All about the cup

What a huge, awesome day of soccer.

It started with a walk to a neighborhood breakfast place.  Eggs and lattes outside with two moderately well behaved boys. Jim, too. A stroll to the nearby park and an extended game of soccer with Miles' infant tactile ball which should really be Ian's now.  To help that process, on the walk home, we stopped at Target and bought Miles his own soccer ball.

Scouts take note: he is a lefty. He understands trapping and place kicks and he is working on trapping high balls on his knees. Sometime between 9:30 when I bought the ball and 6:30 during the Greece/Costa Rico shoot out, I began to regret the purchase.  My soccer buddy was now more interested in playing than watching.  I mean, where was he when holland scored the tying goal?  He was demoted to the sixth best World Cup watching companion.  Just kidding he is the best.  Particularly because Ian is more interested in the remote and trying to find the right button to turn off the tv.  Oh, to be fair, Ian is also very interested in walking and is regularly taking two and three steps before he squats for the speedier crawling technique ( to get the remote, or your glass of wine, or eat your newspaper).

On the positives, I'm off the narcotics. I am driving a little (apparently directly related to the narcotics).  On the realities, I still need help with the kids, especially Ian- I can't lift, change or wrestle him into compliance. I still need naps. I still have two medical drains and a lot of soreness. I can't lift my arms over my head. Not an everyday essential, but one I'm working on just the same...

More doctors appointments this week. More World Cup soccer. And maybe I'll teach Miles some header techniques.

Burying the lead

First these small acts of kindness. Maybe they aren't even kindnesses but they are these nuanced moments that they make me hope I give them back to others in small ways, on routine days for the rest of my life. Of course, for me, these moments relate to the kids. Dehumanize me all you want, but make his Mom transcendent. What the heck am I talking about?

Since surgery, I'm not bothering with a wig. I wanted to throw them out.  Jim counseled that I was being rash. Regardless, all I wear are jammies, I'm certainly not wearing a wig.  I've got some scruff.  It isn't Michelle Williams cute but it isn't scary patchy either. As I marched up to school pick up yesterday, I didn't realize I was setting myself up for a bit of a situation... Would they recognize me, know I was Miles Mom, would I have to approach and explain.  Yikes, his current camp teacher breezed by me without a second glance.  The delicacy of having to approach and explain all while obviously conveying nothing to Miles who is quite pleased with the summer growth. Then I got a quick and knowing double take. Bless her. One of his teachers from last year spotted me and hollered for Miles. Such a small moment but so important to me. It was repeated today - by his summer camp teacher from last year.  I love alert people.  People who are aware but have seen me in nothing but long blond hair (mine or otherwise) for two years and smoothly summoned Miles for pick-up. It protected my bunny.

Some other highlights: an am coffee klatch; an achey, breaky pedicure (I was achey, my friend not so lucky); Miles telling his teachers he was leaving school early so he could watch the whole World Cup game (this was more about coordinating a ride as I'm not driving, but why let the facts get in the way of a good World Cup story); gorgeous birds of paradise bouquets, fruit bouquets, more lounge wear than Mrs. Roper, round the clock care from Mom and then Maureen; miles telling me I'm the sixth best cuddler in the world. All charm that one. All Ian wants is to move and poke his elbows and knees into your abdomen. So we don't have a lot of quality time these days.

I still have a fair amount of pain and discomfort but I'm getting out of the house.  I saw the surgeon today.  I got two drains removed.  And we reviewed the pathology report. Before surgery I asked her what would be a successful outcome from surgery. Her response was glib: a good cosmetic result and a clean pathology. Then she cautioned that was only likely in approximately 15-20 percent of patients. You know I have a little overachiever in me.  Tissue and lymph nodes were all clear.

We look forward to more detailed discussions with our good doctor and the radiologist to understand if the news is as good as it sounds today and what our plan is for the rest of 2014.  Thank you for carrying me along.

Achey update

Some parts ache.  Some parts have searing pain. Some itch. Some are mostly numb. I have a bevy of cocktails to address the various symptoms.

