Storm Chasers

   Walking down the stair-well to the my car, I remark on the familiar smell or damp cement and dry wall mud.  I wonder when the cavern of steps will loose its fresh construction sent.  After all, the rest of the place has.  It smells of plastic and hospital hand soap.  A little hint of bleach and urine odor lingers just under the perfume of of bathroom cleaning products.  And, on special days, like the last day of someones chemo or when the really old guy comes in the make a visit after years in remission, there is the sweet scent of chocolate cake and flowers for the nurses.
   I got up from my recliner and high tailed it out of the cancer center infusion room as quickly as the Easter bunny today.  On the way out, a Black Cloud tried to ring me into his world of doom and gloom with his remark, "Boy, that was fast." 
  Yep, Mr. Black Cloud, I couldn't hear one more world from your mouth about how your days are numbered.  Seriously, get an emotional filter and keep your doom and gloom to yourself. 
   Yes, it is true, I have had my days.  I have cried so hard they had to bring me my own Kleenex box.  I called out, "I can't do this anymore.  I can't do this for the rest of my life."  Oh, yes, I have had my days.  And I sincerely apologize to all the patience that had to hear me fall apart wondering if I will get to rock my grandchildren to sleep for their mother and father twenty some odd years from now.  And yes, please, let me know if I am being too loud and damping your spirit.
   But, Mr. Black Clouds, and it does tend to be the males in the room, please do not actively spread your storm over the entire joint.  Today, my friend, I wasn't in the mood.  Today, I had treatment.  Just treatment.  No need for cancer talk.  No new turn events for the worse.  No, just a two hour sit in a chair with a plastic tube sticking out of my chest getting some might fine drugs.  Yes, I am in a pleasant mood.  These drugs, though sad in that I have to have them, are giving me life.  They are my soldiers.  You, those drugs marching down your plastic tubes, yes, those ones that make you feeling like you have been sucking on a dirty nickle your kid found in the parking lot, yes those, they are doing what they can to keep you alive too.  So do what you can to keep yourself going for a really long time and turn that frown into an upside down rainbow smile.  Fake it if you have to.  I do.  Stop being a storm chaser and run.  Run fast.  Run before the storm drowns you.
    Oh, please, Mr. Black Cloud, when you walk down the stair well to your car, notice the smell of cement and wall board.  Notice it because it is beautiful in its simplicity.  Run towards those moments between your thoughts.  Notice the details.  It is the details, the cracks, the pauses that will chase your storm away.

PS: What will you smell today?  What will you smell that will turn your gloom into rainbows?  Oh yes, that hospital hand soap, well it reminds me of my babies.  In all the hospital stays I have had to endure over the past two years, it is the birth of my two children that the smell contains.  It embodies the love in their beaded eyes as they looked up through their tiny eyelashes and cried to tell me they were hungry; a hunger only I could fill.  Yes, I love hospital hand soap.  It is happiness.

It's my brithday, and I will cry if I want to.

Why throw a party for yourself?  I mean, come on, you are 36, and it isn't like you are a spring chicken or anything.  Today has a lot of meaning to me.  Two years ago, on my 34 th birthday, I was recovering from a liver biopsy.  I felt dopey and nauseated still from the sedatives (I hate opiates.)  My side hurt and it was hard to breath as they did pass through my lung to get there. 
   Two years ago and twenty days ago, I was a stage two breast cancer survivor.  Yet, just days before my birthday, just a week before my surgery, I slipped into a world that is unfathomable to most.  My ladies, my parents, my friends came to watch me animate the surgery on my breast cake topped with candied cherries for nipples.  Apparently I was quite humorous, but I really don't remember.
   A year ago, I threw a party on my birthday because I was in remission.  I was going to start a life "after cancer."  So of course, a party had to be held to share my joy.  Yet, through out the year, I tripped back into the cancer world and realized I was here to stay.  I realized stage four did not mean life after cancer.  No, stage four means life WITH cancer.
  Each birthday is a miracle from this point forward.  So, heck yah, I am throwing a party.  I am throwing a party because when I look in the mirror, I cry.  Yes, I am strong.  Yes, if there is anyone who can do this, it is me.  Yes, I meditate and sweat in hot yoga right through my days...so I can get through them to the next.  Yes, it really is more then I can handle.  It is.  So, heck yes, I will throw a party and see my friends as they hold me up with their safety net.  And yes, it is my party and I will cry if I want to.  Happy birthday to me.  Keep fighting baby because there is a lot of growing up and birthdays yet to see.

