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Friday, June 13, 2008 6:37 AM CDT
Hey, long time no update. I mean ... wow .... like a LONG time no update!!!
That's because life has changed for the Escoe family, and in a good way. Instead of dealing with the physical and emotional fall-out of pediatric cancer, our family now deals with the typical, normal, every-day-ness of busy life with three kids in school, sports, and various other activities, a dad who still serves in the Air Force, and a mom who pulls her hair out on a routine basis trying to keep up with them all (as most moms are prone to do, don't you think?)
If you've been sent here because of something ALL-related, please feel free to browse the journal history as it details our daughter's care and treatment, and the various and sundry ways we tried to keep our heads above water during the course of it. Humor is the best medicine, but what's funny about a bald kid throwing a complete screaming fit because her steroid cravings have kicked in and her mother had the audacity to eat one of 24 Pizza Hut breadsticks that the screaming bald kid wanted all for herself???? (Wait, in hindsight, it was pretty funny ... although not so funny at the time.)
Feel free to contact me personally for advice; feel free to contact me for advice about online support groups (there are some amazing ones out there); feel free to contact me simply because you've gotten up at 3am to make the macaroni and cheese that your kid on steroids is demanding and now you can't get back to sleep.
Otherwise, you can follow along with our family in our new location: Not Quite What I Had Planned. Hope to see you there!
Thursday, January 11, 2007 8:05 PM CST
I want to thank all of you who took the time to not only read the first topic of discussion on the site, "Signs, Symptoms, and Diagnosis" but especially those who took the time to write out your own experiences for contribution. The stories were touching, poignant, and even brought me, a person with a shriveled up raisin for a heart, near tears, reading and feeling your words of trust, loyalty, conviction, shock, hurt, loss, hope, and healing.
Terry and I have great faith that this is only the beginning of a mighty and powerful project. Granted, starting the project two weeks before Christmas probably wasn't the best timing ever, so let me apologize now if you contacted me with your story and didn't hear back immediately. I was out of town, and obviously, insane out of my head.
But we sincerely appreciate those of you who have commented, and hope all of you will continue to do so. Still feel free to send me your diagnosis story ... there is no deadline for contribution. And if you didn't have the time to do it during the holidays, please know we'd still love to hear from you on that, or this, or any of our future topics.
Again, because I am a chronological-minded person, I'm just moving forward ... baby steps, baby steps. The topic now is "Induction .... The First 28 Days of Treatment."
I also throw out the disclaimer one more time that I can only come at this from a leukemia-parent standpoint. I know things are done differently for different childhood cancers and illness, and hope the neuroblastoma, medulloblastoma, sarcoma, rhabdo, etc, parents will continue to chime in with their experiences as well.
Please send your stories to me at kristieokc@cox.net and be sure to keep an eye on Julianna's site for Terry's first topic, coming soon.
In the meantime, thanks in advance --- you guys rock and we're assembling a great gift for newly diagnosed families!!
Love, Kristie
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COLD WATER OVER YOUR HEAD
…. IE, WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED?
INDUCTION -- THE FIRST 28 DAYS OF TREATMENT
When your child is diagnosed with leukemia, the shock of it is like being immersed in a vat of icy, frigid water. It takes your breath away, you become numb, and the surprise and disbelief can be overwhelming. At least it was for me. I liken it to those crazy people (well, crazy as far as *I’m* concerned!) in the Polar Bear Clubs who like to jump into the Arctic Ocean or Lake Michigan or wherever it is they go on New Years Day. The difference is that the Polar Bear members jump around, laughing and shivering and freezing their tushes off for a few minutes. Then they get out, run to grab a warm blanket, a jacket, and a Starbucks double caramel mocha latte, and have bragging rights for the next year.
The cold shock of a cancer diagnosis, unfortunately, can’t be chased away with a fleece blanket and a thermos of coffee. As parents, we’ve been dumped into these freezing waters, and like it or not, we’re going to have to tread water for a while, until we become acclimated to the temperature.
It is easy to feel overwhelmed at first, and stressed by the things that are happening both to you and around you. This chapter will discuss things you can possibly expect at the beginning from your doctors, the hospital, and your child himself. (Usual disclaimer about this not being a medical journal, nor should it be taken as medical advice…… we share these personal stories in the hopes our experiences can help new families going through those difficult first days.)
The first goal of treatment, no matter who you are or where you’re being treated, is to get your child into remission as soon as possible. Most likely your child has already had certain procedures done that have led to this diagnosis; blood draws, bone marrow aspirations, bone biopsies, spinal taps, etc. Now, quickly, it will be time for more treatments, to begin ridding the body of all leukemia cells as quickly as possible.
Your child will most likely have surgery to have a port or external catheter placed in their body. From that point on, blood can be drawn, and chemo and certain medications given, through these devices, hopefully eliminating the need for finger and arm sticks. If you child hasn’t already had one, a lumbar puncture (spinal tap) will most likely be done to determine whether or not there are leukemia cells in the spinal fluid; this will determine certain treatment decisions down the road.