For the first few days, I slept about fifteen minutes about every hour.  The dreams were vivid and disjointed.  Today, I slept nearly the whole day after throwing up for the first time since diagnosis. I think that was drugs without food. My appetite has been low and that slowed my pill intake.

I move about the house alright but I haven't been out of it yet.

I play carefully with the kids. Give Ian his bottles. Play cards with Miles. Watch a lot of soccer. I had to explain the bite to Miles.

Doctors appointments and some trips out of the house later this week.  I've had a friend or two over for short visits. Lots of flowers, food and kindnesses have arrived.

It's interesting. Despite all the well wishes, all the prayers, all the meals, all the offers to help, this is just a part I walk alone.  I'm fine.  I'm steady. I only mention it because I've gotten glimpses of other people's sorrow. Just a heads up that those calls won't be returned - no bandwidth for that, my friends.

Current goals: grow out cute pixie; feel well enough to start to exercise regularly; get two weeks out from surgery and all side effects (pills and drains); and have a little more fire in the belly for tussling with little boys. Miles is a little out of sorts with his Jammie-wearing, achey Mom. And he doesn't understand why LeBron doesn't play for Miami anymore:). Lots of important explaining to do.

Home again, home again

A ginger jig.

Surgery is over. Some highs, some lows and some laughs.

Home resting now and no real complaints.

Next up, radiation.

Time has slowed down. Tomorrow approaches but slowly. Not that I'm taking advantage of it and getting everything in order. Instead I'm just trying to spend time with Jim and the kids. Nothing special, but some quiet time for us.

I've talked to Miles a bit. Not too much. And I've confused him. I mentioned that I'd have a procedure like last time I was in the hospital with Ian. He started talking about me having a baby. So, I have a little more work to do on the communication front.

I've compartmentalized tomorrow. I'm not worrying about cancer. I'm worrying about not being able to pick up Ian for three weeks. And you know this (23 pound) baby likes to be carried. But that's been my approach with cancer.  Focusing on the foreground. Trees not forest. Today not tomorrow.

I keep thinking how many times in life have I longed, really longed, for something - an exam, a stressful work situation, a conflict, a busy few days, business travel, chemo - to be over and then it is.  So, that's sort of my attitude toward the next few days. Two to four weeks of recovery compared to five months of chemo. It'll be over and on to the next thing before I know it.

My anxiety about my echo was for naught. I got some words about my MRI and am electing to wait to hear them all because I'm not sure I understood the preview. And if I did, it wasn't fantastic.

Last World Cup, I watched every match. I was home on maternity leave with Miles and it was hot out. I snuggled with this babe, neglected to make friends with the other yoga moms and watched soccer. I'm having a bit of a repeat. I've watched most of the matches and I am reintroducing Miles to soccer. I was devastated when he complained during one game about not enough scoring. How at four is he already a typical American sports fan?  What have I done wrong?  Obviously I have no one to blame but myself, so I blame basketball.

We are hunkering down. It's mid-afternoon. Miles is napping in my bed. Ian is napping downstairs. Jim is working on the first floor. I've tried to put things in order at work and set it aside. We've declined a dozen generous offers of dinner and company over the last few days. We have accepted delivery of many many kindness. Notes of support and encouragement, flowers and gifts, offers of meals and extra hands to help us juggle a no-lift Mom with two littles. Don't tell Miles I called him that.

Some laundry, some packing, some playing. Dinner time, bedtime scramble and then a little kicking cancer out surgery.  I'm up for it.

Another nice thing about cancer: perspective

First, I've spent the week at the hospital. Monday a two hour wait, literally to see the surgeon. Wednesday, my round of seconds. Second echocardiogram. Second MRI. 

The echo started easy. On time, efficient, kind tech.  But then we got too friendly. I made a joke about whether my heart was doing its job (obviously to unsophisticated me) and got all this hemming and hawing about results will be reported to the physician but I had a right to view them with my physician.  Well I don't know about before but that jolted the blood pressure upward.  Then I was reassured that she didn't want to get in the way of my surgery. So, I don't know what the report says, but what I heard was there is something wrong or different from last time we looked at your heart but it isn't so bad we have to cancel surgery. On that high note, I made my way to the MRI. 

