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On this day in 1934, the staff of the Mount Washington Observatory in New Hampshire recorded the highest surface wind ever measured, which was officially recorded at 231 miles per hour. In honor of this crazy big wind, the ‘powers that be’ created “Big Wind Day” to celebrate what probably would have blown Dorothy and Toto way past OZ. Probably even past Hogwarts.

Wait, though. Hold the phone. This record was toppled by Typhoon Olivia as she barreled through Barrow Island, Australia in 1996. Olivia was caught speeding at 253 mph, breaking the record held by the “Wind with No Name” from New Hampshire by 22 mph. I’m sure the “Wind with No Name” was seriously bummed.

So, when these records are broken, does the holiday still exist? Is it mandatory to move “Big Wind” day to whichever day Olivia blew Barrow Island to bits and pieces? I don’t have that answer. It seems I don’t have many answers these days. You think you know what’s coming next and then “BAM!” It all changes in an instant.

And over the past few years I’ve learned to accept the wind of change as it blows through our lives. Here lately, however, it’s been coming at us faster and without any sort of pattern, hellbent on breaking its prior record. Good thing I don’t put a lot of effort into my hairstyle because it’s getting blown to bits.

Usually I’d have something familiar to grab onto. A familiar city. A familiar person. A familiar hospital. But all of this is new. New doctors with new ideas. They don’t know Ben. They don’t know me. We don’t know them. Interestingly enough, I don’t feel lost. I’m not sure exactly what it is that I’m feeling. At least I’m still feeling, right? I’m not completely numb. That’s good, right? Sure it is. But it seems like I’m always waiting. And then once a “plan” is in place, I rush furiously to keep up with the gust, hopefully landing where I’m supposed to.

Ben had surgery on Friday. He was in the pediatric observation unit (AKA: the POU) with plans to be discharged to the main oncology floor yesterday. Seeing how it was Sunday, there weren’t any new kiddos scheduled to need the POU, so they allowed Ben to stay. Until 3 AM this morning. The nurse woke me with a shake and said “You need to move out of this room.” My first instinct was “this is a weird dream”. Then I realized that most of my waking moments are some weird dream. I shook off sleep as quick as I could, packed all of our stuff, and carried Ben to our new room. We’ve never been “inpatient” on the oncology floor at MSKCC before so it was all new to us. I laid Ben on the bed and unpacked to some degree, just so I would know where my essential items were. I located the nearest bathroom before either of us had an emergency. I tried to make a new plan based on our new surroundings. I tried to figure out how the bed worked.  Three AM is not the best time to introduce me to a new program.

Even the nurses didn’t know we had moved in. One nurse came in to what she must have thought was an empty room only to be surprised by our “squatting”. She yelped in surprise and used her “stern voice” to ask ‘what are you doing in here?’ Duh. What are we doing in here, indeed. All right, the gig is up. You guessed it. I shave my kid’s head and crash oncology units in the middle of the night just so we can have a place to sleep. I guess I’m just glad she didn’t lay down on top of us, or eat her lunch, or start smoking a cigarette before she realized we were there. She changed her tune quickly enough but I have to admit it takes someone with some special skills to make an outsider feel even more like an outsider. Guess what? I don’t wanna be a part of your club. But while we’re here, at least you can be cordial. Oh wait. I forgot. This is New York City. I forgot that this is where the wind has blown us for the time being.

So, I’m sitting here typing my little heart out, getting as aggravated as I get, wondering when the next gust of “big wind” will come bursting forth. Waiting. Knowing it’s gonna happen. Trying to be prepared but not knowing what I’m preparing for. I know it’s going to happen today. Will it be discharge? Will it be chemo? Will it be something altogether different? Maybe it’s not treatment related? Maybe it’ll be divorce papers? Maybe terrorists will infiltrate MSKCC? Maybe an asteroid will fall out of the sky or we’ll all be abducted by aliens? Who knows? Certainly not me.

But bring it. I’m ready.

Some people had memberships to exclusive country clubs. Others reserved their membership budget for a summer pass to the local pool. Our family? We were members of The Columbia House Record and Tape Club. Our membership benefits included an initial eight selections of our choosing for the low cost of $5.99 (plus S&H), and then a ninth selection for only a penny. We had all the new releases: Hotel California by the Eagles, Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys, and then the occasional “Director’s Selection” that was automatically sent because we didn’t return the postcard back to Columbia House in a timely fashion (additional postage required). Or at least that’s the excuse I gave to friends when they made fun of the Helen Reddy and Sonny and Cher tapes we had in our collection.

I remember being offered the opportunity of picking out TWO 8-tracks for my birthday and I chose The Eagle’s Greatest Hits and The Village People’s Greatest Hits. Clearly, I was still developing my musical taste and had to afford myself a heinous misstep here and there. The Village People quickly landed in the “Don’t open in front of ANYONE” drawer that also included The Starland Vocal Band (Afternoon Delight) and Vicki Lawrence (The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia).

Oh, yeah, baby. That’s the good stuff.

What always freaked me out about the 8-track tape was the fact that right in the middle of a song – usually during the chorus – the song would start to fade out only to give way to a very loud and intrusive CLICK, and then fade back into the song a few seconds before the CLICK so rudely interrupted. As if it was trying to fool you into believing “you didn’t just hear that. And we made up for it by re-playing the bit before the CLICK. That didn’t happen. You are getting sleepy… ” Riiiight. I wasn’t fooled. Even if I was only seven.

