective, environmentally focused, always-trying-to-better-myself and never getting caught up in the superficial, materialistic pressures of our wacked out society, STRONG, I-can-get-through-anything (and I've already proven it) woman ----- I have cancer.

And the scary part is that now that I've put it out there, I am FAR from alone.  There are wayyyyyy too many amazing women out there who have, have had, or will someday have cancer.  So as I write about my own journey, I am writing for them - - and for my kids, both at home and at school, and everyone else in this world who is faced with the kinds of challenges that knock them on their asses. 

The more I live this crazy life, the more I learn that in some way, most  of us deal with "cancer."  I think perhaps I may have just gotten lucky, though, for when cancer really IS cancer, there is no mistaking it - - you can't hide from raging tumors, can't ignore chemo punching you in the gut, shoving you down, and kicking you in the face while you're cowering (hairless) in the corner.  There is no luxury of denial when it's actually cancer.  Metaphorically cancerous challenges can be ignored.  Hell, sometimes drowning them in liquor actually works, at least temporarily.  And those metaphorical cancers in our lives may slowly eat away at our psyches, but they don't literally kill us.  ACTUAL cancer, though - well, it's a murderous bitch.

But again in that way I am lucky.  Assuming that the hours of scans I'm about to endure do not reveal any major advancement of my cancer, I will likely beat this thing.  So I don't fear cancer the way I feared cancer when I was younger and treatments were not as advanced.  Instead, I fear the treatment itself.  While the disease may not take my life, the treatment WILL, and that freaks me the hell out!!

I'm still processing this -- getting used to the idea that my commitment to focusing on my biological children and creating their most memorable summer ever has now turned into dumping a load of most-memorable-crap-EVER into their lives -- getting used to the idea that the simple week away from school to have half of my thyroid removed has now turned into innumerable weeks, all told.  (Did I mention I'm a perfectionist control freak bitch who truly believes that her students only learn when she is there, personally conducting what she has orchestrated to be a highly complex symphony of learning?  Shoot - their instruments are out of tune even when I am there to direct them - - that is, if they even remember to bring them.  When I'm NOT, my room sounds more like a roomful of dying animals.)

I want to believe that I've come to grips with baldness.  I already have my hair appointment set to sheer my current locks shorter than I've ever been comfortable wearing them.  There goes vanity!  But I think I shall have fun with eye makeup - heavy layers of paint on a white canvas, fringed with fake lashes?  And I can deal with no tanning this summer.  Shoot - it is my lack of prior sun worship that causes me to be mistaken for ten years younger anyway.  HA!  But no chest-baring tops?!?  (And by chest, I mean blank space above non-boobs, thus LITERALLY chest.)  Bald may be beautiful, but surely chemotherapy ports are NOT.  Ugh.  I'm already draped in scarves to protect the beautiful slash across my neck from burning, but now I have to raise my neckline as well?  Can't I just find some chunky, long, ostenatiously layered necklace that will somehow disguise the gaping hole in my chest??  Oh, that's right -- I'm the one who can't stand even wearing earrings when I'm hot.  So much for excessive neck adornment.

But a friend put things in succinct perspective when he made this perfect comment on one of my Facebook posts:  "Temporary inconvenience. Permanent improvement."

It is not cancer that will be the challenge to be beaten in the next few months -- it is my brain.  Cancer is a minor issue in light of recent breakthroughs in treatment.  But treatment... oh, treatment....  If I thought a week of being confined to the bed and the couch following my parathyroidectomy were torturous, then I've got some major work ahead of me if I'm going to train my brain into acceptance of the limitations cancer treatment is about to place on my life - on my ability to mother - on my dedication to my career.  So that, boys and girls, is the first thing I need to tackle.  How does an over-obsessive, ADHD brain go from constant hyper focus on all things challenging to meditative calm and peaceful resignation?  If only Liz Gilbert were here to advise me....  Luckily I have Kris Carr and her posse of beautifully inspirational, cancer-surviving women who have already begun to inspire me via Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips - - I have a plethora of friends calling and texting and Facebooking me encouragement and support and prayer and positive energy -- and I have a sister who now gets to experiment on me as she delves further into the powerful impact of nutrition on our minds and bodies.

Yeah - the shit got really real when I walked into the University of Chicago cancer treatment facility yesterday.  But it is now Day 2 of KICKING CANCER'S ASS, and I think I've got a pretty good start.  Tomorrow I may be drowning in a puddle of tears, but I'll make sure to pack my snorkle.

I'm bringing sexy back.

All my life I thought "beautiful" meant perfection. If I weren't the most superficiallyattractive woman in the room, I felt inadequate. If I didn't look AWESOME, I wouldn't be wanted or loved.

What an idiot!

Now I weigh 30+ pounds more and my baby-stretched, flabby belly hangs over my pants. Heck, it even bunches up under my bra when I'm sitting down -- and I can feel my ass when I walk!! And yet I feel sexier than ever. It does help that extra weight means I actually have SOME boobs... But even moreso, it helps that I've realized that sexy IS an attitude. And as many people will tell you, I have PLENTY of that.

So to heck with those who still perceive attractiveness as coming only in a 19 year old perfection package. Methinks they are REALLY missing out! I'd much rather be a MILF.

Ugh

I hate these kinds of days when I look at the dirty floors and the remnants of vacation stuff strewn around and think about everything I SHOULD have gotten done but didn't and feel just cruddy.  The major upside?? I get to see my kids today and I LOVE THEM. Here is where I find my balance: I make sure and revel in the good stuff and try not to think about the other. :)