If you had told me this would be me on Christmas Day...

I would have asked, "Who slipped me the roofies?" This picture reminds me of the Sweeney Sisters from 80's SNL. (Oh and, yup, that's a newborn baby in my sister's arms.)

To my surprise, I have to say Christmas Day ended up being somehow great in its way. Tears were definitely shed (photo books were gifted), but I had just enough resolve to get through the day (and just enough wine to close the evening with a "We Didn't Start the Fire" duet with my brother-in-law on my niece's new karaoke system... epic). I had a good time with my family. The thing about a big family is that there's always chaos and in this situation the chaos served to cover the massive, aching hole of my mom for periods of time (however small) throughout the day. Then, of course, it would hit---the fact that she wasn't sitting at the kitchen table saying, "How great is this, I get to just have my coffee while everyone else does the cooking?" (which was a relatively new indulgence for her on the holidays) or on the floor playing a board game with one of her grandkids---and in those moments, I wanted to collapse. We all wanted to (and did at times). But, on the whole, we made it through with much laughter and had a day I know my mom would have just loved, though there was definitely an "offness" to things, as I think there always will be now.

For me, the days leading up to Christmas and those just after were harder. After all the worry, I made it through Christmas without her but...she's still dead. And I'm wondering how long it will go on, this being stunned every time I re-remember it. Now that the big to-do has passed, a new type of sadness has settled. I missed my mom calling to make sure Dan and I were safe during the blizzard. And I'll miss her wishing me a Happy New Year. I even miss the promise of actually having a happy new year. This year will be many things, I'm sure. Significant. Entirely different than any I've known. Maybe even marked by achievement. But though I know there will be moments of it, I am doubtful happiness will be the overarching theme.

Not exactly merry and bright here, now am I? Maybe after you read this blogpost you can go and watch Terms of Endearment and really conjure that holiday spirit. Our holiday weekend viewing included not only The Wrestler (not quite as wholesome as Rudy), but also A Winter's Bone. The latter is an excellent movie, but heavy as Santa's gut. (Really, Santa's gut? No better simile I can come up with there?) We currently have a copy of The Family Stone sitting on top of the TV but I'm not sure I'm that masochistic. I can handle some pretty dark stuff and am not the type to try to counteract sadness with a Will Ferrell marathon, but I'm worried that movie will have me washing down a bottle of Ambien with a funnel of wine. Not sure I can even go there.

The past few days have been all about movies and books and I'm so digging the calm this week is offering. I'm pretending I'm on vacation (I'll be out of the office through Sunday) and with the exception of some fun organizational projects, I'm totally indulging in some at-home R and R. (Also, some C and C...cookies and chocolate). For three days in a row I've taken baths that have lasted so long the water got cold...that's what I'm talking about. Dan and I did make a reservation for dinner on New Year's Eve and that will be the only event on the calendar for the rest of the week. Word.

Writing here is sort of against my vacation rules (limiting computer time is good for my mental health, I've found) but, I don't know, I kind of wanted to check in.

Plus, a line like "heavy as Santa's gut" is really pretty time-sensitive.

Happy New Year my Family Spew!

Do you see what I see?

Photo not by me.

So, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Portsmouth (NH for you 02871ers) right now...it’s 4:15, just dark. This town is the picture of New England Christmas and from my seat by the window, not only is there a view of the huge pine tree all lit up at the town center (star at the top and all), but what I’m observing of the passersby can only be characterized as “ holiday hustle and bustle.” Lots of scarves, lots of shopping bags slung over shoulders, giant wreaths with large white bulbs woven through their greenery hanging on lampposts. In the stream of headlights moving down this main strip, I can see the snow flurries that have been falling all day. (Does the fact that I can see the window of my therapist’s office, the lamplight indicating she’s still there, take away from the Rockwellian picture I’ve painted? For the record, I’m not spying, this is just my favorite coffee spot. I started coming here long before I realized that was her office window...too long, in fact. How did I not notice that earlier? Anyway, don’t put it past me to do something like spy on my therapist, I just happen not to be doing it now...though I do keep glancing up. Should I call her and ask her to wave to me?)

Nobody’s more surprised than me to see that I’m writing again so soon but (because apparently I’m so sensitive right now that even the wind makes me cry) my heart was just so swollen with love from the outpouring (I hate the word outpouring, I’ve decided) of support that came after yesterday’s post, that I had to write. Holy shit, you guys. I thought I was done thanking you mo fos.

I’m trying not to get overly mushed up here, mostly because I don’t want to cry in this coffee shop again, but there has been no more gratifying experience since starting this blog, than yesterday. It could be the most gratifying of my writing “career.” (Though the letter from Penthouse Forum rejecting my story for its “extreme racism” and because they “don’t publish stories about yaks, weirdo” still ranks.) Between the comments on the blog, Facebook, and the ones that came in with the Owl Post especially, I was just really overwhelmed with emotion and (yes, here it is again) gratitude.

Thanks for such a warm and enthusiastic welcome back. Thanks for saying such nice things not just about my mom and family but about my writing. Jeez, you guys really made me see just how lucky you are to have me! (I kid...too much?) Anyway, I can’t remember why we even broke up in the first place. Oh yeah...well, you made even that better for a minute anyway. Thank you.

There was a time when I thought I would never share any of my writing with anyone I knew. I was much more comfortable with the idea of strangers reading my stuff, much more comfortable with strangers “knowing” me. I had such anguish over what people would think if they really knew me (and that I do things like stare up at my therapist’s window...no, seriously, it’s just a crazy coincidence that her window sits directly across from my favorite table). I feared what I perceived would be a bad reaction so much that I didn’t show anybody anything (and barely wrote for that matter) for a long time.

But, "Holy Dumbass, Batman" on me! It has been so rewarding to be received by all of you as I have and it’s actually provided the support and self-esteem to keep me going. (You haven’t bested me yet Penthouse!)

(And, by the way, for a long time I thought I knew every single person who ever read this thing...um, wrong. At my mom’s wake, a second grade teacher from my elementary school who I haven’t seen in years---who wasn’t even my teacher---told me she reads The Spew...And then she asked her friend, who also taught at my elementary school ---and who was the first teacher to ever scold me for talking; she kept me in for recess---if I was one of her students, which I wasn’t. I’ll save for another blog a description of the exact strangeness and loveliness of seeing these women in addition to my kindergarten teacher moving through the line at my mother’s wake.) (And, by the way, some people on this things are straight-up strangers. How ‘bout them apples?)

I digress (‘cuz that’s what I do), but the point was that I was just really so touched by your responses yesterday and even if you’re just acting the supportive parent to your scribbling eight-year-old, I am grateful. So, again (and for the last time of 2010...maybe), thank you and thank you and thank you.

Now, I shop...

(The light just went out in my therapist’s office...I need to catch her at the door if I plan to keep up all night.)

I'll be home for Christmas...

It was very hard for me to take the last picture off of the top spot but this one made me feel okay about it. She had hoped to see one last snow...

So, I’m going to try to just jump back in, okay? No long explanation about how/why I needed to just drop off the planet for a bit. How I needed space, privacy, time to just die a while by myself. How I’m not really out of that place and can’t promise I am back for good on this blog, but want to try because I feel like a bit of a shit for dropping off like that without any explanation (though I’m sure you got it). You should know that I’m sorry. I don’t flatter myself that anyone was losing sleep over my absence, but I don’t take it lightly or for granted that you guys show up here to read this stuff, so not writing for close to two months didn’t sit right. I’m sorry for not calling...it’s not you, it’s me.

More to the point, I really want to wish you all the happiest of holidays. You were with me through so much of this thing. There was such great support offered here and I drew so much strength from all of your words and I hope you know how deeply thankful I am. The kind of gratitude I feel for all of you---to those who wrote and followed along here, to all the people who showed up at my mom’s wake and funeral, to every person who told me a story of my mom that I had never heard, or expressed their love for her, or their memory of her laugh---this kind of gratitude is so much bigger than cursive letters stretched across the front of a note card. The words thank you feel too trite for the depth of this gratitude. In fact, the synonyms for gratitude---thankfulness, appreciation, etc.---don’t cover it. Gratitude, simple and vast, is the only word that comes close.