Hey! With all that clicking going on, maybe we were being conditioned to react to something? Much like “clicking” for positive reinforcement during dog training. Perhaps the creators of the 8-track system were thinking along these lines: “When you hear the click, you will love 1970’s music.” It certainly worked that way for me.

Technically, I prefer albums. Of course, albums are not very portable and could never rival the ease of use that compact discs and MP3 players offer. Could you imagine trying to play an album during a road trip? Or while running on the treadmill? I can see it now – walking into my gym lugging my turn table, finding a place to precariously balance it to keep it steady, hoping that nobody nearby is planning to jump or make sudden movements that would make my record skip. And then hooking up my extra large headphones, which connect me to my stereo with that springy spiraled cord, dials on the side of my padded ears to adjust the volume.  This cumbersome getup begs the accompaniment of tight polyester athletic shorts, tube socks pulled to the knees, Puma sneakers, and a mesh shirt. Sassy.

Makes me wish Gold Circle was still around. Remember that place? You could get EVERYTHING at Gold Circle. Groceries, mesh shirts, 8-track players… they had it all. Not quite as cool as Target, but it was the best Central Ohio had to offer back in the day. Unless you were more of a J.C. Penney Outlet kind of shopper.

Anyway, 8-track tapes lost their popularity near the end of the Harvest Gold and Olive Green decade. I should add here that one of the only 8-track tapes worth any sort of money is Stevie Ray Vaughan’s Texas Flood. Not many were produced thus making it very attractive to collectors. Too bad all I still have in my collection is the 1973 release of Frampton’s Camel. I doubt it will end up in my will.

CLICK!

So, Ben and I are in New York City at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. We are in the Pediatric Observation Unit (AKA: the POU – pronounced “poo”). Ben had surgery bright and early Friday morning to remove that suspicious spot hanging out on his rib. Dr. LaQuaglia only needed a little less than two hours to snip out the rest of that rib and decide that it was NOT cancer. He believes it to be scar tissue (here’s where we all exhale a very long and audible sigh of relief). He used all of Ben’s original scars – same location for incision (had to take it a wee bit further this time), same scar for his chest tube, etc. As of today, 48 hours post-op, he’s been relieved of his foley catheter, the chest tube, the epidural to control his back pain, and the heart monitors. The only thing he’s currently hooked up to are fluids. He can take pain medicine as needed, but so far he’s refusing additional pain meds. He says he hurts a bit but not bad enough to take the meds. He doesn’t want to be groggy anymore. WHAT A KID! He is a true superstar.

He’s not enjoying the exercise the nurses are making him do. He is currently required to periodically sit in a chair and take walks around the POU. He is certainly favoring his left side and says that the location of the chest tube is actually more ouchie than the incision on his back. Right this moment he is sitting up in bed, playing with his little Pikmin character, and watching Spongebob on TV. He ate three of six chicken nuggets. And his hair is coming in very dark. Too bad that this next round of chemo is going to knock it out because I’m very interested to see what he would look like with brown hair.

What’s next you might ask? Well, tomorrow morning, the surgeon will come by and take a look at him. Then his oncologist will come and take a look at him. We’ll be discharged from the POU and probably re-admitted to the oncology unit for chemo. If that goes as planned, he’ll have five days of inpatient chemo and then we’ll have a maximum of three days to high-tail it back to Colorado before his blood counts bottom out. Once his counts drop, we’ll most likely end up in the hospital for neutropenia. I’m sincerely hoping that we can make it back to Colorado before this happens. Juggling all this hooey is a menace.

Overall, I’m pleased with how well Ben has rebounded from this surgery. The main issue I’m seeing is that he seems to be struggling with being more emotional than usual. He’s mad (NOT common for him) and wants out of this place BIG TIME. I mean, really. Who wants to be stuck in POU?

We’re just waiting for the next CLICK.

I’m all for pranks as long as they aren’t mean. I don’t find it funny to tell someone that a loved one has died or that they’ve received something they really really really want only to say APRIL FOOLS! I like my April Fools jokes to be within the realms of good taste and fairly harmless.

For instance, last year the kids and I concocted a good one to play on Matt. We rigged the sprayer on the kitchen sink with a rubber band, so as soon as the faucet was turned on the sprayer would go off. Now, we waited until the evening to do this so his work clothes wouldn’t be messed up. The kids were stationed right by the sink and did a very good job of keeping quiet. I was making dinner and pretended to need help with the potatoes. I asked Matt to scrub a few of them for me because I was tending to something on the stove.  We were lying in wait as Matt’s hand lifted the faucet handle and got a perfect view of him jumping away from the sink when the water came squirting his way. We all had a good laugh and the worst that happened was the need to change into dry clothes.

I know you remember my tales of teaching boating at a summer camp back in the late 80’s. Well, in order to be Red Cross Certified to teach others how to row, canoe, kayak and sail, I had to spend two weeks in Connecticut learning all I could about small-crafts. There were five of us who would be teaching at the same camp in Pennsylvania and many others who would be counselors elsewhere. I was the only female in the entire group. Well, that’s not completely true. There was another girl, Beth, and we became fast friends but she ended up contracting Lyme’s Disease and had to leave camp. I cried as the car carrying my BFF that I had known for only three days drove away – leaving me alone with approximately 50 stinky boys.