The treatment for ALL consists primarily of chemotherapy. Certain risk factors might indicate a need for radiation, or more intense treatment such as bone marrow or stem cell transplants …. (these treatments will be discussed later.) But for now, chemotherapy will begin quickly.
Different facilities use slightly different treatment protocols, but typically, the first twenty-eight days of chemotherapy treatment are called “Induction”. This is fairly standard no matter where your facility is located, or what protocol your facility uses.
The goal of induction is to rid the body of leukemia cells as quickly as possible. Children can and will receive drugs orally, via shots, via IV, via their port, via a spinal tap, or any combination of these methods. At the beginning of induction, following diagnosis, children usually remain hospitalized for treatment, transfusions, etc. Then, depending on how they respond, they could be released to spend the remainder of the four weeks receiving chemotherapy on an outpatient basis. It is not uncommon for children to be hospitalized again during that time for fevers, complications, or side effects from the drugs.
Again, depending on your treatment facility, at various times throughout induction your child will receive certain procedures such as additional bone marrow aspirations, spinal taps, and MRD testing to gauge the effectiveness of the treatment at a given point in time. If at the end of 28 days your child is considered in remission, the next phase of treatment will begin. The good news is the vast majority (statistics show 98%) of children diagnosed with ALL *will* be in remission at this time.
Equally as important as understanding what is happening with your child medically, is understanding what is happening with your child from a social and emotional standpoint. Children are diagnosed with cancer at all ages and stages of development. The ways in which they respond and cope will be varied, based on many factors. None are exactly right; none are exactly wrong. Remember that no matter how overwhelmed *you* might feel at the beginning, what is happening to your child is ten times more overwhelming. Add in the fact they don’t have the coping skills of an adult, they are frightened, they don’t feel good, and they’re being pumped full of medicines which alter how they look and feel …. Well, it’s no wonder their world seems turned inside out. Parents are their primary support system, their advocates, their cheerleaders. Thankfully, the vast majority are up for the job.
“We took Kendrie to the emergency room at our local hospital, who transferred her via ambulance to the local Children’s hospital where she was diagnosed, then she was taken via ambulance again (my older kids were *extremely* jealous!) to another Children’s hospital to begin treatment.
Those initial days following diagnosis, and the first few weeks of treatment, were terrifying. I remember walking through the doors of the treating hospital’s pediatric oncology unit for the first time, seeing that “Aflac Cancer Center” sign, walking behind the ambulance drivers and Kendrie on a gurney on the way to *our* room, and looking over at the nurses’ desk, where a teen-age patient was chatting, bald as a cue ball. I remember thinking, ‘Oh, no, there has been a BIG mistake!’ I kept waiting for someone to come and tell me her chart had been mixed up with someone else’s. There was no way *WE* were supposed to be here!
But the next day she had another bone marrow aspiration to confirm the diagnosis, and the next day she had surgery to have her port placed, and that night they started chemo. Tell me again how this had happened to us??? I was frantically trying to be all things to all people; Informed parent, snatching every book I could get my hands on about leukemia, and staying up all night, reading by the light of her IV machine …. Messenger parent to family and friends, trying to explain to them what was happening when I didn’t understand myself …. Cooperative, helpful parent to the staff. In hindsight, perhaps on occasion, a little too cooperative. Most importantly, Safety base parent for my daughter, the person she could trust to protect her, encourage her, support her, and watch out for her.
We were fortunate that we were being treated in a top-notch facility with top-notch staff that made me feel comfortable right from the beginning. Battling doctors or nurses was not something I would have had the energy or stamina for during induction, so I’m grateful they treated me and Kendrie with compassion and respect. Even given our good relationship, there are a few things I would have changed, in hindsight:
On the very first night we took Kendrie to our local ER, the person trying to draw her blood obviously didn’t have much experience working with children. Add in to the mix the fact Kendrie was four years old (a YOUNG four, having just celebrated her birthday.) She was too old to be complacent, but not old enough to be reasonable. That initial evening in the emergency room was a nightmare; she was panicked and screaming as they held her down on the table, begging me to “make them stop hurting her”, and underwent numerous, unsuccessful needle sticks, until finally she was papoose-wrapped so they could just dig in.
I truly believe that single event set the tone for an on-going phobia Kendrie developed regarding shots, needles, bandages, etc, for the duration of her treatment. Now, I look back and wonder, why didn’t they use emla cream or freeze-y spray before drawing the blood? She wasn’t in CRISIS mode … waiting a few moments to utilize pain management methods wouldn’t have hurt anyone, and it could have helped alleviate years of stress and anxiety. I didn’t know about “magic” cream, or options like that, so I didn’t ask for it. I regret that. I also regret that I didn't know general anesthesia was an option for her first BMA. She was only under light sedation, and when the oncologist couldn't aspirate enough marrow for a proper sample, he was forced to resort to shaving off a piece of her hip bone for testing, and Kendrie was forced to endure that with only a light sedative for relief. Later in treatment, I watched her have a bone marrow aspiration, again, without general anesthesia. It was one of the most painful and difficult things I have ever endured as a parent, made worse by the fact *she* was the one who was suffering and frightened and expected me to take away the hurt, which I couldn't do.