So please feel this gratitude and take it into your hearts while you’re celebrating the holidays with your families and friends. While you’re listening to Nat King Cole, when your stomachs and hearts are full, when you pull back from the table and feel grateful yourself for all that you have, please know that I will be feeling grateful for you. The grief is at times oppressive, the longing ceaseless, but when I reflect on all the love and thoughtfulness shown during my mom’s illness and after her death, I feel the joy of her and I thank you all for that (even though I just said I didn’t want to use the words thank you).

This season has been difficult, of course, and all month Dan and I have talked about jumping on a plane and going somewhere warm for Christmas. Just getting gone, really, it doesn’t matter where. When I think of trying to gather with my family, trying to engage in the spirit of this holiday that my mom planted and grew in all of us, the throb of her absence is unbearable (though I know I am bearing it...we all are). So I wanted to leave so that I would not feel it. So that my body would be so disoriented by foreign sights and smells that my mom’s absence Christmas morning would just be another of all these alien senses, perhaps even camouflaged in the mess. But I’ve since decided otherwise and will celebrate this year at my sister Becky’s house up here in NH, which she and her husband have generously opened up to all of us once again. (Will somebody tell Bec?)

It was a gradual shift, I guess. But the thing that really clinched it was stopping at my parents’ house on my way out of town last Friday night and seeing the long rectangular folding table my dad had set up in the middle of the living room, a roll of holiday paper stretched across it, a pile of neatly wrapped presents beside it on the floor. Alone now in a home he shared with my mom for close to 40 years (during which he probably never wrapped a Christmas gift), he set up this wrapping station where he toiled by the light of a tree he put up only for my nephew’s sake, because he felt my mom guiding him to buy and wrap Christmas presents for his family as she would have done. The sweetness and the sadness of this sight killed me and when my dad showed it to me and then turned back around to see what I thought of his little workshop, I started to weep.

I see my dad trying so hard to to do right by my mom, right by us, and though I know he would understand my going away---in fact, he totally got and supported it---something about this coping mechanism of his is just so loving that I want to try to receive it and reciprocate; same goes for all my family. (I didn’t understand this, however, until I just finished that sentence.)

(Also, I totally reserve the right to have a bipolar attitude shift about the whole thing...perhaps even later today...this happens a lot...Dan loves it and feels very secure in his home as a result.)

I suppose I’m also recognizing that I’m going to feel my mom’s absence no matter where I am and being around people who feel similarly might bring comfort. Or it might not. Part of me thinks that being around family---around women who look like her and a father who longs for her---will make the sadness that much more acute. But I’ve been swinging from one choice to the other in my my brain for weeks and a decision needed to be made. If I get to the house and suddenly feel the need to go home and return to my under-the-blanket den and watch some movie that’s deeply depressing for reasons which have nothing to do with dead mothers (like The Wrestler, which we just got in), the option is always there. So, as long as my family is okay with it (which they all seem to be), I’ll plan on spending the day with them with the caveat that if the want-to-die/cry/hide feeling becomes unbearable, I’ll head out. (Though, of course, my hope and expectation is to enjoy myself.)

I know my siblings are feeling similarly conflicted and displaced by the jarring of the universe that has occurred since my mom’s, our sun’s, death, but they all have children so the going on, particularly with Christmas, is demanded of them in a way it’s not of me. (Thank fucking god...I could no more get out a stack of Christmas cards right now than I could cure cancer.) But then it was this same childless freedom that had me by my mom’s side in the nine months following her diagnosis. I feel so blessed that I was able to be there---I would not change a single thing in that regard---but there are moments of my mom’s suffering, fear and despair that I cannot yet shake, moments of this experience that I keep going over and over in my head, including that of her death, and the fact that it's the holiday season doesn’t slow that down.

We’re all just doing the best we can is the point, I suppose.

And like that, we’re back in the game here on The Spew. I should warn you that I’m not sure where we’re headed. If you thought the shift from Neighbor Stalker Blog to Cancer Mom Blog was unsettling, I’m not sure Dead Mom Blog will be much better. Not that I’m sure that this is the direction things will take. The fact that I can write the words Dead Mom Blog suggests the return of a sense of humor, but the pit I feel in my stomach when looking at them, tells me not to expect consistency. I hope you’re all okay with this. Does it sweeten the deal if I promise no self-penned poetry? You have my word on that. On we go, okay? Maybe a little backwards at times because the recent past is so much a part of the present, but who knows? Last year at this time I had just finished my Bookish updates and vowed that 2010 would be the year I started meditating. Hardy fucking har. The point? I’m not going to even pretend that I have any idea what’s coming...in life or on the blog. (Though, here’s a little teaser: A NEW NEIGHBOR HAS ENTERED THE SCENE...and so far the relationship is entirely boring.)

So...

(I feel like I’m in one of those texting conversations when I don’t know how to end it.)

Merry Christmas (and Happy belated Hanukkah and Thanksgiving for that matter) to all of you. I hope the next couple of weeks are full of all your favorite aspects of life and that the time you spend with friends and family is rich with pleasure, frivolity and spiritual nourishment. If not, Mickey Rourke is just a ride to Blockbuster away...

P.S. Thanks to everyone who gave me the shove back here that I needed and for sticking with me. (And for those who didn’t, go screw! My friggin’ mom died...).

Mama Gigi YaYa

Jeanne Marie Mellow August 18, 1949-November 5, 2010

Thank you all for your love and support. The wake will be held Friday, November 12 from 4pm-8pm at Connors Funeral Home. The last viewing will be Saturday at 10am and the funeral will be held at St. Barnabas Church in Portsmouth at 11am. It's a costume party...

Weekend Update

This image is to coincide with our Weekend Update headline, plus it will make Lola smile as she will someday write a movie or Broadway show for these two ladies to star in (alongside Rosie O’Donnell).

Once again, I just wanted to update the Spew-Heads on the week that was. Lola will be back here soon, so don’t worry. She is really doing an incredible job at taking care of her Mom. She has such a grasp of all the medicine that is part of her Mom’s daily regime (and there are oodles of medicine) and is so on top of all the care her Mom needs that it’s clear that she could be a brilliant doctor or nurse. She is quite the caretaker.

I think it’s safe to say that when it comes to her Mom, we have drifted away from good days and bad days to good moments and bad moments. The truth is, no day with this cancer is all that good. It was a rough week with GiGi. Her pain continues and there is difficulty in trying to find the right solution to her pain. More drugs, new drugs, old drugs, combination of drugs – it’s a crap shoot trying to find the right mixture of prescriptions that relieves our friend of her pain. The hourly question to GiGi is “What’s your Level?” meaning level of pain on a scale of 1 to 10. We are not hearing any 0’s or 1’s. However, in true GiGi fashion, the question makes her laugh. Don’t you love Gigi’s laugh?

The problem with the pain meds is that it has an effect on her breathing, and Gigi is already short of breath (and that sometimes causes brief pangs of anxiety for Gigi which makes her breathing even more labored). It’s scary to watch especially when you know the strain her lungs are already in. To make their Mom more comfortable, Lola and her sister Becky have been taking overnight shifts with her Mom, sleeping on the floor by her side for those moments when GiGi wakes up at night and she is in pain, restless, scared or just awake. These are the moments that this cancer has created.

In the good moments department, GiGi seemed to be in good spirits over the weekend. She was holding court in her family room – talking, laughing and even eating a little. Her pain had somewhat subsided (about a level 4) and we all got to share in her smiles and laughs. The family gathered on Sunday for Barry’s birthday, and everyone seemed happy to be together – at least for those brief moments, and celebrate something.

And then came last night. Lola was going to take a quick jaunt home today to tie up a few things in NH before heading back to RI. So, as I was furiously cleaning the apartment before work today in anticipation (yes ladies, that’s what guys do) when my phone chirped with a new text message. It said, “Rough night. Not sure how today is going to go.” When I finally spoke to Lola, she said her Mom had a really bad night and was having trouble breathing. They felt an ER visit was imminent. To add another small dose of terror to this nightmare, GiGi did not remember talking to her nurse the day before. Through it all, GiGi’s mind has been razor sharp, so the thought of even the slightest bit of forgetfulness scared the crap out of everyone.

When I heard from Lola next, they had decided to take her Mom to the ER. When they started to move her to the car, GiGi became winded. The more short of breath she became, the more scared GiGi became which made breathing even more difficult. They decided an ambulance was needed. The call was made, the ambulance arrived and GiGi and Barry drove off to the hospital with Lola in tow in her own car. We think she will be admitted, but I haven’t heard back yet to confirm.