This camp was primitive at best. We slept in tents that I could only describe as rejects from World War II. Frayed and sun bleached army green canvas, tent flaps open forward and aft (could have been secured with ties had they not lost most of their limbs in the war). Cots that had most likely carried the maimed and the dead from the Civil War era, stained with God Knows What. Minimal privacy, but the directors of the camp made sure I was stationed away from the boys in my own barracks. The showers, however, were co-ed. Single stalls, open at the top (allowing nature to surround you at all times) and a small, never steady, spit of alternating hot and cold water whining from the rusted pipes. *Shudder*.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that Connecticut was experiencing its single worst infestation of Gypsy Moth Caterpillars ever. For those of you who have experienced these slimy worms of doom, you know how terrifying they are. The horror film industry has done a disservice to their particular genre by not exploiting these mutant caterpillars to their fullest capacity. They are truly heinous, foul little beasts. *Shudder x 1000*.

And this is just ONE. Imagine an INFESTATION! Let’s put it this way. I had to take a swimming test when I arrived at camp – you know – 10 minutes of treading water and then swim from the dock to the bouy and back. I had taken off my shorts to jump in the lake and start my test. I imagine I was in the water less than 15 minutes and within that quarter of an hour, my shorts were COVERED with these filthy little buggers. Ick. I shook them off, put on my shorts, stuck my hands in my pockets only to find MORE! Aaargh! Horrible! I DETEST THESE ABOMINABLE LITTLE CREATURES! Is my disdain coming through loud and clear?

Okay, so, I’m the lone female at this camp. I’m not as strong as my fellow classmates, so I struggle with lifting my metal canoe over my head to carry to the water for our afternoon drills. I struggle with lifting the mast to rig my sailboat. I have a hard time getting back in my canoe after doing a “tip test”. I was bruised, battered, cut, bleeding, and sobbing silently in my WWII accommodations on a daily basis, hoping that no one but those heinous little caterpillars could hear me. Oh, they tried to keep me company. I’d wake up in the morning with one swirling over my head, suspended by its silky thread of doom. And I’d smack at it like a Kindergartener trying to play tether ball. I had the enthusiasm but rarely hit my mark.

And this was how I started nearly every day. I’d trudge down to the open air shower stall and stand in line with my c0-campers. They’d laugh and joke with each other and I’d shoo off the creepy caterpillars as they tried to stake their claim on my shower gear. Then breakfast. Then classes. Long, tedious days broken by restless sleep thanks to nightmares of the hairy caterpillars coming to get me.

Somewhere along the way, the boys thought it’d be funny to start playing jokes on the lone female. That first week of aquatic camp was HELL. Then, one night, at dinner, we had ice cream with chocolate syrup for dessert. The one boy that I thought of as an ally came over to sit by me. He poured a bunch of chocolate syrup on my plate and then shook some salt over the top of the chocolate puddle. He said that the chemistry between the salt and the chocolate created heat. I said, with wide eyes, “REALLY?” and placed my hand over the concoction, expecting to feel the heat radiating from my plate. As soon as my hand was in place, BAM! My friend smacked my hand down onto the plate, which shot a spray of chocolate all over my clothes, my face and hair. The entire cafeteria erupted in laughter. As I closed my eyes and lowered my head, ready to wave the white flag and accept defeat, something burned inside of me. It came rising from the pit of my stomach and came forward in a calm, calculated series of movements that had nothing to do with what I wanted. It came from somewhere else. And with a voice that I couldn’t describe as my own, I stood up and said “All right. That is enough. I know where you sleep. I know where you eat. I know where you shower. And I’m coming for each and every one of you.” And walked out of the cafeteria, still dripping in chocolate.

I plotted my revenge as I stood under the spitting stream of alternating hot and cold water, hoping that it was strong enough to get the chocolate out of my hair. And over the course of that second week of camp, I got every single boy who had played a trick on me back. I used dead snakes in sleeping bags. I rigged sailboats with “parachutes” attached to the rudders so I could speed past them and laugh as they struggled to figure out why they couldn’t gain speed. I got up at wee hours of the morning and kept long hours into the night plotting and executing. But there was one boy, my “ally”, that I didn’t know how to get back. It had to be special.

The last day of camp came quickly. I had gained a lot of respect over that last week and had even enlisted some of the boys I’d already “punk’d” to help me get the rest of them. But I knew this last hurrah had to be of my own doing and I had run out of ideas.

It just so happened that on our last day, my ally and I happened to be standing in line for the shower at the same time. We had some idle chit-chat, talked about staying in touch after camp was over, benign stuff. Then, the heavens opened and a light shot down out of the sky and enlightened me. I heard angels sing. I nearly wept. I placed my hand over the trunk of a tree that was covered with row after row of gypsy moth caterpillars. I said “My stars. There are so many caterpillars on this tree that they are actually radiating heat.” My ally said, “Really?” and I licked my lips with anticipation as the sweat crept up on my brow in anticipation of his hand raising to test the validity of my statement. C’mon. Do it. Raise that hand. And, as if it were in slow motion, his hand started to come up as the expression on my face changed from painful anticipation to pure ecstasy. Yes! Almost there! What had to be milliseconds turned way down to super slo-mo as I watched his hand snap into place over the target. And then BAM! as his hand smacked into the hordes of caterpillars set on their path of destroying the tree only to be destroyed themselves by my ally.