It didn’t help things during induction when the day after admission, before she had her port, another phlebotomist again had trouble drawing her blood and had to stick her several times … only to blow the vein ….and stick her again … Only to DROP THE VIAL AND BREAK IT after leaving our room. I realize complaining about a few blood draws, when you’re dealing with the bigger picture of childhood cancer, might seem petty. But when you are four years old, and in a strange place, and every person who walks through the door seems intent on hurting you, it’s not a good place to be mentally.
My toughest job at the beginning, besides trying to understand everything that was happening medically, was the balancing act of protecting Kendrie, and also cooperating without question (as is my nature) with the people trying to help her. In hindsight, I think I did ok. Not great, but ok. I wish I had done better.”
Top Five Things I Wish I Had Known Going Into Induction:
1. Just because they are medical professionals, doesn’t mean the way they are doing things is automatically the right way or the best way. Question everything, until you understand it. Good doctors and nurses will not get impatient with you for asking questions or with your child for being upset. This is a very upsetting time; they should understand and respect that.
2. If you see that your child has reached her mental or emotional limit, ask for a break. I’m not talking about the big stuff, like asking for a break from treatment, but rather things like a woman drawing blood five times in a row only to drop the vial and come right back in the room demanding to draw it again. I should have sent her away; I should have asked for someone else; I should have said no, give us five minutes so I can calm my child down. YOU are your child’s advocate, remember that.
3. No matter how happy you are to be leaving the hospital, when the time comes during induction to go home, you will be terrified. It’s like taking home a new baby without the joy and excitement. It’s overwhelming to think you will have to take care of this child, and this situation, on your own at home. But trust me, YOU CAN DO THIS!
4. Some of the medications they give your child during induction (we will discuss specific medications and side effects {ha-ha! steroids!} in a later chapter) will cause weight gain. Do not walk, RUN, to the nearest store and buy some elastic-waistband clothing, two sizes too big, and for the love of God, don’t buy anything that is tight-necked and has to go on over their head like a sweater or turtleneck (not that I’m speaking from personal experience, or anything.) Also regarding appearance, don’t feel bad or guilty if one of your first thoughts is whether or not your child will lose her hair. That’s a normal reaction, as well.
5. Don’t take it personally if your child withdraws, throws tantrums, cries, pouts, expresses fear, distrust, anger, panic, alarm, or doubt at everything that you say. Again, we’ll discuss these issues at greater length later. But for now, understand that their little world has been ROCKED and it is your job to make them feel safe again.
Thursday, December 21, 2006 4:27 PM CST
Update: December 29
Thanks so much to all of you who've sent me your symptoms/diagnosis stories. I'm using a borrowed computer right now while on vacation and haven't been able to respond to everyone personally, but please know that I have read each and every one and been truly touched.
There is no "deadline" for this project, so please consider sending your story in if you haven't already done so.
And one last thing, several of you have commented that you miss the more frequent updates (which is most likely a big fat lie, considering how dysfunctional my family truly is, but still very nice of you to say) so I think perhaps I haven't done a good job of letting you know that I've simply moved my daily blabbering to a different site. Not Quite What I Had Planned. Please feel free to visit there if you really want to hear what we're up to! :)
FIRST TOPIC
Thank you so much to all of you for your kind words and notes regarding Kendrie’s one-year Off-Treatment Anniversary. The milestone passed totally uneventfully …. none of the kids, Kendrie included, were anywhere near as impressed as I was with the significance of the day. Of course, they think the day nachos are served in the school cafeteria is Like! The! Best! Day! Ever! so maybe we’re coming at it from completely different angles. Oh well, *I* knew it was a fabulous day, and I thank all of you for making it even more fabulous with your messages and congratulations.
Thanks also for your enthusiasm regarding the writing project Terry and I are starting. We are so excited about this, and hope more than anything to get a lot of great, helpful feedback from all of YOU out there. **Yes, I mean you. Don't look around ... like you think maybe I'm talking to someone behind you ... I mean YOU!** Like I mentioned earlier, Terry and I will have different topics going at different times on our sites, and really, really, really, really want you to contribute if you feel comfortable doing so. Eventually, we might combine everything and move it to one basic site, but for now (at least through the holidays … what the heck were we thinking, launching a collaborative writing project two weeks before Christmas????) we’re going to set it up this way and share the finished project all around.
Because I am a chronological kind of gal, I’m starting at the beginning …. Diagnosis. I’m even going back a bit, to the signs and symptoms leading up to diagnosis. Because this time period was one of the harshest things I have ever experienced, and good grief, hope to never experience anything this grim again, I hope you’ll understand that my reflections are not exactly the stuff Comedy Central is made of. Later on, after the shock had worn off and we began to find our “new normal” and I could come up for air … well, then I could see some of the funny things again. Like the humor in making grilled cheese sandwiches at 3 in the morning for a little steroid monster who would scream at the top of her lungs if you didn’t cut the stupid, stupid grilled cheese sandwiches in squares and NOT TRIANGLES OH MY GOD YOU CUT THEM IN TRIANGLES SO NOW I WILL YELL UNTIL I WAKE EVERY MEMBER OF THE FAMILY BECAUSE OF YOUR INCOMPETENCY....…. Wait … that wasn’t funny. What am I talking about???? Oh yeah, the beginning -- diagnosis. Well, it’s rough.
