Recommended Reading

Love this lady. We used this photo for the prayer cards.

And just so we're clear, I don't normally read The New Yorker but found this article after reading another of Meghan O'Rourke's pieces that was recommended to me. I'd hate for you to think I'm smarter than I am.

Mama, a visit tonight would be nice.

Tulips were one of her favorite flowers so I pick them up whenever I see 'em at the store. A bloom this lovely feels like a gift she's giving.

Sometimes I go to sleep begging her to visit me in my dreams. A couple of weeks ago, the night my dad had his seizure, I dreamt that I got to hug her. (I always tell Dan that, more than anything, I wish I could just hug her again.) In the dream she laughed at me as I clung to her and asked me, "What is it you love so much about hugging me?" and I got to tell her about the warmth of her hug, the love of her hug, the feel of her arms. In the morning I felt like she came for a visit when I needed her most. I'm hoping she decides to make a habit of this.

Bad news today. The pathology report showed that the tumor in my dad's brain was a malignant high-grade tumor versus a low-grade one as they originally expected. This means that recurrence is not only likely, but could be quick. (Though I have no idea what "quick" yet means in terms of tumor recurrence.) Basically, it's a more aggressive tumor than they initially expected (a III on the I to IV scale). The neurosurgeon recommended that my dad start chemotherapy and radiation as soon as possible in order to hopefully kill those microscopic tumor cells that weren't removed with surgery and thwart/slow growth. An appointment with an oncologist has already been scheduled.

More oncologists.

My dad, like all of us, seems to be a bit shocked. He'll end his stay at the rehab hospital this coming Friday and then head home for out-patient occupational, physical and speech therapy three times a week. He's managing some longer sentences with effort and is able to express his needs but he's not yet capable of real conversation and is still struggling to express spontaneous thought. The doctor told us again today that it could take six months to a year for his speech to fully return.

Not much more to say on this front. None of us know enough about the specifics of this tumor to understand more than this. Questions bring more questions. I hate how fucking familiar that feels.

And I wish my mom was here to guide us through it.

Bit of a bummer, this entry, but I know some of you were waiting for the news...

It's 7:50 and I'm in bed...that's the kind of tired we're talking about here. An emotional fatigue that is just oppressive. I can't imagine what my dad is feeling.

No witty ending here...just a solemn what the fuck?

Fuh real?

So, remember how this blog used to be (sometimes) funny (or at least aiming for that) and then last year we found out my mom had cancer and then all of sudden this turned into an account of her illness and then she died and I couldn't do this anymore and when I did finally come back I was inconsistent with posting and told you that I really didn't know the direction that this blog was going to go because I really didn't know what direction life was heading in?

Well, I certainly didn't expect to be doing any U-turns.

A new situation has arisen and the storyline rivals the most contrived of Lifetime movies.

Ten days ago, out of nowhere, my dad had a seizure.

Then an MRI showed that he had a tumor the size of a cell phone in his brain.

Then he had brain surgery.

Then he had complications from brain surgery which left him unable to speak.

Now he is at a rehab hospital in Boston hoping to reacquire verbal and language skills that will take two weeks to a year (from what I've heard from thee of the vague timeline) to return completely.

We're still waiting on the pathology report to get the story on the tumor though either chemotherapy or radiation will be the likely course of action.

All this in 10 days.

Less than four months after losing my mom.

To quote one of my sisters, "We've been leveled."

It's a situation that has not yet totally sunken in, so organizing my thoughts into neat paragraphs is not even an option. I just figured I would throw an update up to explain what may or may not be a Spew disappearance. The possibility exists that as things settle and we know what we are dealing with, keeping things up here will be manageable. But the idea of documenting another parent's illness (in addition to witnessing it...again) seems too daunting a task right now for this tired, broken body.

I'm not trying to dangle any carrots here, I just don't know what will be. Earth has gone and flipped on its axis (again) in the last 10 days so there's no knowing what the next 10 (the next five...) will bring.

This is the shit drug habits are born from, that's all I'm saying. So, whether I can keep up with this blog is an unknown.

For now I'll say that in ER/House terms my dad seems "stable." He is there mentally and can understand all that is happening but is working to learn how to "turn on his voice," and also express spontaneous thought according to the docs and speech therapists we've seen. That's the post-surgery story. We're still in the dark about the brain tumor. Brain tumor...fuck.