Happy dance (on my part) ensued as my ally wiped off the carnage of the fallen caterpillars. The joy of getting him to fall for the very same prank that had nearly created my demise was a sugary sweet victory. My mission was complete.

Go and have some fun with your April Fool’s jokes, but remember, paybacks are hell.

Gross. NOT a fan of clams. In fact, not really a fan of any seafood. I’ll eat shrimp on occasion, but that’s about it. I prefer my seafood in its natural state – under water and still alive. And I don’t mean viewing them in the tank at my local grocery store. I’m talking about me wearing a wet suit and flippers, tank strapped to my back and breathing apparatus in place, mask that I’ve cleaned with a loogey (the only time I am willing to produce a loogey). Perhaps a knife sheathed and attached to my thigh to ward off menacing sharks? Okay, so I’m not THAT hot in my diving gear.

Actually, I haven’t been diving since Ben was born. But the year before he was born I spent 10 days in Grand Cayman and the majority of it was spent underwater. It was incredible. I saw lobster nearly as big as me. Sea turtles peacefully paddling through the depths of the ocean. Menacing barracuda staring me down (not so fond of that). Crabs. Moray eels. Stingray. Barrels of coral that I could fit in (but didn’t try so as not to destroy the delicate seascape). It was beautiful.

That life seems so long ago. I would love to dive again someday but it just doesn’t seem reasonable. It’s very expensive. Mandates travel to exotic locations (since I’m not interested in lake diving). And with Ben in active treatment for the next few years, I think I’m going to have to put my dream of diving away. It can’t even go on a back burner. It has to come off the stove completely. Oh well.

I have to say, though, that when I get completely stressed out and need to take a mental break, this is where I go. Under the sea. Every inch of me surrounded by water. The sensation of gliding effortlessly through the ocean. The only sound I hear is my intense breathing. Feeling so small. Enveloped by something so vast. Free, yet being held captive within its depths. Simple, yet complex. I guess that’s me in a nutshell. Or should I say clamshell?

Honestly though, my clamshell is at capacity right now. There’s no more room. I need to get an appointment for a mammogram and ultrasound done before the weekend (Doctor suspects fibroids – thanks to stress – but wants to be sure it’s not anything worse than that). Ben must have two cavities filled before the weekend. Friday he goes to a radiation follow up. Saturday is Madeline’s birthday and she’s having her party at Sweet and Sassy (a fun little girly spa). I need to make eight crystal tiaras before then, as well as get the cake made (I LOVE cake decorating – so it’s bound to be beautiful!) 😉 and get the little take-home boxes done. Then Sunday is Easter. I gotta squeeze egg-dying in here somewhere. And laundry, since we leave for New York on Monday for an indefinite amount of time. I have no idea how long it will take Ben to recover from his surgery and if they’re planning to do that big round of chemo in New York or willing to wait until we’re back in Colorado. We could be there for a good long while.

Add to that one of our little friends is not doing well. I don’t have all the details yet but from preliminary information, she’s been told she has 4-8 weeks left of her young life. My sweet Lord. I can’t even begin to process this. We just saw her at the hospital and she looked beautiful. I had no idea that her tumor wasn’t responding to treatment. I just didn’t know. And I feel like sh*t that I wasn’t more supportive. Sorry for the swear. There’s just no word that explains how bad this all sucks.

And our stupid cat hopped a ride to Boulder yesterday. I’m not sure if she was just curious or if she was trying to escape the stress here, but she jumped in the back of a van belonging to a very sweet person delivering food to us. About an hour later I received a phone call from the nice lady asking if my cat was missing. I wasn’t home so I wasn’t sure if it was mine or not. After a description and confirmation that the cat was, indeed, mine, the nice people brought her back. She rode all the way to Boulder (about an hour from here) without making a single noise. At least she’s back now and currently enjoying the luxury of a freshly made bed. If she was looking for a better life I’m sure she’ll eventually scratch my eyes out for holding her captive in this crazy clamshell.

With all that’s going on my stress level is off the charts. I take comfort wherever I can find it. But right now, there’s just too much to think about. It all feels like the end of the song “A Day in the Life” by the Beatles. The orchestral crescendos building to that final sustained piano chord at the end of the song feels a lot like my brain does right now. Building, building, building only to explode on that last note.

In fact, I said to Madeline last night, “I think I’m going to explode” to which her reply was, “I will miss you.”

And as I close my eyes and drift off to my underwater world of peace I try to find my battle scarred clamshell to hide in for a while, until I morph into a happy shiny pearl.

The Great State of New York has deemed March 29 Vietnam Veteran’s Day because on this date in 1973, the last 2,500 troops were withdrawn from South Vietnam. This withdrawal finally ended our Nation’s military involvement in a very long and extremely unpopular war.  Over 58,000 soldiers lost their lives. It was bad juju all around.

I’m a product of it.