In fact, I haven’t heard anything yet. So, like you, all we can do is wait. In the bad moments department, this is right up there.

UPDATE: GiGi had fluid drained from her lungs and is feeling a little better. She is admitted for at least the night, so stay tuned. Lola said that they drained "like a forty of beer" from those lungs. Lola's keepin' it real for y'all.

UPDATE 2: Another rough night at the hospital. Lola stayed the night and made sure she was there to comfort her Mom when needed. Leaving her Mom's side when she was so afraid was not something Lola was prepared to do, so they pulled up a recliner, gave her some sheets and let her stay. The bad news was GiGi's roommate, who was preparing for a colonoscopy, was having major blow out throughout the night (what a lullaby). The plan is for GiGi to come home today. Barry was back at the hospital bright and early and Lola went home to rest. If all goes as planned, GiGi will be sleeping at home tonight, although she will likely still be in pain and short of breath. We'll keep you posted.

There is no substitute for the Spew

Attention Spew Readers - Coming this Christmas for a Limited Time Only - Spew Shirts!

Settle down class. Ms. Mellowsky could not be here today, so I will be substituting for her today. Don’t worry – I’ll be brief and liberal with my hall passes.

Lola is, as she has been for a while, by her Mom’s side this week and sad to say, it’s been a rough week. Gigi just can’t seem to catch a break. On Friday, Team Chemo was all packed and ready to go to St. Anne’s for GiG’s next dose, but when they go there, her “numbers” were off so they had to scrap the Chemo plans for that day. Forgive me, I don’t have Laura’s grasp of the medicine behind all the cancer (and few do), but I know the numbers being low was not a good thing. They battled this with a blood transfusion and more meds for the pain. My god – they gave her blood to make her feel better!

Over the weekend, GiG was pretty wiped out. Between the medicine for pain, nausea and breathing, it’s hard to do anything but sleep. And, with family monitoring her constantly, that is what she did. She tried to eat, but could only keep a few things down. As the day wore on, her strength came back a little and she would hold court in her room (of course she had to put on lipstick first). She was even able to eat some of Becky meatballs, but she grows tired fast and soon we all left her to the peace of her slumber, always a daughter (or husband) on hand to be there when she woke up. They never had days like this on The Brady Bunch. When I left them all on Sunday night, GiG was feeling a little better, although still sleeping so I didn’t get to say goodbye.

But the nights seem to be the hardest for our friend and Monday morning was a different story. She was in pain, trouble breathing and just feeling like crap. When her blood gases fell below a certain level (again, I am not sure if I have that right – I just know the numbers were bad), the decision was made to go to the hospital. Monday was spent in the ER. She was given some pain meds that gave her some relief and they were also able to take a CAT Scan which was scheduled for later in the week. She was there until after dark, opting to come home for the comfort of her home rather than trying to sleep in a noisy hospital. In true Mellow fashion, they all came home and had a hamburger feast in the kitchen (GiG ate a little).

My first text from Lola today was that it was more of the same – a rough night (up all night) and a trip back to the hospital seemed imminent. But, a call later gave a little better picture. GiG was sitting up and visiting with Our Tina. They were trying to feed her a little something and she seemed in good spirits. After I was bratty and told her she needed 2 ML of Ringer’s Lactate Stat (My only medical jargon learned from years of watching television), she even spouted back, “If you are not quiet, you’ll get a Compezine suppository.”

So that’s where we are – more of the same. There are more details that I didn’t get into and even more tears that I will save for Lola to pass along to her devoted readers. As you know, Lola knows her Spew fans like updates, so I am giving the update. Lola will be back soon to bring smiles to all the faces of her Spew-heads (just like she does to mine every day).

Today's post is brought to you by the letter B

I keep my phone turned on and by my bed when I'm in Rhode Island in anticipation of an "I've fallen and I can't get up" call from my mom who's on the other side of the house.

I'm thinking of investing in Walkie Talkies; I would be sleeping right now had my sister Becky not texted me shortly before 6am to check on my mom. She has been forgiven and now given credit for supplying me with the handful of minutes (that's not an expression) I needed to scrape together today to update.

Most important, I still have a virgin colon (and am resisting all sorts of jokes there...).

I did end up canceling the appointment but not because you all frightened me with your tales of fecal woe (which you did!). Dan's uncle, a man of legend in his family and community (as it sounds from the turnout at the funeral) passed away this past Friday night and I canceled my appointment in order to attend the funeral. Though it is always sad to lose one of the world's great souls, his death was not unexpected and hopefully brought the man some relief as he was in his 80s and had been ill for a while. Dan said the funeral was a great tribute and also quite the service with Archbishop of Connecticut delivering the mass as Dan's uncle was a priest. Though I wish I could have been there, I did not end up attending as my mom has been struggling more than ever these past few days and it wasn't the time to leave her.

As always, she is fighting the battle of pain and vomiting, both of which are stripping her of strength and energy (not to mention joy). We are trying to find the right combination of medications to alleviate her suffering but have learned that it's not as easy as simply taking a pill as what works for one person does not work for another. Also, the body gets used to pain meds pretty quickly such that the the dosage needs constant evaluating and upping. For my mom, who has always been weary of over-medicating, this is an adjustment. The other part of the balancing act is finding the medication and dose that will stop the pain but also keep my mom's brain sharp and aware and here with us. So, that's the journey. This morning, as every other, I wake up hoping that today she has a better day.

Last night she did finally find relief from the pain but it wasn't until 8pm (and after a bout of vomiting). As soon as she finds relief, her face changes. I can actually see her eyes shift from strain to warmth and she is able to smile which the pain usually prevents (a robbery felt by everyone). I felt sad that the best part of her day was at its ending, but grateful it came and I am hopeful that it carried her through the night. That's the start of my usual line of morning questions I ask when I go to greet her up in her bedroom:

How was the night?

Did you throw up?

How are you feeling this morning?

Can you eat anything?

Where's the pain?

And so on. And throughout the day this same line of questions cycles around as we try to help her find comfort as the hours go on. It's been a tough few days and I can't say otherwise. Still, there have been moments when my sisters and I have hung out on her bed, or sat three of us on the couch, my mom in the middle, watching Lifetime movies and I don't have to wait until later to cherish them.

While I obviously don't want my mom to suffer, I said to her the other night, "I feel kind of selfish because I want you to be here."

She said, "I want to be here too. We want the same thing...And when I don't want to be here and you want me to be here, that's okay too."

Profound moments like this are happening every day now. I watched my mom say goodbye to her visiting sisters, most of whom live out of state, and recognized that this goodbye was the hardest any of them have ever had to say.

It's intense, to say the least.

So, now my handful of morning has passed and it's time to see how Gig is doing today...

Sometimes I just shout it out midday while looking up at the sky, arms pleading, "Give her a break today, will ya?"

Feel free to join me.

Have you seen my boundaries?

So, with things being what they are, it's been a long time since I've written one of those uber-personal posts where you guys get that kind of squirmy uncomfortable feeling because you're learning something about me that you probably didn't need nor want to know. (The words "Raise Head," my response to Dan's getting a pay increase last year, come to mind.) Well, WAIT NO MORE! This will be the KING OF THE OVERSHARES! In fact, you better look around now because you don't want any co-workers or family members catching a glance of your computer screen over your shoulder and realizing what kind of sick-o you truly are.

Today's topic:

I'm having a COLONoscopy. (That was for your nosy cubicle neighbor.)

You have no idea how badly I wish I could go all Katie Couric with this blog and bring you guys into the room with me. We could have a little counter on the screen for all the inappropriate ass jokes I make before going under.

(Just so we're clear, I recognize that colonoscopies are very common and thus not as much of a source of embarrassment as I made it seem---it's not like I'm having genital warts scraped off in high def (too much?)---but I am talking about colons here, my colon in particular, and that kind of feels like a lot.)

The story is this: I have ass issues. Assues, if you will. Nothing crazy, nothing terribly debilitating, nothing we have to go into detail about...but enough consistent irregularities (if you get my drift) that I had to check into things. Given my family history---both my maternal grandparents and an aunt have had colon cancer and other family members have had polyps---the gastroenterologist to whom my GP referred me, thought we should dig deeper (oh, this is such fun for me).