The Oscars are on tonight. Without Meryl Streep in the race, my heart is only half in it. (Also, the whole tumor thing.) Still, I'll tune in. It could provide a little distraction or even a shred of comfort. How could I possibly feel any connection right now to an orgy of back-patting Hollywood elite? Pretty easily. Sandra Bullock had a shit year, too.

A Will-You-Do List

Will somebody come to my apartment and do my laundry? I’m down to only thongs for undies and this is not my comfort zone. I have two waist-high mountains of dirty clothes and not an ounce of motivation.

Also, will someone cook the pork loin that’s sitting in my fridge looking like horse genitalia and skeeving me out? If I don’t cook it today it’s gonna have to be tossed and generally speaking if I have to handle the meat, then I am unable to eat it later on. (That’s what she said.)

Also, could someone come over and balance our household budget so I know what my spending cap is for psychic readings this month?

And could someone come wash my kitchen floor? I ate sardines again today (no, seriously, they’re not bad) and some of the olive oil/lemon sludge that they’re packed in was flung onto various spots of the floor and I’m doubtful the half sheet of paper towel that I dedicated to cleaning it up really did the job.

Could you take care of the bathroom too? The other day I broke a glass bottle filled with beach sand and shells that sits atop the counter and though I took a hand vacuum to it, I’m pretty sure there are still shards of glass scattered on the floor. (I didn’t tell Dan this because I didn’t think he was at risk...I mean who walks around barefoot in a bathroom of all places?)

And could you go to the gym for me? It’s been a few days and I can see a rectangle Pop Tart protruding from my saddlebags.

I did manage my own showering today though...wait, no I didn’t. I actually thought I did and then realized it was an untruth. After the gym should be fine for that...please moisturize.

Also, could you vacuum, dust, clean off the kitchen table, write a best-seller, return my library books (yeah, I go to the library...wanna make something of it?), call my friends back, handle the e-mails, bring the trash bag of clothes sitting in the center of my bedroom to Goodwill, put the spoffice that I tore apart Sunday back together and pick up a birthday present for a 30th birthday party I will be attending this weekend?

Or maybe you could just do the laundry?

All good.

I think I'd prefer a colonoscopy.

Just wanted to report that all went well and I seem to have no apparent assues that showed up on Colon TV during my exam. No cancer, no polyps, just a colon that "looks great" according to my gastroenterologist (and reported to me by my giggling husband).

In short:

1) The drink was bad but not that bad.

A friend advised that I channel my long-dead inner beer guzzler and down it went. (Thanks, Jarvino.) It's true that it's terrible---lemon-scented dirty fish tank terrible--- I think I just expected it to be worse.

2) The drugs were good but not that good.

They gave me the Michael Jackson death drug, Propofol, which was disconcerting when I first realized it was such, but proved effective. As I told Dan, I'll never be an alcoholic because I can't take the dehydration, but I could see going the prescription drug route. All I'm saying is that if I had MJ power and money, I might have a home doc give me a tiny nip of "mother's milk" before bed, too. When I confirmed with the anesthesiologist that it was, indeed, the MJ death drug, he said, "But this is how it's supposed to be used...and I'll stay in the room." This was intended to be comforting but given that he was hottish, I wished that he would be heading out before my colon was up on the flat-screen.

Also, unlike MJ, I woke up. I woke up, um, while it was still happening. Fortunately, things seemed to be finishing up at the time and I was still drugged enough not to scream, "BAD TOUCH!" but the perpetrator was still in the house. Funny thing is that my mom told me she had woken up during her colonoscopy and that I should let them know in no uncertain terms that I would not like that to happen to me...which I thought I did, just short of saying, "Pour me a drink like you hate your boss." (In general, redheads need more anesthesia...I swear, look it up!) Ultimately, though, I think the guy probably gave me the perfect dose because although I woke up with the vague knowledge that I was being violated (and who hasn't had that experience?), I wasn't in pain and it didn't take me long to de-drug afterwards.

I did get a little chatty though which is what I apparently do in these situations. I have a vague, unsettling memory from the last time I went under for something like this, of telling the nurse some anecdote about myself that ended with the words, "my dream threesome." So...I'm glad I didn't do that this time. (That's a true story...celebrities were named.) (Ugh.)

3) The emptying of my colon was fucking awful.