Oh, okay. You know me and my self-deprecating sense of humor. I dredge up woe for dramatic purposes, but I believe it adds depth to my storytelling. The stories are true – at least, to my knowledge – but I find it’s more entertaining to add some extra stink to my onion of a life.

But enough about that. My self-deprecating story goes like this: My biological parents met at a military function three weeks before they got married. For some reason, I like to believe it was a dance of some sort. At least it adds an element of romance to it. Anyway, details are unclear. My mother is from South Carolina and my father was stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. I don’t know how they came to be at the same function, but my dad, being a charming, handsome, narcissistic sociopath reeled my mom in hook, line and sinker.

Now, from the stories I’ve heard, my father was NOT interested in a military career. He avoided it like the plague. I heard that he was offered a spot in the National Guard as opposed to being drafted, which he promptly messed up by never attending any of the meetings. So, he was forced to go to “The Show”. And I have no idea how he would go from “conscientious objector” to being a Green Beret… this transformation truly eludes me. But, the entity that is my father is a complete mystery to me. Why try to decode him now?

So. Here’s where I start to wing it. My dad heard that newlyweds didn’t have to leave to go overseas right away, so he gets my mom to marry him. Then he finds out that this was NOT the case.  Then he hears that if you’re expecting a child that deployment would be postponed. So, he procreates. And learns that he was wrong again. So now, the man has a new wife and baby on the way, and STILL has to be deployed? I bet he was kicking himself over screwing up the National Guard gig. So, ultimately, I exist solely as a ploy to keep my father out of the Vietnam War. I failed. Self-deprecation at its best. Right?

He went to Vietnam and got shot several times. His arm was badly wounded. He states that he has severe mental deficiencies thanks to his time in Vietnam. I sincerely believe that those deficiencies were a part of his original genetic makeup but am in full agreement that his four-month long stint as a Green Beret must have been hellacious. I give him credit for his tenure as a soldier, but that’s about all I can give him.

But, for the rest of the soldiers out there, I commend you. Thank you for your service. I can’t even begin to imagine what you go through for the sake of your country – something that you don’t even HAVE to defend. You made the choice. You stepped up and bravely made the commitment to serve in the armed forces. Or, some judge mandated you to serve your country or do jail time. 🙂

The closest I have come to any sort of combat is the battle I currently face with my son. We didn’t sign up for this. We did not make the choice to be deployed in this war for his life. It’s not an issue of bravery. We were drafted. I would rather be a “conscientious objector” of this war on cancer than to be in the throes of battle, but there’s no choice.

And we’ll fight to the finish, hopefully minimizing the casualties.

On March 23, 1989, a gigantic asteroid came within 500,000 miles of colliding with Earth. 500,000 miles doesn’t really sound like a “near miss” but I guess in the world of asteroids we’re lucky it didn’t hit us. I was alive in 1989 (not to mention a full-fledged adult!) but I do not remember this being in the news. Oh, wait. I was a junior at Ohio University back in ’89. That explains so much. If you attended OU, you understand (I must have been at the Bagel Buggy 😉 ).

So, Yay, Earth! Congratulations on getting out of the way! From what I understand, asteroids come flying at us often and it’s only a matter of time before we get smacked in the head with one. Like I didn’t have enough to think about. It’d be pretty sweet if we could get some “gamers” shipped out to space and set them up with a humongous blaster to fend off the gigantic rocks hurtling through space… just like a giant game of Asteroids. Man, I loved that game back in the day. I believe my mad blasting skills would at least allow me to get to the second level.

But who cares about asteroids hurtling at our planet when there’s chips and dip to be had? I love, love, LOVE chips and dip. I’m sure I could find a way for it to fulfill a necessary daily requirement on every level of the food pyramid. Oh, okay, it’s my own made-up pyramid, and “dip” is the sole occupant of the base. But, in my mind, dip is fully prepared to shoulder the weight of everything else. Dip is just that good. It can do anything.

It’s still breakfast time here in Colorado and I’ve decided I’m not going to eat anything just yet. I’ve never been a fan of eating when I first get up in the morning but usually around 9:30 I’m ready for my cheesy grits. Today, however, I’m going to wait. I have to take Ben to the hospital to get a blood draw and on the way I’m stopping for a family size bag of Ruffles and a vat of French onion dip. And that’s all I’m going to eat today. Breakfast, lunch AND dinner.

Chips and dip are certainly my favorite foods in a time of crisis. While I’ve had no shortage of crises over the last few years it seems like the world’s chip supply is dwindling. I’m getting to the point of thinking I can’t function efficiently unless I’m faced with a crisis, but if I run out of chips, there’s gonna be trouble.

Several years ago I had to have a colonoscopy. For those of you who have had one, you know you have to do the “cleansing” portion for several hours before your actual appointment. In order to properly vacate your bowels, you must drink an unending supply of heinous-tasting liquid AND have nothing to eat for a very long period of time. It’s absolutely terrible. I was anesthetized for my procedure (which turned out nothing suspicious) and once I was safely deposited (by my dear friend, June) at my house, I ate an entire bag of Wavy Lays loaded with my favorite French onion dip. I was still foggy from the anesthetic, but there was no way it was gonna deter me from drowning myself in my favorite comfort food.