Judy and I just firmed up the details of the appointment today and it's all going down next Wednesday. (Judy and I had great phone rapport. However, as we figured out a day and time that worked and she said that the doctor does procedures from 7am right through to noon and I said, "And then she has lunch?" Judy didn't quite get my joke.) So, that's that. I will have to fast on Tuesday and drink some kind of magic brew and then Dan will deliver me to the hospital Wednesday morning. (I'm pretty sure the prep is worse than what I'm stating here but I've purposely avoided reading about it...though I did read something that told me to avoid red jello which gave me a helluva laugh.) I'll have to go under for the procedure and thus won't be able to drive home so Dan's taking the day off to care for what will be his very sedated wife. (They say redheads require more anesthesia than most. Yes, Dan has already started making jokes about taking advantage of me...what with the doctor's head start and all. Too far?)

When I went to visit the gastroenterologist (a woman...the only way for me) and she suggested the colonoscopy, I was initially fine with the idea. Only hours later did I start to wonder what the hell I had signed up for. Most people don't get colonoscopies until at least 40 and some doctors won't perform them on people any younger because of the risks involved which include bowel perforation (let's pray that the blog title the day after the procedure isn't "Raise your hand if you have a perforated bowel!") or other complications that come with this kind of intervention. Normally this would dissuade me but, again, the family history means I have to be that much more vigilant. I started rethinking things, however, when today on the phone I was asked if I had a living will or a medical power of attorney.

Pardon?

I don't have either, so this will have to act as my will:

I, Lola Mellowsky, hereby declare that should I die during my colonoscopy (which I would not want written on my tombstone...please come up with something quippier or else use a Salt-N-Peppa lyric of your choosing) that I would like the following orders carried out:

1) Don't even tell anyone I died during a colonoscopy. Tell 'em I was found handcuffed to a hotel bed...that would be way less embarrassing.

2) Please bury me next to JFK.

3) Under no circumstances should Sarah McLaughlin be played at the funeral. (Salt-N-Peppa is fine.)

4) All attendees should be required to capture their tears in a graduated cylinder which is to be turned in at the end of the service. Anyone who turns in a contribution of less than 200mL will be locked in the church until they can cry the requisite amount.

5) I don't want a church service.

6) Radio City Music Hall should work.

7) Mr. Dan Lederer will be required to sign a contract stating that he will never remarry or else risk eternal haunting.

8) My rubber band balls are to be distributed evenly among my siblings.

9) My favorite sister should get the most.

10) Please donate all my journals to the most remedial English As A Second Language classes.

***On a final note, I would just like to say thanks to all you FB peeps who wrote such nice things about The Spew today. I absolutely was not gonna show up but seeing what you guys had to say made me remember how fun this can be. Thanks to all of you and to everyone else who keeps showing despite my lack of consistency which is due to a motivational/inspirational rut among other things. I truly appreciate it. Thanks for pushing me out of my funk...That...is...a...what...she...say.

Join us on the chemo train, won't you?

Taken last week...

How much do you guys hate the Real World San Francisco cast after looking at that picture all week? Could've been worse...could've been Las Vegas. (Does anyone beside me even get that? Has anyone---besides my sibling---watched this show in the last 10 years?)

I just want you to know that every single day I am writing blog entries in my head. Someday, when handsfree thought-to-page technology is developed, I will be extremely prolific. Until then...

So, here's where we stand: The last two weeks have been among the hardest since my mom was diagnosed in February. The pain and vomiting have increased and for a few days it was so bad that she didn't leave her bedroom. As I write this though, she has taken an upturn and is presently sitting at her kitchen table with her sister and a friend of theirs from Pelham, NY where the three of them grew up. I am elated to be able to report that. I don't know what tomorrow will bring and the days certainly do vary, but if she can get a visit with loved ones in, she's still living a life.

She did end up doing chemo last week. After weeks of saying she was done with the stuff, a gut feeling ultimately had her choose otherwise. During the drive to see the oncologist on the day she made the call, she asked my dad and me if we would be "terribly disappointed" if she decided to continue with the chemo and we, of course, told her we would support her no matter what. The bottom line is that her oncologist said that she thinks it's her disease causing the pain and the chemo could help. Since the pain cropped up before the last big dose of chemo that was administered during her hospital stay and also continued afterward, there really seems to be no way to know what is what. A gut feeling is about as close to a definitive as one can get in this game, it seems. Oddly, I too, had a strange change of gut regarding the chemo. I've probably been the most skeptical of anyone regarding this course of treatment along the way (though I've learned that all there is to do in this scenario is follow my mom's lead rather than asserting my opinion). Even when she was in the hospital and the doctor gave her the three months or chemo ultimatum, I questioned whether she should go forward with it. But in the weeks following, I felt something shift in me and I felt myself leaning towards continuing with the chemo (though I didn't really voice this either). My mom came to it on her own; it was what she felt she needed to do.

Now, one could argue that this is how any cancer patient or family member is talked into chemo; when the alternative is to do "nothing," of course a person would find a renewed faith in chemo or any treatment for that matter. I recognize that it could be my desperate desire to have more time with my mom that subconsciously shifted my stance. Maybe the same goes for my mom. But what can you do? Time nor certainty are luxuries we are afforded, so you do the best you can. Do I ask myself every day whether I will have regrets regarding the decisions we have made? Yes, every single day I question every single thing and imagine the sickness of regret that will undoubtedly show up, but the only choice is to make impossible decisions while trying to discern whether time or quality of life is of the essence.

But, the idea of the current chemo treatment is to alleviate symptoms and I have thrown myself behind my mom and that plan. May this treatment shrink her tumors and may shrunken tumors make her more comfortable. Please, please, please. Prior to my mom's diagnosis I questioned the idea of palliative chemotherapy. I thought it a torturous measure demonstrating our culture's inability to accept death as a natural part of life. But, again, when it feels like you're out of options and everything is on the line, you do what you, I've since learned. Still, if I'm being honest, having witnessed how sick my mom is as a result of the chemo, I'm not sure it's something I would do were the cancer mine...specifically lung cancer. I should also state here that there are obviously many stories of people (including lung cancer patients) who have had success with chemotherapy and I certainly am not trying to minimize or discredit that. However, with stage IV lung cancer, chemotherapy is not considered a curative measure which is why there is such debate regarding whether its side effects are worth the benefit. We're banking on the benefit at this point. The goals now---it will probably take at least one more session before we know if it's working---are pain management and also keeping my mom eating (despite the vomiting) so that she can maintain her strength. They upped her meds yesterday and she's been pain-free all day, a huge feat, and also hasn't been sick since this morning (and thus kept two cups of soup, some fruit and a little jello down) which is also huge. Fingers crossed for tomorrow.

A nurse from the local Visiting Nurses Association came to the house today. My mom is enrolled in what they call "bridge," which is a bridge to hospice program that suits her needs since she is currently not considered end-stage but has a "terminal diagnosis." A nurse will come twice a week to assess my mom's health and help manage her meds as the combinations may change as things go along. I liked Carolyn very much and feel glad that my mom will be getting this kind of consistent care. Still, when I really think about the the fact that she's in a pre-hospice program (which I try not to do), the stark reality of everything sets in and I want to scream "How the fuck did we get here?"

And then I change the subject because there is another focus of life right now and it's not to be overlooked; that is celebrating my mom and helping her to enjoy each day as much as she can. Such words are the stuff of graduation cards and self-help books, but it is a literal goal we are all trying to help her achieve (and still I---and probably you---strive to embrace that one need not be facing death to work towards such a thing). And there have been wonderful moments. Last Friday night, most of my sisters (and a couple of husbands and a nephew) made it to the house for a big Italian dinner around the dining room table, a bowl of spaghetti passing between hands. At one point when I was taking the trash out, I could hear the sports announcer from the high school just up the street providing a play-by-play of the Friday night game. As I lingered in the darkness, the voices of the crowd and later the band carrying over the quiet of the fall night as it had when I attended that high school, and my sisters before me, it felt like a different time, another life.

I was bone tired as we sat and talked around the table after the meal, having been at the hospital all that day for chemo. My mom, plenty of sedative drugs still in her system, was closing her eyes at the table.

"Mom, do you want to go lie down?" I asked her.