I swallowed a large dosage Ativan in the stairwell on the way to the next building.  Although appropriate and recommended by all medical professional consulted, the stairwell made me feel sheepish. I was early for my appointment and waited for an hour and a half. Mid-wait, I remembered that MRIs weren't just awful because of the claustrophobia but the noise. I had forgotten about the sound. If I hadn't been Ativan addled, I'd have left. My fear and anxiety were pretty significant. Instead I read my book without processing.  I watched the large Persian man next to me while he watched videos on his phone. After an hour together in the waiting room we were called back. Then we separately but simultaneously changed into gowns and took our places in the interior waiting room.  Very awkward to make that transition from civilian attire to patient attire at the same time as someone else.  It made me feel very frail and exposed. I try so hard to only be sick in diagnosis not appearance. 

I was called first. I learned with more alarm that the MRI would last forty-five minutes, not twenty-five. Amen to Ativan.  This radiation tech talked me through it and it was manageable. It ended on a funny note.  My poor Persian fellow patient was still waiting when I got out and I got to witness his shock at seeing me post MRI ... Still gowned but now without a wig. I didn't care. At least my MRI was over. 

Back again this morning for bloodwork.  Nothing like three trips to the hospital in four days to bring sorrow to the forefront. Today's visit involved a fair amount of tearing up. For no particular reason aside from the obvious.  I wrote Father's Day cards and cleaned out my purse while I waited. 

But to the optimism. Today is a week since the first plumber arrived to snake out the clogged waste water line from our house to the DC sewer line.  In the past week, we've had: two or three private plumbers; two DC WASA plumbers; one emergency dig out by DC WASA, including backhoes and dump trucks, very exciting for Miles; a sudden reversal of responsibility by DC WASA notwithstanding that they had already dug up my backyard and tore out my back steps; and now in a motion of pragmatism rather than defeat, multiple contractors consulted on the project.  I hope for a possible resolution in the next few days.  But cancer helps you not freak out about no real access to water in our home for a week now. With quick showers, judicious flushing, baths at neighbors and laundry at Mom's, we are managing.  But this is the type of thing that would have driven me crazy a year ago. Now, it hardly registers. It is a problem that needs to be solved. Just one of many. 

Summertime

The past few weeks have been oddly normal. Work, socializing, groceries, bedtime routines.

A girls weekend filled with laughter, ridiculousness and poking about. Memorial Day weekend with our sixth wedding anniversary, our former Au pair's wedding and a friend's 40th birthday. Brunches, wine-filled afternoons, trips to the pool. My Mom's 70th birthday dinner. More socializing than we have done in months.

I feel pretty good for a girl with cancer. If you didn't know, you wouldn't know.

I have enough energy to get through the day.  My eyesight is coming back. I can see the clock (as well as any forty year old without glasses) in the morning. My wedding ring fits.  My ability to focus is growing.  I can think beyond just trying to get through the day and to the point when I get to lay down.

Chemo already seems so long ago. The Tuesday routine is purged.  I don't have an "Oh, wait" moment on Tuesday mornings. This is the shock of my post chemo world.   That I could slog, fight, crawl and scrape my way through a literally inconceivably difficult life event and not shudder every Tuesday morning for the rest of my life.

This is not to say everything is restored. I still have a tendency to retreat to the Jelly Lounge in the evenings after the kids' bedtimes. I still have a fair amount of angst about some silly things and some serious things.

And my anxiety grows.  I mean at least with chemo the hair is a fairly easy thing to discuss with others. I'm a little less inclined to chat about how swell I'm feeling about surgery. I long for a little anonymity. An old fashioned trip out of the country only to return when everything had healed and resolved sounds like a dignified approach.

Instead, I'll slog through this week's small indignities before next week's larger indignity.  Final pre-op appointments and testing. The fateful and dreaded MRI. A technician's post-MRI expressions to interpret. The various statistical implications. A full work week. Two kids. One husband. And me pretending to enjoy summer.