Okay, Ben is done with school for today and we need to go to the hospital for blood work. Hopefully those platelets are edging toward 100K, which will enable him to finally have that surgery in New York. I’m trying not to stress about it – thinking that there’s evil cancer cells inside of my Bean – and without chemo or surgery, they’re just hanging out in there with nothing better to do than grow.

Ugh. Where are the chips and dip? Come to my rescue, my precious. Or send an asteroid to put us all out of our misery.

I’ve got nothing in the sacrifice department that could even begin to touch what Christ did for me on that cross. Yes. I’m a believer. I’m a big believer. And I think I’d forgotten that until just recently.

I don’t just write on this blog, I keep a journal also. And, if you can believe it, I’m more open in my journaling than I am here on my blog. There are things I have in my head and on my heart that aren’t fit for public consumption – that, plus a lot of expletives, which are completely unnecessary in such a public forum. I guess I save my anger for my journaling. It’s very cathartic for me to scribble out my anger on paper. That way – if I want to – I can have the satisfaction of physically shredding it when I’m done.

I’ve been so mad with God. I have been for well over a year. I was on such a positive and enlightening path, felt at home at church, was active in Bible Study Fellowship (co-leading a preschool class), and just taking time every day to be in God’s word. Then there was trouble at home. Trouble with family. Trouble with Ben succeeding in school. I just got so tired and confused. The activities I had been involved with (childhood cancer support groups, camps for kids with cancer, preschool board, leading bible studies) imploded. I’m sure my mental state caused a lot of it, but the external factors certainly didn’t help any. I was pulled in so many directions and by people I can only describe as bullies. They wanted it their way or no way. It became too tedious. And I stopped talking with God.

So, I quit most things I was involved with because of the pressure. I didn’t feel comfortable anymore. I knew I wasn’t making a difference anywhere. And then Ben relapsed. My anger skyrocketed. What was the point of anything? Why should I care about God? He didn’t care about me… he certainly didn’t care about my beautiful seven-year-old son. And to sit there, with Ben on my lap, and have to explain to him that his cancer had returned and answer his question of “Am I going to die?”… what kind of God would put a child through that?

One that watched His own child suffer and eventually die, knowing it would all work out for a greater good. A supreme sacrifice.

Please do not think that I’m comparing Ben with Christ. All I know is my life and how it pertains to me. And it’s been painful. It’s been hard. It’s been debilitating at times. But there’s a lot of beauty to it, too. And the fact that I’ve made it through so many storms only to remain standing in HIS presence (even after taking a break while I worked through my mad) well, I’ll keep walking with Him. He made the supreme sacrifice for me. For Ben. For you. For all of us.

Things don’t always work out the way we want them to. In fact, that’s rarely the case. And really, if you truly think about it, it’s always for a greater good. And He can take it when we’re mad with Him. He loves us just the same.

I always wanted to be Irish — or at least have some sort of ethnic background to grab onto other than being mired in the gaucheness of being sans pedigree. I’m a mutt, plain and simple. A mixture of whatever was around at any given point in time. Evidently, my relatives didn’t stick to the guidelines of staying true to any sort of “roots”. They’re more of the belief system of “love the one you’re with”. Or perhaps they were attracted to tragic stories like Romeo and Juliet or Maria and Tony from West Side Story? The excitement of crossing ethnic and cultural boundaries was just too much of a temptation for my people?  I can’t fault them, I suppose. We are the stuff that makes our Nation the Great American Melting Pot (go ahead and dig out your School House Rock DVD – The Great American Melting Pot was one of the better “lessons”). I guess I could claim whichever heritage grabs my interest since I’m a little bit of everything. And since I resemble the Irish with my red hair, fair skin, blue eyes, and keen interest in anything slightly resembling tap dancing (although I could never hold my arms completely still like the Irish dancers do) I think I’ll glom onto the Irish. Aye. Plus, I love the idea of calling potato chips “crisps”.

So, with my newly adopted Irish heritage, I can dive head first into celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

St. Patrick, you know, was NOT Irish. He was born into a wealthy Romano-British family during the fifth century. At the age of sixteen (in his “Pre-Sainthood” life) he was kidnapped by Irish raiders and held captive as a slave on the coast of Ireland.  While in captivity, young Patrick had a dream where God told him to flee from his captors, so flee he did. He hopped a boat back to Britain and joined the church upon his arrival. He eventually studied to become a priest.

Somewhere in his later years he was called back to Ireland to save the Irish people. Legend has it that St. Patrick used the shamrock to explain the Trinity (The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) to those he was trying to convert. It’s widely known that the Irish are visual learners, so he was quite successful in his conversion endeavors. Oh, okay. I don’t know this to be a fact. But I am a visual learner and I am Irish. Therefore, all Irish people are visual learners. Isn’t that basic philosophical statistics? Based on my Philosophy 110 class at Ohio University (that I had to take twice) this is, indeed, a fact. Anyway, St. Patrick later died in Ireland, on March 17, 461, and a holiday was born.

While St. Patrick’s Day formally began as a Catholic holiday, it has gradually morphed into a more secular celebration of Ireland’s culture. It’s usually seen as a one-day break during Lent (the 40 day period of fasting) thus becoming a holiday revolving around drinking. I guess because alcohol is what many people would give up for Lent? I don’t know. It’s just a guess.

