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Showing posts from July, 2017

It's Surgery Week. Let's Talk About Nerves.

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4 days until surgery. The madness Richter scale is rising. I'd say we're at a 5. No, 6.  6 and mounting steadily. I recall informing people during the early stages of my treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flip here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here. If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy. Of course, timing is everything. My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like... a rabid runaway train heading full-speed towards a...

Pillow Talk: Not for the Faint of Heart

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Paul and I have been having a series "pillow talks" where we chitchat about all sorts of things before we tumble into sleep. This is something couples do, I hear. It has never been a thing for us. We have never been "pillow chatters." We've always been of the persuasion that holds bedtime as a sacred time for REST, not for discussing one's fondness for retro ice cream parlors. But people bend. Now, we are what I'd call casual pillow talkers. It's adorable. Anyway, the other night as we were precariously leaning over the fuzzy brink of dreamland, I pressed Paul for info on his "Ingrid Journal." Paul's "Ingrid Journal" is something he came up with several months ago. The idea is that he writes letter to our daughter in a notebook so that she can read them when she's older, after he dies (dark, sorry). So I asked Paul: what sorts of things do you write about in that journal? I expected something along the lines of how much he...

The Problem with the Cancer Warrior Metaphor. Or, more aptly: my crusade for sweatpants appreciation

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Some days, I'm a bad cancer patient. Some days I can't stomach the thought of doing, erm, anything. Unless it involves eating ice cream in bed. With someone else bringing it to me. Some days I can't be bothered to put the laundry away. Or to force my strong-willed toddler to eat spaghetti with a fork instead of her hands. Or to read a book, even. I just want to lay on the couch and let myself feel tired and cranky because, um, hello? I have cancer. So let me. I'm not supposed to say these things. What I'm supposed to do is throw back some organic plant-based fuel, strap on my running shoes, and parrot a litany of positive platitudes. With cancer patients, it's always: fight, fight, fight! Stay positive! Get dressed every morning, even when you don't feel like it! Go for a walk! Get pumped, eat leafy greens, be a survivor dammit! There is all this, let's face it, useless rhetoric swirling around cancer patients, pressuring them to beat their...

Cancer Didn't Make Me a Hero: It Made Me Tired

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I am done with chemo. That's right, I finished my 16th and final infusion yesterday. On hearing about my completion, I was given major props by everyone. As if I had just graduated with honors from Princeton. There was a lot of congratulating going on and thumbs up and even a pair of fresh-cut roses gifted to commemorate such a victorious feat.  It felt good. People are so kind. But it also felt strange because, c'mon, it's not like I contributed anything worthwhile to the human race by surviving weekly doses of poison being pumped through my veins. Mostly, I sat in a Lazy Boy for 2-3 hours every Wednesday trying my darndest to complete just one Sodoku puzzle. These were one-star level puzzles, and they were IMPOSSIBLE. Some people spend their Wednesdays discovering new gene-altering drugs to eradicate disease. Others devote their mornings to composing euphoric sing-along musicals with transformative dance numbers. And I can't even complete a level one-star Soduko. I do...

I'm allowed to post this because I'm a mom. And I have cancer. And it's a riot.

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Caillou is off-limits in our household. My sanity cannot allow it. If you've seen the show, you will appreciate this: Also, HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY FOLKS!!!

Nesting: No I'm not pregnant. I'm starting chemo.

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I feel like I need to put this out there because it's making me squirm: I am not  a tech-nerd (though, let's be real, I wish I was). So if you are viewing this blog on a mobile device the header image likely looks like rubbish, but I just don't have it in me to attempt making things look pretty right now. Not when there are more pressing matters at hand. Like talking about my escalating lunacy as surgery creeps closer. Actually, the lunacy has been there from the start. When I first learned that I would have to go through chemotherapy, I launched into this frenzied nesting craze. After wasting a good 3-4 days weepily watching Downton Abbey, obvs. It was like being pregnant all over again. In my mixed-up head, it was like I had to prepare for a total domestic collapse. For a future where I wouldn't be able to lift a finger so I'd better scrub the hell outta these pergo floors while I still have a spring in my step!  A week or so prior to chemo, I went mildly beserk i...