I hope you’ll read over what I’ve written, and write me back with your perspectives. I would love for you to share your own story, if your son or daughter, nephew, niece or godchild, or friend’s child, or neighbor’s child, or student, or friend of a friend, was diagnosed with any kind of cancer. I’d love to hear your version, whether it’s similar to mine, or completely different than mine. **Yes, YOU, I'm still talking to YOU!**
IMPORTANT: Please do not put your contribution in the guestbook. Rather, please e-mail me at kristieokc@cox.net with your story.
It can be as long or short as you wish. Also bear in mind that although my own experience is from a leukemia perspective, we hope to hear from parents/friends/patients of all childhood cancers. Include your first and last name, as well as an e-mail address so I can get back to you. I *WILL* ask your permission before using anything, and need to be able to get ahold of you to do so. I know I sound a little bit like a rah-rah sis-boom-bah cheerleader, but if we all chip in together, and combine our collective resources, well, you've all heard about the sum of something being greater than its parts? That is EXACTLY how Terry and I feel about this project, and we sincerely hope all of you will help us make it the best project it can be. So, everybody ……(picture me, waving pom-poms) ……… Goooooooooooo, Team!
OK, I know. That was totally stupid. Forget the whole cheerleader thing. Please just read, and write, and e-mail me at kristieokc@cox.net
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“We have no right to ask when sorrow comes, ‘Why did this happen to me?’ unless we are willing to ask the same question for every moment of happiness that comes our way.” ---Author Unknown
One of the first questions cancer parents are often asked when people find out a child has cancer is “How did you find out --- how did you know something was wrong?” It’s a little like rubber-necking at an automobile accident --- people want to see what happened, to understand for themselves, and to know what to watch for, so they can make sure they don’t see it in their own children. It’s a normal, instinctive quality that makes us want to do our best to protect our children and to educate ourselves, to be wary of anything that could harm them.
The answers for how leukemia presents itself, and how the parents and doctors discover it, are similar in many stories, but can also be varied. (Tricky, eh?) Other childhood cancers can present in other, diverse ways, as well.
With leukemia, many of the signs and symptoms that something is wrong mimic the signs and symptoms of common childhood illnesses, so it can be misleading. Children often run a fever, or complain of back, arm or leg pain. Children might be pale, will sometimes bruise more easily, or have small red pinpricks on their skin, called petechia. Depending on how rapidly the disease is progressing, they will often fatigue quickly, and might begin taking naps again. There might even be masses present, or enlargement of the spleen, liver, or lymph nodes. If platelets are low, nosebleeds might suddenly occur.
Does this mean all children who suddenly seem pale, run a fever, take a nap, complain that their arm or leg hurts, get a nosebleed, or develop bruises should be checked for cancer? Of course not. What kid doesn't exhibit something like that, at some point? Conversely, sometimes, children with cancer will have no symptoms at all …. The cancer can be caught by accident on a routine blood check, or as a fluke during a well-child visit.
Regardless, cancer parents, especially NEW cancer parents, often find themselves analyzing the days and weeks leading up to diagnosis, wondering if there was a clue they should have seen, or a sign they might have missed. Wondering how on earth this could have been happening, right in front of their eyes, and them NOT KNOW about it. Some parents suspect cancer immediately. Some parents research the internet and come up with the correct diagnosis before even seeing a doctor. Some parents have a hunch something is wrong but aren’t sure what. But many parents are completely blindsided by the diagnosis.
It’s a safe bet that ALL cancer parents, at some point in time, wonder what they could have done to prevent it. Or what they might have done that caused it. Or what they might NOT have done that caused it. It’s human nature to want to protect our children, and it's human nature to feel as through we have somehow failed when a crisis of this magnitude befalls our child, especially when we didn’t see it coming.
“Kendrie’s story is fairly typical. In mid-August, she had begun to complain that her arm and back hurt, and she seemed tired for a few days. She was running a fever, and complained that her “pee-pee” (my, aren’t we technical?) hurt. I suspected a bladder infection, so I took her to a doctor, who wanted a urine specimen (on a side note, have you ever tried to collect urine from a four-year-old girl? Basically, you’re giving her license to pee all over your hand, as you urgently try to catch the stream in a cup the size of a thimble …. What sadist doesn’t give a four-year old one of those toilet-hats, I ask you?) He diagnosed her as simply having a virus and recommended that we push fluids and let her rest. She seemed to perk up a few days later, so I didn’t think much else about it.