I think St. Patrick’s Day is truly the reason I wish to be Irish. I am not a fan of holidays in the traditional sense, usually because holidays are fraught with stress and family drama. There’s such high expectations for Christmas to award the “perfect gift”, Thanksgiving to show others that you’re so thankful for them that you can’t live without them, and Valentine’s Day necessitates getting creative enough to prove enough love to last until Sweetest Day. I’m not a fan of expectations (a definite side effect of my pantophobia). But I’m a big fan of small surprises. Like receiving a green marker on St. Patrick’s Day. That, to me, would be perfect. Something I didn’t expect. Something that speaks to me personally since I’m obsessed with markers and a variety of other office supplies. I never played “house” when I was younger, I always played “office”. I’ll take a stapler over domestic chores any day! But back to St. Patrick’s Day – that’s clearly the holiday for me. No expectations. And you can drink green beer if you want to. Take in a parade if the mood strikes. Wear green, which is a good color choice for me.

And when I truly think about it, this is the time of year when I met my musical idol, Peter Frampton. I was a big fan of his from the age of six (thanks to having an older sister who was also into music). I played “Frampton Comes Alive” on my turntable so many times that I went through approximately five copies of his double-live album. I even had it on 8-track. So, fast forward a few years to my early 20’s. I went to see Peter in Cincinnati and actually met him after the show. I blurted (maniacally) that I was a huge fan of his. He said that he was going to be in Columbus for a show on St. Patrick’s Day and I said (maniacally) “I KNOW! I’M GOING!”. He then asked me if I was a weirdo, which deflated me a bit. Then he suggested that we catch up with each other while he was in town. So, I remember green beer and pool playing with my musical idol, which I guess is what endears me to St. Patrick’s Day instead of the original thought of my wishing to be Irish.

So, never mind. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone.

I wear the same diamond stud earrings almost every day. I stole them from my mother many moons ago (she does know that I have them). They are simple, elegant, and go with everything. If she were ever to take them back, I’d have to save my allowance to get another pair just like them. I love them that much.

I don’t have a ton of jewelry, but what I do have is very high quality. I have a ruby ring and earrings that my parents gave me (I’m a July baby and ruby is my birthstone). And I have a strand of pearls and matching studs that I pull out for special occasions. My parents got those for me as well. My parents have excellent taste in jewelry, and if I could have escaped with more family jewels, I imagine I would have.

I’ve recently been studying art deco design since seeing the Chrysler Building and Empire State Building lobby in New York City – I’m completely captivated by this particular style. During my research I stumbled upon a website featuring art deco rings and I’ve fallen in love. I would say that simplicity has always ruled my sense of style – never wanting to draw attention to myself – but I think I’m beginning to evolve. Things that I always tried to run from – the color of my hair, the fairness of my skin, the curves that have “plagued” me (AKA: my big butt) – I’m learning to embrace them. I’m learning that I’m a bit more complex than a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. And when I write my first best-seller, I’m going to buy myself a beautifully ornate art deco diamond ring. Or, if the book doesn’t work out, I can just save up my allowance and buy one when I’m 90.

Actually, one of my jewels is right here beside me. My Madeline. She’s a one-of-a-kind. Her birthday is in April so she is fortunate enough to actually have the diamond as her birthstone. Being a diamond certainly fits her: she is vibrant, commands attention, and is very sparkly!  Ben, being a June baby, is my pearl. Quiet, cultured, takes his time so he can turn out something stunning. Both of my children are such treasures.

I met a lot of “gems” on this trip to New York. Getting out and walking around showed me a different side of the city and I was completely charmed. People went out of their way to be kind to Ben – from a man with Miniature Pinschers in Central Park to a man on the subway sharing his prayers to some very generous people on our flight back to Denver – so many people went out of their way for Ben. While the trip from a medical perspective was a bust, the people we met more than made up for it.

Thursday was the most emotional day of all. We went to the hospital to get blood work done only to be severely disappointed with the results. His counts would not support a surgical procedure at this time. I was surprised to learn that they usually wait about five weeks after the last round of chemo to do any surgical procedures, so why they had us come out so soon after his chemo is beyond me. Just another link in the frustrating chain called childhood cancer.

So, when we received the news that his counts were too low, they suggested giving him a platelet transfusion and then told us to go home. Going home, however, wasn’t just a jump in the car and get on the road. We had to call our friend with the buddy passes to get a flight home. Rush from his transfusion to check out of the Ronald McDonald House (which has to be cleaned – including washing the linens before check out). Roll our bags to the corner and hail a cab. Get the only female cabbie in the city, who was not an aggressive driver. She asked me which route I wanted to take to the airport and I said “the fastest”. She then told me that I picked the wrong time of day to get to the airport quickly, which nearly sent me over the edge. I was sweaty from cleaning like a maniac, packing quickly, running to catch a cab… all of this coming at me at the very last minute. I almost broke down. I asked her to just do the best she could – whatever happened, happened. We would either be killed by a more aggressive driver or we’d make it to the airport in a day or so.

I knew that the flight we were hoping to get on was booked to capacity, but we had to at least try. So, we showed up (safely, I should add) and checked in. I got the look of “Are you REALLY trying to get on this flight?” from the woman checking us in. And that’s when I started to cry. The day had been really disappointing, I just wanted to get out of there.