She looked around the table at everyone and then gave me a smile that said she was grateful for my concern but also not interested in taking my advice.

"Not yet," she said tenderly.

And I got it. She rather be asleep at that table than anywhere else in the world.

That's the plan we're really supporting.

MTV smut has its value.

This was the first cast that hooked me...and it's been helping me avoid my problems ever since. Thank you Bunim/Murray. (I just read that Mary-Ellis Bunim, co creator of The Real World and Road Rules, died of breast cancer at 57. Huh.)

You guys, I know...

But would it make it better if I admitted that the reason that I'm not writing a lengthy post right now is because I need to watch Real World New Orleans on my sister's supah Cable while Molly, the niece's pieces, is at gymnastics?

Long story short: Last Friday, instead of staying put in NH for the weekend as planned, I ended up speeding down to RI after having a conversation with GiG on the phone and hearing the struggle in her voice. As I headed down 95, I actually found myself praying, "Please let me see her one more time. Please let me see her."

And, of course, I got to and, of course, I will again. She had a rough week though. Lots of pain, lots of throwing up, lots of hair loss. One night I woke at 3:30am to find her sitting up on the couch unable to sleep due to the pain and the two of us stayed awake watching movies and waiting for it to pass, which didn't occur until nearly 12 hours later. It's excruciating to watch someone you love in that kind of pain...I can't even imagine how hard it is for her. Chemo was called off last week and tomorrow's appointment with the oncologist will likely determine whether it's called off for good. She has some good days and some terrible ones, but the big decisions are still looming. That's the CliffsNotes version.

Right now, however, I'm up in NH watching Mol while Bec is on a trip for work. It makes my world that the kiddo still asks to sleep in the big bed with me when I stay over. As much as she kicks, I love waking up and seeing her in the middle of the night and it's always fun to play house and do the breakfast, ponytail, send the nugget off on the bus thing. I just dropped her off at the gym, a place I first took her to five years ago when she was only three. Then, I had to hold her hand and walk her down the stairs in order to get her to join the rest of the class. Now, while she waits for class to begin she pretty much ignores me in an effort to up her badassedness ranking within the gymnastics community. (I totally get the move, though I expect that in a few years time---at the most---she'll realize the riches of cool aunt with which she is spoiled.)

So, that's the story.

The true story...

The Real World: Incompetent Blogger

Prescription Television

The white streak is dried Fluff. Ben. Der.

So, the picture above sums up why I haven't been blogging. I've been in a spoonful-of-peanut-butter-and-pile-of-chocolate-morsels-in-a-bowl-kind-of-place. I got back from RI on Monday night after several emotion-dense days (which may or may not have been influenced by PMS...same goes for the chocolate and peanut butter binge) and it was just too much to narrate at the time. That just seems to be how things are feeling lately.

As I type, just to catch you up, my mom is enjoying a nice getaway in Chatham on the Cape with my Dad. She's been vomiting steadily and her pain came back with some intensity, but after managing it with medication, my parents decided to skip town. She seems to be fighting a bit of cold (hopefully, that's all it is) so I'm not sure whether chemo is in the cards for this Friday, though whether or not my mom will opt to continue treatment is still a topic of much discussion; a discussion that my mom, dad and I sat tearfully around the table talking through while I was down there; a discussion that, sitting outside it for just this minute, I can't believe we are in. But, right now, she is taking in an ocean-view and I have retreated to my couch and decisions are second to life.

I find I'm beat when I get back to NH after my visits to RI. I have a cold sore (and, perhaps, a second one on the rise), what feels like a sty coming through (sexy, I know) and that scary tickle of sickness in my throat. (And just so we're really clear, every time I fall off the nutrition wagon as I have over this last month---EVERY. TIME.---it ends in illness.) So, I'm trying to recharge and treatment in this case has come in the form of back-to-back episodes of Mad Men. I had never watched this show (crappy cable, remember?) but we pushed through the first season in less than 24 hours and are just starting its second (via Netflix). Dan and I were both hesitant, skeptical of the hype as we often are, but it's a fantastic show. While feminism and sexual freedom are practically synonymous with the mid to latter half of the 1960s (and have been depicted to death on TV and in movies), Mad Men look at the sprouting seeds of these themes in the early 60s (and under the poodle skirts of women everywhere). It's a orgy of cigarettes, adultery, repressed homosexuality, alcoholism, sexism, sexiness, sexual awakening, sexuality in advertising and all the other makings of any seedy underbelly...I could write like 15 high school essays on this show. (All of this takes me away from cancer for a minute. We tried to get into the show Breaking Bad but as its main character is afflicted with terminal lung cancer, it didn't exactly provide the same service...and I had to shut that shit right off.)

There have, however, been other EXTREMELY IMPORTANT things going on.

First, and I can't believe I've been holding this one back, the neighbor is moving out. (I did it, guys. I pushed her away to save her from further hurt later on.) I got the news from another tenant in our building. (The one whom I once saw packing rifles into the trunk of his car...not to be confused with the one we saw skinning a deer outside our kitchen window. Two totally different people.) He also told me that our landlord's sister will be moving into her place which feels kind of like I'm getting stuck with the room next to the chaperones during the eighth grade Washington trip. I haven't crossed paths with the neighbor in weeks and at this point I'm hoping she will slip away silently in the night so we can avoid any awkward good byes and empty promises to keep in touch. Though, I do have a Bodyguard-like scene playing in my head where, instead of stopping the plane, she puts her Hyundai into park, and runs out to give me one last hug before driving away. (By the way, she's only moving to Portsmouth, so the chances of our running into each other again in life are pretty strong...what if I find out where she lives and this sick little game continues...it would be for my art!)

The second big piece of news, and I'm sure you're all aware of this by now, is that The Oprah Farewell Season has begun! That means I only have 127 chances (episodes) left to get on. (I'm okay with debuting on her new network though. I've gotten comfortable with the idea.) I have to say, I like the feel of this season; very nostalgic. I'm weak for depressing music and video montages so Ms. O is doing me just fine so far. I'll check in on this matter as the season progresses.

Other than that, I'm just breathing in the fall air and getting on with it. Splashes of reds and yellows are showing themselves in the trees and Dan has already started rolling out the fall menu: last week it was the creamy chicken and rice soup, this week it's "stained glass windows": a confection which involves rolling melted chocolate and mini marshmallows into a log (and rolling that in shredded coconut) and then freezing it. When you slice the log, the chocolate circles and marshmallows have the appearance of stained glass windows. Delicious, of course, but isn't it a little early for holiday baking? As I say this, I am noticing the makings for fudge sitting on my counter. God give me the strength.

Dan is home and Don (Draper) is calling my name (though it should be said that the red-headed secretary is the hottest one on the show and this is not me being biased...) so I am off because

If I should stay,
I would only be in your way.
So I'll go, but I know
I'll think of you every step of the way.

And IIIIIII will try to blog soon.
III will try to blog soon.

In joy.

Great night tonight. Mattie's in from Cali and he, my mom and I spent the night talking and eating outside on this very cool, very fall night. We started with coffee and tea on the back deck and then moved on to warm bowls of Dan's famous creamy chicken and rice soup. (Good batch, bud!) After that we headed down to the river and had hot chocolate while watching fish jump for bugs as the sun set. We didn't walk back up the yard until after dark and then the three of sat eating chocolate heath bar cake (yeah, the cake) and chatting some more.

I know I'm a slacker in these parts, but it's felt good to just step back for a minute. Gig is doing really well this week. Despite throwing up every day (which she says she doesn't really mind as she's "good with throwing up...") she's logged some time fishing at the beach with her grandson, visiting with friends and family and even gardening out in the yard.

Big decisions coming up---to chemo or not to chemo---but for now she's just enjoying the minutes. And we're all enjoying her enjoying them.

And nobody enjoys like Gig...

Hurricane season

eh...

It's storming out. My parents are watching a movie in one room and I'm in another typing and listening to an all 90's music station. Were the music not coming from the TV, I'd swear I was in eighth grade again. ("The Humpy Dance" just followed Whitney's "I'm Your Baby Tonight"---both from '90---and there's a dance party goin' down in my heart right now.)