At the beginning of October, about six weeks later, she developed a fever on a Thursday night. We gave her Tylenol, but the next morning it was back. And she had that blasted fever all weekend. I took her back to the doctor on Monday, and although he again suspected a virus, he humored my request for a blood check, only to discover all her counts were lower than normal. Quite a bit lower than normal, in fact, his comment to me on the phone that afternoon was that her blood test was ….. “interesting” …. Not something you really want to hear from your child’s doctor! So, we made plans to have her blood checked again on Wednesday. When the test that day revealed her counts had actually dropped even more, her pediatrician diagnosed her with a type of anemia and referred us to a local pediatric hematologist/oncologist.
I remember being SO taken aback when I called to schedule the appointment and found out it was an oncologist’s office! Oncology? What the ??? We scheduled a consultation with him for the next week, but she never made it that far. Her blood counts continued to fall until that Friday night she collapsed on our front porch. We took her to the local emergency room, and she was ultimately taken by ambulance to Children’s Hospital. She didn’t respond to transfusions, several over the weekend, and a bone marrow biopsy a few days later confirmed the diagnosis of A.L.L. “
Five Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me, Right Off The Bat:
1. Nothing I did caused this.
2. Nothing I didn’t do caused this.
3. There is nothing I could have done to prevent this.
4. Even children who are immunized, breast-fed, given vitamins, kept clean, dry, fed, safe, and loved beyond measure can get cancer.
5. It is not your fault; it is not anyone’s fault; there is no-one to be mad at. That’s a little hard to swallow, because you will want to be mad at someone, but get used to it. There is NO ONE to blame, and that includes you.
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The day your child is diagnosed with cancer is going to be one of the worst of your life. Accept that, believe it, and understand it. Then be grateful for it, because man, if you had many days worse than that, you’d probably want to move into the witness protection program or something, is all there is to say about it.
It’s hard to understand the depth of despair and fear a parent can feel, unless you’ve experienced it for yourself. And those who *have* experienced it, trust me, wouldn’t wish it even on thier worst enemy.
“When I arrived back at the hospital, after swapping off with my husband to go home and take a shower, the nurse said, ‘Ok, now that you're back, Dr. D. wants to be paged.’ Then when the doctor got there, he asked us to step out of the room, then into a vacant patient room and sit down.
”My husband stayed in our daughter’s room with her, so I followed the doctor by myself to the next room. The nurse came with us, and then shut the door behind us. I remember thinking, ‘Uh-oh, she shut the door. That can’t be good.’ I was sitting there, by myself, and I somehow knew what he was going to say, even before he said it. You know how you have those moments, some profound, some silly, some touching, that are forever etched in your memory? That's what that moment will always be for me. The doctor positioned himself between me and an outside window, so as I was looking at his face he was sort of a silhouette and I couldn't see him without squinting. I remember thinking, "the walls in this room are so blue I feel like I'm in a swimming pool and I can't see his face and if he's going to give me bad news it's really rude to make me squint and his hand is too heavy and I wish he would take it off my shoulder and why did they pick this awful blue paint color and that sun is hurting my eyes and maybe if I keep talking to myself I won't have to listen to the terrible words that are coming out of his mouth" and then he paused and said, ‘I'm so sorry, it's cancer.’ and my heart just exploded into a million tiny pieces.“
If you are a parent who has recently heard those words, please know that you are not alone, and that you and your child WILL get through this. Most childhood cancers are treatable; many have very high survival statistics. There is hope, there is optimism, there is a reason to look towards tomorrow.
Today, though? Today is going to really stink and that’s OK, too.
The Top Five Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me At Diagnosis:
1. You are not alone.
2. Your child is not the first or only child to go through this, so don’t worry that no-one will know how to help him. There are doctors and nurses who know exactly what to do, and they will help you. See item number one … again!
3. Childhood leukemia is, for the most part, a treatable disease and the odds are very, very good that your child will get through this OK. That doesn’t mean it won’t be the biggest suck-fest you’ve ever faced, but take heart …. The statistics are encouraging; your child has a fighting chance.
4. Don’t feel that you have to research and understand everything about this disease from the beginning. There will be time for that later.
5. It’s OK to feel crappy and angry. No one will think less of you if you’re not a total Pollyanna, all the time.
Friday, December 15, 2006 0:06 AM CST
24/7. 365.
WOW! Just, just ….. WOW! Today, December 15, 2006, marks the one year off treatment milestone for Kendrie! Not since I was able to squeeze my right butt cheek into a size 10 jean that one time, many many years ago, has reaching a goal made me this happy!
365 Days. That’s how long it has been since Kendrie finished her treatment for acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL).
24/7. That’s how much we’ve been enjoying the ride this past year.
Diagnosed on October 13, 2003, she was transferred from Children’s Hospital of Macon to Children’s Hospital of Atlanta for a repeat bone marrow aspiration, which confirmed the diagnosis, then she began her chemotherapy regimen on October 16th. 
We spent a week (ten days? It’s all a blur) in the hospital before she was released home. I remember feeling like I'd been punched in the stomach and that I could throw up at any minute. I remember being terrified, overwhelmed, nauseous, and completely consumed with love for my daughter.