When we got to the gate, there was a young man in front of me also trying to get on the flight. He looked at me with the territorial “I got here first” and I glanced over at my bald headed son sleeping in a wheelchair, which meant to imply “I don’t care if you got here first, we’ll be getting on that plane ahead of you.” We both stood there, staring each other down, and he started to chat. He said, “I’ve been trying to get out of here all day. I need to get to Denver because my band has a gig.” I just smiled at him through my exhausted, tear-streaked eyes and wished him luck. Then I noticed the lady from the check-in counter speaking with the man at the gate. I couldn’t make out what she was saying but she kept looking at me while she whispered to her colleague. I thought she said something like “we have to get that baby on the plane,” which led me to believe that she was doing her best to help us get on the flight.

Finally, after all the ticketed passengers had boarded, there were five of us standing there getting ready to shred the gate agent. He said, “By the way, you all got on”. There was an audible sigh of relief. The guy trying to get to his gig nearly cried. He looked at me and said that he was having such a moral conflict of wanting to get to his gig versus letting the cancer kid go home. He was glad he didn’t have to make that decision.

Ben and I were the last ones on the plane. And, of course, we were in the very last row. So we had to walk down the long aisle, bumping everyone’s elbows with our bags as we passed, but it seemed that everyone was genuinely happy that we made the flight. As I buckled Ben into his seat my body started to shake. Too much stress and no more room for it. Some of it had to come out. So, the tears started to flow.

The man in the seat next to me was very comforting. We started to chat a bit about Ben’s condition which morphed into a 3 1/2 hour conversation about a little bit of everything. The most incredible tid-bit of information I learned was that he used to TAP DANCE on BROADWAY!!!! I nearly fell out of my seat since tap dancing is my absolute favorite! I was prepared to cry all the way back to Denver, but, thanks to my neighbor on the plane (and a Bloody Mary) the day ended on a much better note. He was an incredible ray of sunshine.

We also met a breast cancer survivor on our flight back to Denver. She made sure we were set up with snacks for the flight. She works in Manhattan, but her husband is stationed at Ft Buckley here in Colorado. She was so incredible and wanted to offer her services anytime we were coming to New York. She said that she can assist in getting tickets to baseball games, take us out to dinner, whatever we needed. While we were waiting for our bags to arrive in the airport, she gave Ben a $100 gift card and told him to buy himself a couple of games for his DS. Wow.

So, we didn’t accomplish the medical aspect of why we were in New York City, which was a big fat bummer. But we were able to meet jewel after jewel in a city that is not exactly known for having people with sweet dispositions. I know that we were blessed to the meet the rarest gems the city had to offer. And that experience was priceless.

Carlos Ray “Chuck” Norris is 70 years old today. I would have NEVER guessed this to be his age, but honestly, I haven’t given old Chuck a whole lot of thought until just right this minute. I know there’s been a big revival of “Chuckisms” swirling about the Internet but I hadn’t done any research on it – until today.

I found a website dedicated to “Chuck Norris-isms” and decided to import the following: 1) It only takes Chuck Norris one roundhouse kick to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll flavored Tootsie Pop. 2) Chuck Norris once tried to sue Burger King after they refused to put razor wire in his Whopper Jr., insisting that that actually is “his” way. 3) Chuck Norris has the greatest Poker-Face of all time. He won the 1983 World Series of Poker, despite holding only a Joker, a Get out of Jail Free Monopoloy card, a 2 of clubs, 7 of spades and a green #4 card from the game UNO. 4) Some people wear Superman pajamas. Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas. Number three is my personal favorite. However, you can choose your own favorite from the list here: http://historyaddict.com/chucknorrisisms.htm.

My whole body hurts today. I’m not sure if it’s all the walking I’ve been doing or the simple fact that the stress is finally catching up to me, but my head is throbbing and my soul is weary. I am very anxious for counts tomorrow morning so we can figure out what’s next. Either he’ll pass and we’ll get set up for surgery ASAP or he won’t and we’ll go back to Colorado. The reason that we’ll have to go back instead of waiting it out is that Dr. LaQuaglia is going out of town in the middle of next week for a conference and if we can’t get in for surgery, there’s no reason to stick around here. Plus, I’m running out of money (even MORE incentive to walk everywhere, plus, anyone trying to mug me will be sorely disappointed!)

If we head back to Colorado in the next couple of days, I imagine that means we’ll start the whole vicious cycle all over again. They’ll want to do low dose chemo so the spot that is currently in him won’t grow anymore, which will lead to being sick all over again, and then the start of more shots, needing more transfusions, and rebounding all over again just to get back to the point we are right now. One step forward, five steps back. So, hopefully, he’ll pass tomorrow morning and we can get surgery over with on Friday. We really need to get on the other side of this hurdle. I’ll tell ya, being in limbo is exhausting. Will we clear the pole and move to the next level or will we get smacked in the heads and be forced to sit on the sidelines? Purgatory. This in-between stage stinks. No wonder the Catholics want to avoid it in their afterlife.

Maybe Chuck Norris is in NYC tonight celebrating his big 7-0. Maybe we should hunt him down and ask him to scare the cancer out of my Bean. I bet Mr. Norris would be more than willing to deliver a roundhouse kick to the beast messing with my son. And then we could get on with our lives already.