All those it's not so badders are lying! That part was terrible. I'll spare you the details but the biggest trauma of this whole event occurred in my own home. Every time I feel a rumble in my stomach now, even just from hunger, I get flashbacks. When the doc told me I'd need another colonoscopy at age 40, I said that maybe 11 years is enough time for me to forget what went down last night...maybe.

But it's done and now I know that death isn't hiding in my colon. The coffee and muffin one of the nurses gave me afterwards (you know I loved every single nurse there) were the best coffee and muffin of my life, though I'm still a little timid to resume normal eating. Maybe it's an OCD thing, but I like knowing that my colon is all Windexed and shiny clean and I'd like to keep it that way.

I'll schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss things further, but there's nothing write home about.

That was actually the hardest part of the whole thing...not calling my mom to tell her all went well. Not having her call me this morning to see if I was ready. She's the one who got me to make the appointment in the first place though, so I'm glad I followed through.

I know she'd be proud of me and my great-looking colon. (Especially since there was no talk of threesomes.)

I'm hungry! Hide your shoes!

Discreet, isn't it? (And, yes, that's my green bathrobe being rocked. I may be in it all day.)

I haven't written because I've been in a state of hunger-based confusion for three days.

After scheduling the procedure and canceling it four times, barring any unforeseen states of emergency or surprise blizzards in the next 24 hours, I will be reporting to the hospital at 9:30am tomorrow to have a colonoscopy. And, hopefully, there will be live streaming.

Or not. (Actually, as much as I'd like to give you the play-by-play, I have no intention of killing my post-op buzz by breaking out the laptop. A little video might be fun though...)

Considering how impaired I've been these past few days from trying to get a head start on the prep, I can't make any promises. It all started with my doing too much research. See, I love researching. And I have a tendency, when facing unfamiliar topics/scenarios/humans to try to familiarize myself even slightly (usually obsessively) with the subject of which I am ignorant. When I learned that research is part of the work of being a writer, I cried rainbow-colored tears of Google joy. This curiosity has mostly served me in my life but all research and no living can can make Lola a crazy girl. (Early on in my mom's illness, Dan suggested that I give myself a time limit on this front.) But I would also also argue that we often go a little too blindly through the world, particularly when led by medical professionals, and that a baseline understanding of what's going on should be acquired before agreeing to take a pill with 76,000 side effects.

Or (and especially) when having a camera snaked up your ass.

So, I Googled.

I didn't delve into the frightening land of what could go wrong (though, generally my brain cuddles and dwells under the subheading of Risks and Complications), but instead focused on getting myself, my colon (MEMOIR TITLE ALERT: My Self, My Colon) prepared. Basically, instead of opting to simply abstain from eating one day before the procedure as the literature my doc's office sent suggested I do, I decided to start avoiding fiber a few days ago and thought I'd spend the last two before the colonoscopy on a liquid diet. What I soon realized was that my regular diet consists of 99% fiber (1% coffee) so really what I was attempting to do was not eat for four days.

While excitedly pondering how this would affect the number on the scale, I forgot to note that failing to eat turns me into a grouchy, whiny child before it freezes me into a stammering, staring pile on the couch in a perpetual state of forgetting what I was going to say, before revealing a psycho who knows exactly how she would catch, skin and roast the neighbor's cat, "you know, if ever it got to that." (I get a little Black Swanny is all I'm saying.)

The good news is: I failed.

But in the stupidest way possible. My research started on Thursday so after nuts and berries for breakfast and salad for lunch (a fiber-fest if ever there was!), I committed to a no-fiber diet and handled the rest of the day pretty well. I got through Friday with eggs for breakfast, yogurt, a bit of roasted chicken (bleh), sardines (surprisingly not bleh), and then it was 8am and what the hell else was I going to eat? (Some of what I read suggested reaching for white rice and pasta but my relationships with these foods? Well, It's complicated.) So I didn't eat anything else and then, because all logical thinking is lost when I'm hungry (and thus the knowledge that burning calories would only make me hungrier was absent), I went to the gym. There I dizzily huffed through an hour on the elliptical machine, soaking in sweat and saliva while watching Ina Garten make Jeffrey (that stiff fucker) a lobster potpie. (That potpie will haunt my dreams until I have it and I don't even really like lobster.) I made it all the way to 4 o'clock when I met Dan at the movies (with the rest of our 70-year-old peers) and decided that the hot tea I had brought to replace movie munchies would be best enjoyed with a box of Milk Duds. No, Milk Duds don't have any fiber in them. But with the goal being to get a head start on the emptying of my colon, I couldn't help but feel that swallowing down little globs of half-chewed caramel was counterproductive. Having ruined the day of healthy eating with the Duds though, I naturally had to follow the movie up with dinner of Thai food. As I ate the Pad See Ew (do yourself a favah and get this some time) and threw back the sweet, wide noodles (which, as we've already discussed, complicate things no matter what...but contain no fiber!), I attempted to avoid the veggies which, of course, felt really stupid and contradictory to everything I know about nutrition.