I remember being scared to bring her home, because despite our total inadequacies, her father and I would be expected to TAKE CARE OF HER once we got there. But home we finally went, where we continued to pump toxic, noxious, poisonous, nasty, ill-tasting, LIFE SAVING drugs and chemicals into her body via shots and pills and a needle in her chest for another 780 days. 780 days of hoping and praying, every single morning, every single night, that she would not relapse …. that the cancer would not come back … that the front-line chemo regimen would be enough.
So far, it has been.
This time last year, I was busy planning her off-treatment party. We had friends coming in from Maryland, Florida, Virginia, and all parts of Georgia. My best friend flew in from Ohio as a surprise. Kendrie’s cousins, aunt, uncle and grandparents drove from Oklahoma. 
We rented a moonwalk, hired a magician, cooked hot dogs, enjoyed a sundae bar courtesy of Postcard Cindy, and the highlight of the day, followed Kendrie to the lake pond puddle, where she threw the remainder of her chemo pills in the water, to much cheering and celebration. 
If you look at the bottom right hand corner of the photo, you can see the white pills flying through the air ....
It was, quite possibly, one of the most poignant moments I’d ever experienced. I was never so proud, so happy, so relieved, and still so stressed out, in all my life.
I wasn’t sure how the first year off treatment would go, and didn’t know what to expect. Would I panic, every time Kendrie ran a fever or complained of a leg pain? (Come to find out, the answers are “no” and “yes”, respectively.) She is thriving off-treatment. Growing physically and emotionally, and cracking us up every day. She spent two days this week home from school, with a fever and a cough. That didn't bother me …. In fact, it was sort of nice to spend two days hanging out with her at the house, lounging around and watching TV. It reminded me of when she was first sick and the two of us would spend all day together while Brayden and Kellen were at school -- cuddling, watching tv, and doing puzzles --- thousands upon thousands of mind-numbing, eye-glazing, boring-to-the-bone puzzles of Clifford and Dragon Tales and Dora and if I never see another puzzle again it will be too soon.
In a guilty-negligent-mother sort of way, I must confess that those two days this week, I once again enjoyed having her with me. Then, she would complain that her back hurt, or her leg hurt, and a little bitty part of me, buried down deep inside, would spark into alarm once more. Even a year later.
I guess that is the bane of being a cancer parent. It’s impossible to relax, 100 percent, deep down in your soul. You never know what lies ahead, and you understand better than anyone that there are no guarantees in life. Yet knowing that, I still don’t panic when Kellen or Brayden complain of an ache or a pain. It’s an odd thing, this parenting gig, made even odder when you throw a child with cancer into the mix.
But more than all that, more than anything, we feel blessed to have had such a wonderful first year off-treatment. Not to be greedy, but we’re hoping for about 99 more.
In the meantime, though, I find myself at a crossroads. I have been a cancer parent. I *am* a cancer parent. I suppose I always will be, a cancer parent.
But while cancer is a part of Kendrie’s landscape, it no longer defines her day-to-day life, nor does it define mine. I think about it every single day --- those days on treatment, the difficulties, the fear, the uncertainty. But I no longer think about it every single minute of every single day; no longer do I lay in bed in the morning, paralyzed by the anxiety of what today might bring. For that I am grateful. I am hopeful it stays that way, forever. But, it brings me to a decision-making point, where I find myself today.
I can’t forget cancer; I don’t want to move on; yet we are no longer consumed by it. It’s a fine line, one which I sometimes tippy-toe successfully, and sometimes fall flat on my face trying to straddle. Where’s the balance in acknowledging the past, and moving forward, respectfully, hopefully, at the same time?
I said when Kendrie first went off treatment that I wanted to find a way to honor Kendrie’s fight with leukemia, and in fact, honor all kids who battle cancer, and somehow pay back all the kindness and goodness that was shown to our family. At the same time, allow our family to move on, in normal, insane family-mode, yet still being sensitive to those families in the fight. I thought I might run a marathon to raise funds for cancer research. (SNORT! Nice dream, though!) I thought I might try to get my journal published, yet a year has gone by and I’ve done nothing.
At long last, I think I have found a way. A way to do both, respect the past and contribute to the future. It came to me, like a golden light of possibility, a halo of awareness, tempting me and caressing me with its glowing potential and shimmering promise, like hundreds of thousands of gossamer butterfly wings, beating and fluttering against my heart with hope and promise.
Actually, it came to me in the form of an e-mail from Julianna Banana’s dad Terry, who basically said, “Hey, we’re both such windbags, we should really DO something about it!”
The man's a genius. And I agree wholeheartedly.
So, with that, I am thrilled, pleased, and excited to announce the official launch of the new, and improved, Terry and Kristie Website, called, officially …………. Um ……OK …. Well …. We don’t really have a name for it yet.
But we do have plans! BIG plans! And they include all of YOU!
It’s no secret that cancer kids, their parents, caregivers, and friends, collectively have an INFINITE amount of information that is helpful to anyone walking this path. Or anyone who knows anyone walking this path. And it’s our goal to get all that collective information gathered into one place, for everyone to utilize. Like one, big, giant, huge VAT of stories and anecdotes and experiences …. Like the freakin’ BAT CAVE of the cancer world, with an all-access pass for everyone!