When I originally decided on hurricaning it in these parts, we weren't sure if my mom was going to be out of the hospital and Dan was going to drive down from NH today to hunker down with me. Turns out she's home, of course, but Dan has a pretty bad chest cold and with my mom's immune system jeopardized by the chemo, we all thought it best that he stay put. (At this point she's considered to be "nadiring" which means her white blood cell count is on its way down. The idea is that it drops to its lowest point about 10 days after treatment and then starts to build back up, hopefully reaching a healthy level before the next chemo treatment.) By the time we got it all settled, it was too late for me to drive back up, so hopefully we both live to see each other after Earl---the hurricane that wasn't---romps through. (I didn't want anyone to get hurt or for anyone to lose their home or even for anyone to lose power, which is just so annoying, but I really wanted to be walloped by this hurricane. I just really wanted it to finally happen.) So, although I had a great "hurricane party" with a couple of sisters, mom and nephew today, I feel a bit like a kid without a license right now hanging alone at my parents' house on a rainy Friday night.

(Oh God, Wilson Phillips "Hold On"---thank you modern-day cable!)

So, I really loved hearing what some of you had to say in regard to my question of whether or not you would tell anyone if a doctor told you that you had three months to live. (If you didn't comment, feel free to chime in.) I hope those of you who responded don’t mind, but I’m going to repost your notes here rather than responding in the comments section.

Matthew said...
I would sing it from the mountain tops!!! And ask everyone to come dance with me. That is exactly what I would want to do. DANCE.

Allison said...
This news sucks but I have faith! PS---I would want people to know as well!

Mart said...
Yes, I think I would tell (I hope). Telling heals.

BFYNM (and just to clarify BFYNM is a friend of my sister Bec's whom I've never met, though between the blog and our Facebook encounters, we've decided we're soul sisters. That's where Best Friend You Never Met comes from. I hope I didn't betray our friendship by telling.) said...
I would tell every person I have ever loved. I am a control freak, so being able to say what I need to say is critical for me. I recently worked for a woman who was diagnosed w/ terminal lung cancer. She told NO ONE. Even while she was going thru chemo (w/hair loss) she paid astronomical amounts of money for wigs so people wouldn't know. She felt the cancer made her weak. I completely disagreed with the way she handled it, but I respected her choice. It was disturbing to have to explain to people after she was gone what happened & how long she battled in silence. She confided in me, her two children, her sister and select few friends but not nearly the amount of people that loved her. No one got to tell her what she meant to them. No one got to say goodbye. She regretted the choice at the very end and I think some of her friends were deeply hurt.

So, each of these responses really had me thinking.

(I did NOT know Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch were behind "Wildside" mania! My beloved Mark Whalberg! I would doot da doot him in a hot minute. I know these asides are totally inappropriate but I can't help it...my brain is picking up two frequencies right now. It's seriously like hearing two radio stations overlapping...)

Mattie would "DANCE!" He would use his last months to enjoy and celebrate life. This is, of course, assuming he was healthy enough in mind and body to do so. Or maybe he would seek out the gift no matter what. (Knowing Mattie, he would find it.) Before all this, I think I would have answered similarly. Maybe after all this, I will. All I know is that prior to experiencing this kind of illness in such an intimate way I would have had a "Live it up!" gut reaction, but right now, as much as I am savoring every minute with my mom, nobody in my family feels like dancing. (Though, today we all watched a movie together after a big lunch so maybe that's a version of dancing.) It got me thinking about how it takes a three-month deadline (oh god, no fucking pun intended) to allow us the perspective/permission to DANCE! in that capital letters, exclamation point kind of way. Even as I sit inside this, learning as I am about the preciousness of life, I find myself sweating the small stuff and feeling like I should be working harder. What the eff is that about?

Allie would want people to know too, but I thought the interesting part of her response was that she still has faith. First of all, Al, thanks. We all still have faith, too. But the layer of it that I found interesting was the doubt implied by this faith; the questioning of whether or not you would even believe a doctor who said such a thing or would have "faith" in your maker or yourself or science to disprove such a prediction. When I posed this question to my sister Cherie today she said she probably wouldn't tell because she wouldn't buy it. She's a firm believer in the power of the mind and thus believes that focusing on life versus death would bring more life. And while it may be easy to raise an eyebrow at this kind of thinking, I've read plenty of stories of people who were given months and took years for themselves, in part because they never accept their prognoses. Faith or the Law of Attraction, I get their point. (And, Allie, Boys II Men are on right not and I CANNOT listen to these guys without thinking of you. Do I remember their poster on your wall?)

Mart wrote that "telling heals" and, God, do I believe that (and am grateful to her for saying so because that's why I'm still showing up here during this whole thing). Telling heals. Truth heals. These are words by which I try to live and write. This is the idea of accepting what is. I felt a strong sense of shame after posting the update the other day; like it was something I should have kept private, barely admitting it to myself, much less anyone else. But it is THE TRUTH. I could have buffered it (and have on this blog before, I must admit) and said simply that things had taken a hard turn but GiG is still smiling (which she still, somehow, is). I could have left out the part about the prognosis (and I really battled with myself about whether I should have) but it was a fact that seemed integral to the story. And, much more important than "the story," it is something that I know my mom's loved ones would want to know and which she wants them to know. And why? Why should such a sad reality (and, believe me, I am not convinced the prognosis is reality though the conversation with the doctor was) be passed on? Well, I can't totally know that yet. I don't know how this telling will heal. I don't know what experiences or conversations my mom will or will not have or even why she was okay with people knowing, other than it is the truth of what went down this week. But I do know that I've witnessed my mom brave fronting her way through conversations to protect her friends and family and that it's been a great relief when she has finally been able to express her true feelings, fear and all. She and I have had some very honest conversations during these past six months and when I am not hating this all so entirely, I am aware that I have enjoyed some of the richest moments of our relationship in this time. Telling heals.

(Um, Free Fallin' is on which I so appreciate, but it's from 1989 so I'm not really sure I'm okay with the theme straying.)

This also speaks to what BFINM meant was getting at with her story, which absolutely floored me. That must have been an incredibly thought-provoking thing to witness. Whenever I've seen it depicted on television (anyone into the Big C, yet?), people not telling, I've always thought it wasn't accurate. Nobody could really do that, I thought. And then to hear that this woman really didn't tell anyone other than immediate family (and what was it like for them?)...I can't imagine it. I understand the inclination towards privacy and even the intense discomfort some feel about receiving sympathy from others (best case scenario...worse case scenario is the stupid shit people say) but I guess I just feel like all hangups would get hung up when placed against the backdrop of limited time on earth. I would just want to connect as honestly as I could with those I love at that point, and that would involve telling. (And, of course, blogging about the entire thing which is actually the first thought I had on how I'd handle it. It would be three months of writing, reading, seeing movies and coffee dates with everyone I love. I think I may have just discovered my life's ambition.)

(Oh, jeez, "Janie's Got A Gun"---a song I friggin' love and had a joke about in my standup act all those years ago; something about Delilah playing it for one of her heartsick callers---but which is also from '89. WTF?)

I was really blown away by that story and then was further rocked when I got a call from Dan the other day, which started with him saying simply, "I wouldn't."

“Wouldn’t what?”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone if I knew I had only three months to live.”

“You wouldn’t?”

He went on to explain that his inclination would be to go off somewhere alone to whither (I think he even said whither) as he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone.

“You don’t think it would hurt more for people to lose you so suddenly and to learn that you didn’t tell them that you knew it was coming? For them to not get the chance to tell you what you mean to them?”

He saw my point but was still unsure. He told me he had thought before about how if anything like this ever happened, he would do something that would make me so angry at him that it would end our relationship and I'd be a safe distance from the heartache of losing him.

“Oh, you’re one of those...” I said, adding that, while I understand the push-people-away-for-their-own-good mentality, if he ever did that to me I would hate him forever...or at least be eternally broken.

It’s a discussion he and I will have to go back to but I’m still pretty shaken about this being his first instinct. (And am also sort of wondering if he’s going to have an affair someday and then say he’s dying in an effort to get away with it...Answering like he did to that question, nothing could surprise me now; there is a part of that man that is still a stranger.)

(Okay "Ice Ice Baby" just warranted a volume increase. 1990. I was 9 and learned every word of this song because all the kids were talking about it. By the time I learned 'em, everyone hated Vanilla Ice. I have no regrets and can give a concert-quality performance whenever the song comes on. Word to your mother.) (It took 'til about eighth grade to finally realize that I would always be behind the curve when it came to music and just binged on Broadway forevermore.) (This was after my "Smells Like Teen Spirit"---now playing; 1991 though I was a post-Kurt fan like all the other 14-year-olds---headbanging phase.)