Saturday was supposed to be all liquid so between 7:30 and 3pm all I ate were two whey protein and milk smoothies. Things start to get fuzzy after this. I tried to satisfy my hunger with a cup of homemade chicken broth that Dan (when he came out from hiding under the bed) cooked up using the carcass from a chicken I had roasted a few days ago, but I resented that it didn't taste like cupcakes and was also not nearly as filling. Still hungry as we started into a Sons of Anarchy DVD binge (a solid show), I began fantasizing about the foods I would eat if I could. As I told Dan (during the many times we had to stop and rewind the show because I wasn't paying attention or couldn't process quickly enough due to starvation-induced dimwittedness), I thought my diet before this was pretty limited in that I try to avoid gluten, cheese, and hormone-pumped or grain/corn-fed animal products, but it's all relative. I would do anything (and I was much, much more specific than this) for an apple, I told him. The fantasy meal I decided on was bruschetta with grilled, olive-oil brushed baguette rounds and sweet summer tomatoes, a Leinenhugel's Sunset Wheat beer in a cold glass with an orange wheel, and then a soft-serve vanilla ice cream on a wafer cone. This meal would destroy my stomach but will be worth it...six months from now when such a meal can be enjoyed. (I. Want. Summer.)

As day became night, I finally said to Dan, "We have to shut off the windows and I need to eat."

("Shut off the windows" is apparently hungry-speak for close the blinds.)

Two homemade meatballs smothered in tomato sauce later (low-fiber), I was stuffed.

For five minutes.

Then I was starving again.

And so I broke my liquid fast yet again with my go-to (low fiber!) treat of a few tablespoons of peanut butter sprinkled (liberally) with chocolate chips eaten in a bowl cereal-style. (This is best enjoyed with a glass of red wine which I had to indulge in because certainly when they speak of not ingesting red, orange or purple beverages, they don't mean wine.)

Today, though, I can't break. Prior to this, the effort was for extra credit in terms of colon cleanliness. Today, I have been instructed to not eat anything other than clear broths and juices. I was allowed eggs early this morning and went for it because, fuck, this is going to be hard, but the tantrums have already started. Dan just looked in on me and I was punching the couch cushions because I accidentally erased a big portion of this and didn't fucking feel like fucking rewriting this fucking shit. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The worst part of all of this is that I no longer think I will be a good Survivor contestant.

I don't know if we've talked about this here, but being on Survivor is a dream of mine and I am always trying to prepare myself for the obstacles I know will be posed when I am cast on the show (after I decide I can handle wearing a bathing suit on television and audition). This past December, when I locked myself out of my apartment and out of my running car on a 13-degree day, I asked myself what I would do during the cold nights on Survivor and started pulling out the Jane Fonda workout moves to keep warm. Fortunately, AAA came before it was time for pelvic lifts. But, I am now recognizing that the hunger may be too much for me. I have new insight into why all the the women on Survivor go crazy so quickly and think the only logical solution is to steal their tribemates' shoes. I'm seeing double and it's only been six hours. Add coldness to this scenario and there would be some screeching unpleasantness, which is probably why Dan didn't say anything about my turning the thermostat up a couple degrees higher than normal this morning.

And also why he's not making eye contact with me.

Wait, is he getting ready for the gym? He is! He's going to the gym! He's just gonna leave me like this? What if I hurt myself? What if I break? What if I'm too weak to heat the chicken broth? What kind of husband leaves his wife in this state?

One who knows when his wife's got the crazy in her eyes.

Fucker.

So, my intention is to update as the day goes on but I may get too dizzy to type.

I also may get too bitchy to blog. You guys don't need to see that.

Wish me luck.

Love,
Not Fucking Ghandi

Greetings from Ohio!

Love, Not a Deadbeat Blogger