(Excited yet? I sure am!)
Here’s how it’s gonna work: Terry and I will announce on our respective Caringbridge sites a number of topics, and we’ll write about each one. (One at a time, of course, we don’t want to overwhelm you!) And we want ALL OF YOU out there to respond with ideas, stories, and experiences of your own. It doesn’t matter if you’re the patient, parent, grandparent, sibling, aunt, uncle, friend, doctor, nurse, caregiver, co-worker, fundraiser, teacher, cheerleader, support person, or the guy who puts the olives on the sandwiches at Subway ….. if you have any connection AT ALL to the pediatric cancer world (and you know you do, or you wouldn’t be here reading this site) then we care about your opinion and want to hear what you have to say.
We will solicit your stories and continually update the sites, continuing to add our own stories to the mix. (Hey, you don’t expect us to sit back and *supervise*, do you? I can’t speak for Terry ….. oh wait, yes I can -- I can speak on pretty much any topic, any time, that’s the reason I just can’t shut up on this site, ha!)
Short term goals are to get submissions from everyone … medium term goals are to get an online library available, and who knows? Long term goals could be ambitious enough to getting these collections printed and made available to newly diagnosed families in hospitals and clinics around the world! (If you’re going to dream, dream big, right?)
So here’s what I need you to do:
1. Take a deep breath and give yourselves a collective pat on the back for all the support you’ve shown our family these past three years here on this Caringbridge site. Truly, during our darkest days of treatment, the notes of encouragement from all of you are what helped make it bearable and I can never, truly, thank you enough. Thank you. Truly.
2. Check in at Julianna’s site to follow Terry’s version of things, and check back in here on a regular basis to see what ideas we’re tossing around. I plan to post my first topic the beginning of next week. I was going to do it today, but dear Lord, isn’t this journal update long enough already?
3. And because goodness knows I can’t just slink away quietly, I’ve got a new corner of the web I hope you’ll visit: Not Quite What I Had Planned.
Go see me there, and check back here, too!
And Kendrie, happy anniversary, baby, happy anniversary. Be proud. I am.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006 8:59 PM CST
Updated: Thursday, Dec 14th
We have two local friends (and by local, I mean any Caringbridge friend within the state of Georgia) who are struggling a bit right now with some complications. If you could visit their sites today and leave them a note of encouragement, I know it would be much appreciated:
Tyler Copley is a great kid, working against a cellulitis infection in his leg. He's on chemo and I know would prefer to avoid being inpatient this holiday season ... please stop by and say hello!
Also, our friend Catie, who we've mentioned here many times, just had surgery yesterday to have a feeding tube placed, in preparation for the stem cell transplant she'll be having after the first of the year. Weight loss, a stubborn spot of her scans, heavy-duty chemo, and one VERY pregnant mom, all add up to a stressful, busy, complicated holiday situation for their family. I know they are hoping to get home today or tomorrow as long as there are no complications from her surgery .... please stop by and wish Catie well.
Then, please come back here to Kendrie's site tomorrow. In case I haven't been discreet enough, it's her ONE YEAR OFF TREATMENT ANNIVERSARY! Wow, hard to believe a whole year has gone by ..... I hope you'll come back here to hear about our plans for this site, and to leave Kendrie a note of congratulations on this exciting, encouraging milestone.
In the meantime, have a wonderful day!
Kristie
********************************
THIS IS EXACTLY LIKE SANTA’S WORKSHOP!
Kendrie -- Day 362 OT !
Yes, this is exactly like the joyful, wonderful, happy scene I imagine it to be at Santa’s workshop this time of year.
Only instead of cheerful little elves, I have grumpy little children.
And instead of enthusiastically hammering wheels onto wagons, or sewing clothes for dolls, they are grudgingly stuffing and addressing Christmas card letters.
And instead of chattering happily to their elf neighbors, they are grumbling and complaining under their breath about how come *they* have to do all the work around here?
And instead of whistling while they work (wait, is that the elves or the dwarves?) they are complaining about the vile taste of the envelope glue.
And instead of happily loading Santa’s sleigh and posing for photos with the reindeer, they are agreeing to pose with the cards but only if **you** agree to pay them a dollar afterwards.
You know, on second thought, this is nothing like Santa’s workshop. This is more like a pediatric version of a South American sweatshop, with underage, extortionist employees and lots of complaining.
PS. If you’re on our Christmas card list, and you receive an envelope with postage due, or missing a photo or a letter, well, what can I say? It’s hard to get good help these days.
Monday, December 11, 2006 1:20 PM CST
YET ANOTHER EXAMPLE …
Of why Blaine is a better parent than me.
I was at the kids’ school one day last week, and Kellen’s teacher and I were talking about the kids in his class. Kellen has two friends in class; both very sweet, very kind, very polite boys. Both of whom I have had in my home, and in whose home Kellen has been. Really good kids. One was born with a minor physical birth defect, and one has some socialization issues, but they are great kids and I like them a lot, and their parents, so I encourage the friendships.