We returned to the conversation for a bit today and he said, "I actually feel differently after reading all those [your] responses...It could be a happy thing."

"I know you don't want to hurt anyone, but people would want to celebrate you."

Blowing his nose and mustering his best I-have-a-cold wimper, he said, "You should be celebrating me now because I'm not sure I'm gonna make it."

He kids but, of course, we should be celebrating each other more. (He should definitely celebrate me more.) It's an interesting idea to think about anyway. (A great conversation starter during dinner parties with the Mr. and Mrs. Lame-ass from next door.)

While I obviously know my mom's answer to the question of if she'd tell, I haven't yet asked her what she'd do with those three months. Hypotheticals are fun...not so when there's a risk of reality.

I hope that I don't seem like I'm being callous. I am utterly aware of the seriousness and emotional hell of all of it, I just think this is how I cope. I intellectualize the hell out of stuff, or so I was recently told.

There's just too much to feel, I guess. And now I realize that this is another question entirely. While we can all imagine what it is that we'd do if told we only had three months to live, it's another thing entirely to think about what it is we would feel.

Maybe that's the real question I should be asking my mom.

She's not there anymore!

I'm telling you: Best. Nurses Ever. (Though the action in this shot is somewhat staged.)

It's not so much a roller coaster right now as it is a Freefall (to speak Rocky Point, the amusement park of my youth), followed by the haunted mansion with its moments of levity and an understanding that at any moment something will be popping up to scare the shit out of you.

That's the state of things right now. Yesterday morning I was shifting gears from deciding to stay put in NH for a few days to bombing down to the hospital because a gut-check told me it was the right thing to do. When I got there my mom looked very sick and very tired. Today, her pain finally managed and after the first good night's sleep of the week, she looks and seems much, much better. She is back home tonight; a moment of levity.

I wanted to be sure I posted this as soon as I could because I think yesterday's post may have caused some panic among my mom's loved ones (and understandably so). Five days ago when we heard the news that you all just got yesterday, I was panicked. She was panicked. (Yesterday morning, we were all still panicked.) But today, GiG is looking better and is certainly on an upswing. As my dad said, "Today doesn't look like a good day for dying." (You have to laugh or you’ll lose it.)

It doesn't erase what the oncologist said, it doesn't change the fact that my mom has cancer, but hearing her voice getting stronger today, seeing her color return, watching her get relief from pain, changes the way it all feels. Today, she doesn't look like she's dying, she looks like GiG. As my dad wrote this morning when I asked how she seemed, "Like mom---happy, upbeat." I just wanted all of you who have written to know how well she’s doing today. If you didn’t know she has cancer, you really wouldn’t know she has cancer.

Comedy arrived as we readied to leave the hospital this afternoon. They asked us if we would be interested in taking some pictures with some of the nurses (the best nurses on the planet) for a future brochure/mailer they are putting together about the hospital’s oncology program.

“Will there be a fan?” I asked, freshening up my lipstick.

Turns out when they asked the nurses which of the floor’s patients they should do the photo shoot with, all the nurses said, “Jeanne” (my mom’s real name), without hesitation. After three hospitalizations, my mom has built a relationship with every one of these women (and Eric the lone male RN whom we adore) and the photographer was shocked to see that there was such a warm rapport amongst us all that he need not conjure it as he had expected to for the photo. If we end up in any brochures, you can bet I’ll post it here. The whole thing was a friggin’ riot and the fact that my mom is so loved by the staff is just so representative of who she is; she loves and is loved back wherever she goes.



Here's the first shot we took with Patty, Nancy and Juliette (whose permission I didn't get to publish these photos...or their names...and am hoping is okay...and legally sound).



Had to include this one too because who's holding whose hand now? Huh? Huh? But in Juliette's defense (my girl crush is massive in this case as well), the photographer instructed us to do some hand-holding, which explains why my mom is getting in on the action. You'll be happy to know that I played it cool and acknowledged the awkwardness of it as soon as the photographer said it. Also, because I was a "bottom," the let-go (which is, of course, where catastrophe lurks) was not up to me, which is I think what saved me from another pinky situation.

Though we really will miss those guys, it's always good when she leaves. She belongs in her home, no matter the storm heading in.

It's bizarre how different it can all feel from day to day. I was watching the weather report with my sister Cherie tonight and we were saying how strange it is to see that tomorrow is supposed to bring the kind of chaos that warrants coverage on every news channel and preparation by the masses...followed by days and days of calm and sun. That’s how today feels with my mom seeming so much better. The storm that came with the words “three to four months” has settled into brightness...it’s never as bad as they say it will be, right?

An overdue update

Oh, this is a hard one to write. I probably wouldn’t even do it if I didn’t feel like I need to correct an erroneous earlier entry. It wasn’t my error---or, I suppose, anyone’s really--- but we’ll get to that. The point is that I have bad news and last time an unfavorable turn occurred ---when we learned that the cancer had spread to my mom’s right adrenal gland (that’s lung metastases to both adrenal glands for those keeping count; when she was diagnosed it was just in the left lung and left adrenal)---I didn’t write about it here. I skipped over the details of the day one of the early CAT Scans showed that not only were the chemo treatments not working but things were getting worse and surgery---the “cure” for lung cancer if there is such a thing---was no longer an option.

It’s much easier to write that GiG is persevering (which she is as best she can) without having to describe the changing reality. I mean, we’re all persevering to some extent aren’t we? Isn’t that what we do? So I could write that she is trying to keep a positive attitude and we’re all hoping for the best or some other from the list of bullshit platitudes (that, from what I can tell, are for the benefit of the recipient versus the person struggling with illness) and leave it at that. It’s the truth. It’s a version of the truth. (It’s probably the version my mom would give you were you to get her on the phone.) But while it might feel good to tell myself that version here, I don’t think I’d be doing myself---or anyone reading this who’s hoping to learn a thing about one person's genuine experience of cancer---any favors. My sense is that versions of truth---that is, half-truths that promote untruths---in such scenarios, only cause further confusion and potential pain.

Enough with the preamble: Despite what I reported about the PET Scan showing no trace of a spread, a CAT Scan done afterwards, contradicts this completely. More masses have been seen at the base of my mom’s lungs, the tumor on her right adrenal which was thought to have disappeared is still there, the left adrenal tumor which was said to have shrunk actually grew larger and there appears to be a spread to her renal artery and nearby paraaortic lymph nodes. (For those who, like me, forgot some of eighth grade biology, the aorta extends from the heart through the torso, so it is the lymph nodes near the aorta but close to the kidneys---renal (equals kidney) arteries extend from the aorta---that are affected; I had to study some anatomy charts to get it.)

Worse still, when this news was delivered Saturday morning it was accompanied by a warning that if she did not start chemotherapy immediately, she would have only three to four months to live. (I was not there when the doctor said this though my dad reported it that morning. I texted my mom after I heard to tell her I would be leaving shortly for the hospital and she, not yet knowing that this news had reached me, told me not to rush in and to instead enjoy the sunny day...)

I should also note that in response to this last piece of info, my mom’s expressed sentiment was that nobody can know how long she has as God is not amongst the professionals discussing her prognosis. She actually laughed that anyone would try; a display of my mom’s signature (and remarkably astute) perspective on life even at its darkest. Her laughter in this moment was a great comfort to me as I sat at the foot of her hospital bed (expecting to be the one to comfort her though not having the faintest idea of how to do it).

She took the chemo Saturday night in her hospital room and slept through most of it while Dan and I watched a movie on my computer in the corner under some extra blankets that the nurses (the wonderful, wonderful nurses) brought in for my oft-freezing sisters and father who have been in and out all week. The pain that brought her into the hospital is getting worse and they have not yet been able to figure out where it’s coming from. She’s also been throwing up daily.

Yes, my mom is persevering, but I can’t pretend things aren’t at their hardest right now.

As you can imagine, were there not loving that needed doing, there would be paralysis.

But I’m not talking emotion now. I just felt like I needed to deliver the facts since the state of things has shifted so much since I last wrote.