Safety Net

Sometimes, you feel like you are falling.  You had to take your shoes off to feel the Earth under your feet.  It was there but didn't feel so stable.  It is quaking.  You feel it because you are still.  Very still.  You are listening.  It is moving.  And you wonder if you will fall.  You fall.  There is a safety net just under the earth.  The net is made up of hands.  Woman hands.  They hold you up just above the dirt.  You are covered in dirt, but you are not falling through it.  Woman hands lifting you and helping you to stand again.  You quake.  Your muscles quake and rotate clockwise when you are still.  You listen.  You listen to the hands.  Woman hands.  A net woven through years of catching brides and old ladies with one hundred cats.  You hear them.  You are silent; standing now; feeling the earth beneath your toes.  Your muscles quake with joy.  Your toes feel your safety net just below the earth. Your woman hands.

Cover up

    Yesterday, I set out to restock my make-up drawer at a major make-up depratment store.  Wouldn't you know, just as I am falling in love with the third round of a lovely foundation by Stila, it is discontinued.  Oh, the tragedy, right?  Well, yes.  This is the third brand I have fallen in love with, and it was discontinued.  This was it, I sworn my vows of commitment.  And, her she was telling me it would no longer be available to fill my desires for a smooth complexion.
   So I found the palest, pimpliest, skinny broad in the joint and asked for her advise.  Yes, it took her a few suggestions and me telling her a bazillion times that I was a busy mom, my face is covered in acne and scares, and I needed one, you hear me, one great cover up foundation that wasn't going to start dripping off my chin shall I venture to pool side or have a hot flash.  (Okay, I am not having those so much anymore...rather I am freezing my but off when it is 63 degrees.  But, alas, I have had them for nearly a year once upon a chemo and now understand I have completely no control over this body my brain is living in.  So, it could happen.)  So yes, the young lady understands, one application, good coverage, no cakey mess, mineral based sans phillates, parabens, and all other carcinogenic chemicals that the government still allows to flood the industry and our water table.  La Roc.  I have not tried it yet as I am busy squeezing the very last, slightly dried out drop of foundation out of my Stila One Step pump.
   All the while, I day dream of the time, be it short, that I went out in public without my armor honoring my blemishes with nonchalance.  When did I become this person who can only smile at her reflection when she has a little cover up on?  I know when.  I knew exactly when.

Through What Exactly?

I was given a book titled Just Get Me Through This, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago.  I was stage IIb at that time.  Get me through it.  Got me through it.  It was helpful in going through emotions and types of treatments even after I suddenly slipped into stage IV.
   I did get through it.  I had chemo over a six month period, multiple surgeries, lost my hair, lost my breasts (one twice,) and popped up on the other side of the waterfall in a big ol' comfy life raft.  Little did I know that I would be getingtrhoughit over and over again.  This is what stage IV means. 
     There are many oxymorons in stage IV cancer of any type.  There is sort of an excitement during chemo; lots of support, cheerlaedering, goals, and a celebration (sort of) in the end when you getthroughit.  Yet, who wants to go through chemo?  No one.  There is the excitement of getting the stamp of approval for N.E.D.  Yet, there is a bit of the let down when the cards stop coming and the cheerleaders go home.  It is similar to being a movie star with all the paparazzi.  Then suddenly, the paparazzi finds interest in the new young thang and stop hounding you. Yes, they were annoying and what a relief to go shopping without your make-up and body guard.  But, where did they all go?  Does anyone care anymore?
    Sure they do care. 
    The oxymorons pop up everywhere and happen to about any survivor.  It is part of what the psychology community call survivor guilt...and we aren't talking about only cancer survivors.  Today, I spent my two hours in infusion talking with three survivor friends.  And, we all share these feelings as we wait for our scan results.  Will they show one more thing I have to survive through, or will I be given my free ticket to soar beyond cancer for another six months? 
    Watchful waiting.  That is what our doc calls it.  This translates into: I know you will have a recurrence, it could be tomorrow or twenty years.  But, it is going to happen.  We are waiting for it.
     Alas, I am happy to report that all my scans and tests show that I am S.E.D (Slight Evidence of Disease.)  Yes, we stage IV survivors coined that term today, and it will be published in my dictionary of cancer terms right after chemocation.  See, I still have a speck of tumor still sitting between my ears on top of my brain stem like a diamond on a royal septor.  We are watchfully waiting.  Watchful waiting for it to blossom once more.  It will happen.  I don't know when.  It is like living in California.  There will be an earthquake, we just don't know when.  And this waiting is exhausting.  So excuse me if I feel like crying instead of jumping for join to be S.E.D.  Okay, maybe I will jump for joy after I sleep off my Benadryl stooper.   Okay fine, you talked me into it...jumping now.  I am jumping because the day is so beautiful, and I am not dead today.  That is enough to jump for, right?
    There is a title of a book sitting in the oncology waiting room:  Living with Cancer.  "Hi, my name is Sara.  Do you want to live together?  Oh, you say it is a life-time contract?  I am not too sure I am okay with that.  Oh, you will go on vacations frequently?  That would be okay.  But, you will also come back?  I guess I can getthroughit when you return.  Just don't stay too long, okay?  And, don't leave me too tired from cleaning up your mess when you leave."