Oh, there is one emotion I’ll give voice to: Anger. One might think that double-checking---that is performing the requisite tests needed for utter clarity---would be in order before telling a person definitively (fuck, excitedly) that her cancer has not spread. One just might think that.

Apparently (and I am still pretty whipped with confusion), the PET scan measures tumor activity while CAT scans show images. Oh, and there’s something called a carcinoembryonic antigen level which has decreased, a supposed indicator of the effectiveness of the treatment and a decrease of the cancer’s virulence. To translate, the cancer is diminishing in power and thus less likely to spread...and also spreading.

There’s no sense to be made of things yet and my feeling is that there won’t be. I know my cynicism is a mask for emotional ranges and depths I don’t yet feeling like traveling, but I’m sticking to it (even though my mom has warned me my whole life against choosing cynicism as a go-to perch from which to view the world).

I came back to NH on Monday night to attend some appointments but I’m readying to head back down now. (Would you believe in the midst of all this I had to have a small chunk of my shin removed---stitches and all---because a biopsied freckle came back “severely atypical”? All is well and I am grateful to my dermatologist for the catch...hopefully I’ll get to post some pictures.)

This morning I had a teeth cleaning at the dentist’s office, an appointment I thought about canceling but figured would be best to just get done. The hygienist and I got to talking (no hacky dental joke here, we actually somehow had a conversation) and when I mumbled, in response to her question about what I’ve been writing lately, that “my mom is sick...cancer,” she stopped what she was doing, looked in my eyes and said simply, “I get it.” She lost her mother and an aunt who had become like a mother to her, both to cancer. Indeed, she got it. She told me a little about these women, her story was in some ways a very positive one, and there we were, two people having a genuine connection though it probably looked to anyone else like just another round of idle chatter at the dentist’s office.

As I headed out the door, she said, "I'm going to give you a hug," and did (and I was positively grateful). “If you ever want to talk, you can always call. I know you don’t know me well but I’m here. Really.”

Getting in the car, I couldn’t help but think that God had arranged that little rendezvous. (Did I mention she comes from a family of four girls?) I know God’s been making Her way into the conversation a lot lately---believe me, it surprises me to be talking spirit so publicly---but it felt to me like it had been prearranged; a Divine shove towards connection that I so needed.

I suppose I’m not as cynical as I like to think. And who do I have to thank for that?

(Will try my best to keep you posted.)

Lordy Lord

Well, GiG knew alright. I am writing from yet another hospital room. I set my alarm for 6am this morning so I would have plenty of time to prep for a full day back at chemo, and when I went downstairs my mom was sitting straight up on the couch, having been awake for hours with severe pain (and later vomiting). Fifteen minutes later my dad, mom and I were sitting around the kitchen table discussing how she could possibly endure chemo and the hell that would come just from that on top of the pain she was already enduring (and enduring on top of two separate pain meds at that). The last two times my mom wavered about doing chemo, the last two times she had a sense that something was going wrong, indeed something was (first the pulmonary embolism and then the pneumonitis), so my only advice to her to trust was to trust her instincts. (“This is your body, not some work project that needs completing,” I said). When she called the oncology office to say that she wouldn’t be coming, they told her to go to the hospital (which is connected to the cancer center) to be admitted so they could work full-time to alleviate and track down the pain. She’s down getting a CAT scan now with the hope of figuring out what’s going on (and the even bigger hope that it is nothing terribly serious).

So, that’s where we are now; a real-life House episode.

When my mom got the positive PET scan results the other day, most of her loved ones were overjoyed. The fact that this news was delivered while she was in the ER, tempered my reaction as well as my father’s. Regardless of what a test says, if you feel bad, you feel bad so (as my gut told me from the start) until this pain passes, I can’t join in the celebration.

Shortly after we got my mom into her hospital room, IV in place, she recounted a story of how years ago when she injured her knee and was given Dilaudid---the med she is on now---for pain before having it popped it back into place, she had joked, “I want this if I ever get cancer.”

Funny stuff.

There are laughs to be had though.

The hospital she’s in is a Catholic one so a Chaplain just came in (or a Sister...I’m not sure how this ranking system goes; I think she might be the equivalent of a lieutenant to Jesus) to offer my mom prayer and ask her if she wanted a priest to come tomorrow for “the anointing of the sick” (to which---to her cynical daughter’s shock and awe---she said yes. You can take the girl out of Bethlehem...) When the Chaplain left, but with the quiet solemnity of her presence still in the room, my dad said, “And I’m going to sacrifice a goat for you.”

Maybe you had to be there, but there’s nothing like a little sacrilege to lighten the mood. I was grateful he said something because for a second I thought I was in a different family than the religiously ambiguous, if not dubious, one than I was born into. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t go looking a gift-nun in the mouth. Plus, raised Catholic as she was, I think my mom still feels the connection to these roots. Prayer is prayer. I kid, but it’s a nice thing they do here.

So, that’s the story. I know some of you check in here just for her status (and, shockingly, not to hear about my hair) so I’ll give you the facts when I can, provided we get ‘em.

For now, Peace Be With You.

Goodnight Moon

My mom called me into the family room tonight to look at the big fat orange moon over the river. She noticed moons long before she had cancer. She always notices.

Chemo first thing tomorrow. Hopefully she always knows, too.

Goodnight stars,

Goodnight air,

Goodnight noises everywhere.

It's 8:37 and I'm calling it a night!

This doesn't even look good but I'm stumped for a header pic so there it is...I'm tired!

So, how's this, when I can, I'll try to make a real effort to do some serial blogging to make up for my sometimes extended absences? Maybe even twice a day (though I couldn't keep that promise to Dan, either).

This'll be a quickie (insert extension of sex joke here) but because I'm in such a good mood I wanted to get something down (and another here).

First of all, I love that it was a rainy day. I'm not only happy when it rains, but I am pretty much always happy when it rains. (Sort of like how all poodles are dogs but not all dogs are poodles. Does that analogy really fit here? I just try to work that the little token of logic in wherever I can because it blew my eighth grade brain when I heard it.) Rainy days are like forced meditation. They come with a certain calm amid the chaos that I dig and I don't have to chastise myself for not being outside on a beautiful day when I'm pretty much over the sun at this point anyway. I'm totally okay with the fall preview that has been these past few days, though mildly concerned that it will get to 85 degrees overnight. (I don't have any dog analogy for that but it's just plain effed.) As I write I'm watching the wind toss the dark silhouettes of trees around against a barely lit night sky and loving the drama of it. The tree outside my window (my tree outside my window where I write first thing in the morning in the winter months when the floor heater is on underneath my feet) has its late-August scatter of orange leaves, changing before the rest as it does and letting me know that fall is up ahead; nature's flash of high beams. Bring it, I say.

I cooked dinner tonight for the first time in forever. Something about the coolness and a darker sky makes me more eager to head to the kitchen and a hot oven. Nothing crazy, this dinner: GiG's meatloaf (2lbs ground beef, one cup grated Parmesan, one cup Italian seasoned bread crumbs, two eggs, a grated onion and a few fresh shavings of carrot on top to keep the meat moist cooked for about an hour at 425 degrees) that I made with grass-fed beef (and shallots versus a white or yellow onion), broccoli and some local corn. I was going to ask Dan to get a bottle of wine on the way home but my body is still pretty screwed up from yesterday and doesn't need further tampering.

During dinner I said that I wanted to take a bath afterwards (to prepare for an early to bed kind of night) but the fact that the tub is clogged---you know that gnarly residue that circles the tub when the water remains ankle high for the duration of your shower---dissuaded me. Dan, hero that he is, is in there now looking for Nessie and trying to clear things out.

A few minutes ago, he shouted out to me, "I got something! It's just a small one though, I think have to throw it back."



This looks way bigger than it did it real life...like, WAY bigger. Must be something about the angle...

I know it looks disgusting and I'm sorry that I feel so compelled to share it with you. It's a public service I'm providing, really; when was the last time you snaked your drain (insert blah, blah, blah)?

Dan thinks the Tub Monster was just a fluke (ha!), never to be witnessed again.

"I was just a kid then...I got lucky," he said.

I'm getting pretty skeeved out about the state of things in there so let's hope he gets lucky again soon.

(And scene.)

(Driving tomorrow: To chemo (Fri) and beyond! This is my way of telling you I may not be calling these next few days but I'll do the best I can. It's not you, it's me.)