Get over it already!

Okay, so all I heard coming out of chemo was...it will all be over soon.  So  I waited to have it be over.  October happened, then a surgery to fix my lame wannabe breasts.  Boom, December radiation on my liver.  but alas, by February I was running, a little, and growing some major fuzzy hair on one itchy scalp.  Pow!  April!  One year survivorship and a official stamp of N.E.D. (No Evidence of Disease.)  I rocked that with my pixie style hairdo and pretended I looked hotter then that mother alien lizard-woman-queen on the sitcom V.  
   And then there was the let down.  12 months, no15 months, of worrying, fighting, pep talks, and feeling pretty gross suddenly became history.  MY history.  Here was one young woman who beat the odds and was released to the wind for years of watchful waiting.  Summer came, I ran further, I lost ten pounds, I spent a lot of time with my kids, and I figured out how to manage my feelings of a life full of interruptions every three weeks to get my Herceptin treatments.  And let me tell you, that wasn't an easy task.  No one except my mom and my nurses really was part of those trying days.  But, I did it.  I figured out how to come to terms that would have chemo-mini-cations for the rest of my life.
    October, six months of remission, there is something wrong with my appendix.  I thought I had colon cancer.  No, just some weird mucus crud growing my appendix.  Seriously, it never occurred to me that I was going to the rest room like every hour all of a sudden because my appendix was eight times to size it should be and totally stabbing right into my other organs.  I avoided a "Jelly Belly." 
    Okay, not cancer, but another month of laying of the workout routines, another five pounds gained, and some major inconvenience in the household routines due to no heavy lifting.  An independent woman yet again controlled by the uncontrollable.  But, again, I recovered and settled into a busy life feeling pretty good.  A life only interrupted a couple of days every three weeks.
   December, I thought I was living a pretty normal life. Oh, my vision is aging just like everyone else in the world.  Time for glasses.  I hadn't been to an eye doctor in nearly ten years.  Oh, did I mention I was a breast cancer survivor?  Really, you want to look in my retinas?  Okay, an MRI?  Like today?  This afternoon?  You say my left eye is no longer moving?  This sounds serious.
   In two weeks, I am blazed through on the fast train.  MRIs, CTs, blood draws, mask fittings, Herceptin infusion, radiation to my brain tumors, and three new doctors added to my Rolodex.  Seriously, this surviving thing (excuse me) is getting really fucked up.
   So I do it again, I speak with God and my Papa and figure out how to do it...again.  I almost died, again, but survived.  Yes, I will live today, tomorrow and on through this month.  That is as long as I am not in some car accident or something.  But, I had to come to terms that knowing I am alive today is good enough.  It is good enough because it will be a miracle if I get to be the wiser age of my mother. 
   Now, this is not supposed to be a sober story, just a reality.  I go for a run.  My toes are painfully throbbing in my shoes.  But "f "that; I am running.  I am here and my breasts don't move. In fact, it is so cold outside that they are as hard as rocks and press into my rib cage making it hard to inhale.  I am in yoga.  I am in the front row to the left of center so I can see using both eyes.  I am in mountain pose with my arms reaching for the heavens.  My left pit is sunken, missing something, and the muscle that they pulled up and over to support the implant is stretched taunt.  But I am in yoga.  I do eagle pose and wrap my body in a full twist beyond any I accomplished when I was 19.  My balance falters on my right foot.
   My thoughts are ramped and odd.  Maybe they aren't odd if you know you are going to die soon.  No, not this year.  I think about how I haven't taken my kids to the beach enough.  I haven't shown them the beauty of the places I have seen as a youth.  I haven't been to the East in the autumn to see the trees nor have I been to Paris nor Venice.  I haven't taken my kids hiking enough and now it maybe too late.  Yet, the things they know is outstanding.  They are pretty smart, well-rounded kids and, apparently, are the center of my Earth.
    There is a feeling of fleeting impatience to do all that I ever thought I might.  Yet, there is a pull to stay regular and normal.  It is confusing.  I have been here before.  When one comes off the drama of surviving, it is exciting...normalcy.  Yet, there is the let down.  All this working and now what?  Now what do I do and think about?  The cards stopped coming months ago.  Well, not the ones from my sister (thank you.)  And I just don't know what to tell you when you ask:  How are you doing?  I am fine.  My life is not much different from yours.  Well, I hope that is what you think.  There is still a lot of pain.  But, this is as good as it gets.  I want more.  Just like you.  I want more then I have right now.  I want to get out.  I want out of the control of cancer.  I want to soar free, do what I have always dreamed, and show my kids some really cool things.  But then again, I need a nap.  Yes, I will close my eyes for a few minutes if my son is willing to take a nap too.  Then, again, maybe I just need some studio time.  You now what, I am an artist first, right?  Dear cancer, can I take a break from you so I can get a few pieces done for my next show in 18 days?

The Half Past Midnight

   Where or where has our Midnight Housewife gone?  Well...to bed.  Sort of.  Since the wonderful little tumors popped in my grey matter between my ears, my Housewifeliness has taken a back burner.  Perfection has made way for exhaustion, and shiny wood floors have made way for a matte finish.  Yes, my schedules have been stashed to be admired by my daughter when she becomes a mom of young children.
   It is now four months from the Dark Side taking over my brain.  I have healed, rested, shrunk tumors, regained most of my normal vision, rested, and desperately clawed at a sense of normalcy...for the third time in two years.  This cancer stuff takes up a lot of time.  March was a month packed full of doctor appointments and diagnostic scans.  The conclusion, on the eve of my initial diagnoses date of April 2, 2009, is that I am as good as I can be.  Well, I suppose running my full three mile loop without stopping this morning and having a mopped  floor (which I did just do at 10 pm) are both pretty good markers of normalcy for me.  There is still a speck of tumor between my ears and dangerously close to my sixth nerve of my left eye, but this is as close to being done with all this current episode. 
   So the Midnight Housewife has had to find new routines.  Namely, working late in the night is not much of an option.  My body is pretty fatigued and heavy in the evening.  I try to lay down around 2 pm for at least 30 minutes everyday.  When I do this, I can more likely make it through dinner time without becoming confused when I am cooking dinner and burning down the house.  This sounds sort of funny.  The more tired I am, the more I can't sort my thoughts, stutter, and have some difficulty focusing my eyes.  The nap really helps to avoid this.  But, do remember I am a mom of two young kids.  Luckily, the kindergartner still enjoys a nap from time to time.  And, he really loves watching 30 minutes of cartoons if he isn't in the mood to close his eyes.  The eldest, however, is a different story.  Being spring break this past week, she has learned that she can't come in and wake me up every five minutes to show me what she has done to Barbie's hair.  And, she often crawls in my bed next to me, snuggles up like a little kitty, and falls asleep herself.  I am proud that my kiddos are learning to adapt to my needs.  See, napping, is a need when one is taking two chemo-class drugs and 17 other pills a day plus Zofran and Tylenol as needed.
    Another major adaption in my house keeping duties is protecting my digits.  Due to the Tykerb, my finger tips have developed painful fissures.  The tips often turn purple, pruned, and loose sensation.  My toes form blisters along the nail bed and are extremely painful when stepped on, even by a bare foot, 38 pound five year old.  I have always been very picky about my nails and hands.  I have taken great pride in the fact that my grandmother used to try to talk me into being a hand model for commercials and advertisements.  Now, when I bang my fingers during dish washing or prick my finger sewing, I just bust out crying. 
     But, enough of this sob story, this finger issue has required me to adjust my cleaning.  Having tiny hands, I hate wearing gloves that are always too big and cumbersome.  So I have opted to attempt to clean in other ways so my hands are not soaked or exposed to things that will make them sting and hurt.  Oh, and applying lots of lotion constantly helps tremendously.
   The Midnight Housewife has returned to a full day work schedule.  But, there is a lot that goes incomplete or takes longer to accomplish then in her past life BC.  One task gets done in a day that used to comfortably fit ten.  I work out nearly every day to keep this body moving and fighting.  And that takes up a lot of my time.  So the dust bunnies multiply and the spit on the bathroom mirrors mock me.  But, it is getting done.  Yes, slowly, but done just in time to do it again.  Midnight has become 8 pm. Well, sort of.  My brain is still up well past half past midnight, the body is just in shut-off mode.  In fact, it is telling me to log off as we speak...half hour before midnight.  Goodnight.