Kellen’s teacher made the comment she appreciates that Kellen is friends with these boys. In fact, Kellen is laid back and friendly with pretty much everyone in his class, and that makes her job easier. I got home, and started thinking between the lines about what she might have meant, but might not have said. I wanted Kellen to know she paid him a compliment, so later that evening I told him what his teacher had said, and mentioned to him I was pleased to know he was friendly with these two boys, even though they might be just a little bit different.
I took it a bit further, reminding him of how Kendrie felt when she looked different during her chemo treatments, and kids would say things, but that inside she was the same and that’s what matters, blah blah blah, everything’s a life lesson. Mainly, I was just trying to do some gentle nudging into the “kindness to others” realm.
Kellen, paused, and then asked in sort of a quiet voice, “Mom, can I tell you something?” Oh, dear, that makes me nervous. “Sure, honey, what is it?” I replied.
Then he told me that “R”, one of the other boys in his class, sometimes made fun of these two boys. (Yes, I know, I’ve learned the hard way not to name names on this site, so I’m just going with initials ….) Now, “R” is a boy that has always been very polite and respectful to me as well, so I was a bit surprised to hear this.
“Really? “R” has made fun of them?” I asked.
“Uh-huh” Kellen replied, “Him and “S” … they tease them sometimes because of what’s wrong with them.”
And it was like a little miniature mushroom cloud went off in my brain and I saw red. I mean, I realize they’re only eight years old and sometimes kids are cruel, but I was appalled to think it was happening. Naïve, perhaps, but it really, really bothered me. I flashed back to when I was in Jr. High, and a boy in my Algebra class named Ricky Jackson made fun of my shoes. He said they were ugly, and pointed and laughed, and got some other kids around us to laugh. I remember that they *were* ugly shoes and my mom had picked them out and I didn’t like them. But more than that, I didn’t like Ricky Jackson in Algebra class that day, and I didn’t like these two little boys right now.
So I did what any grown up, mature person would do.
“Well,” I said, spluttering, “has anyone mentioned to “R” that every day after lunch he has a big JUICE MUSTACHE on his upper lip? Like he’s three years old and never learned how to drink out of a big boy glass? Huh? Have they???”
Oh yeah, that was adult of me. Real grown up. Kellen started smiling.
“Maybe we should just start calling him Mr. Koolaid Mustache Man, I wonder how that would make him feel? And then the next time he makes fun of someone, we can say ‘Hey! At least they know how to drink juice without giving themselves a mustache, Mr. Mustache Man! Hey, need a napkin, Mr. Mustache Man??? Been drinking long, Mr. Mustache Man?? “
I was on a roll. Kellen was giggling at this point. I have to admit, it made me feel better. Sometimes you’ve got to stand up to a bully, and stick up for the underdog, and set right all the wrongs and injustices in the world ….
And then from across the living room, Blaine said, in a deliberate voice, with great care and inflection … “OR, Kellen, you *could* just tell “R” that it’s not nice to make fun of people and to please stop, nobody likes it.”
Oh, well, sure. **rolly eyes** If you want to be grown up about it.
Saturday, December 9, 2006 11:37 PM CST
I SHOULD PRACTICE WHAT I PREACH
Kendrie -- Day 360 OT!! Five more days ….. big announcement coming soon!
PS In Advance: Lisa, I know the recent music on this site makes you crazy. So I should warn you up front to turn OFF your computer speakers for this song, at least until you’ve had three very large, very strong, cups of coffee. Or eggnog. With lots of rum. Your choice. Because as much as I would love to calm down the music for you, I simply can’t deny my inner hoodlum. And my inner hoodlum? Loves this song.
So, what was I talking about the other day? Hmmm, what was it? Something about being fat, and hating to exercise, and how my ultimate goal in life, besides total-body liposuction, is to encourage my children to have positive self body image. To teach them respect for their bodies, to be careful and thoughtful about what they put in their mouth, to love their bodies no matter their size, and to treat their bodies with the care and diligence they deserve.
That there is no reason for excess:
No, never. No reason, at all, for excess:
That there is never a time where it is ok to stand around in public, licking food off your fingers as if you don’t know when your next meal is coming:
Or, to shovel candy in your mouth as if your parents have never introduced you to the beauty that is a Brach’s Christmas Nougat:
And if, in a moment of terrible weakness, you do splurge, just a little bit, and perhaps eat a morsel or two, then the best thing to do is exercise. Perhaps by stretching. But not necessarily across the table to reach for the other bowl of Smartees:
That will-power is perhaps *not* always found in groups, and when one person caves and eats themselves into complete sugar oblivian, chances are a friend, or two or six or seven, will join you:
And most of all, if all else fails, remember that people in gingerbread houses should not throw stones. Or, walk up the staircase because it will probably collapse from the weight of all the damn chocolate you’ve been eating:
Friday, December 8, 2006 9:45 AM CST
THE ONE WHERE I HIDE MY TEARS WITH LAUGHTER. MUCH LIKE I TRY TO HIDE MY BUDDHA BELLY WITH A-LINE SHIRTS, UNTIL SOMEONE ASKS ME WHEN MY BABY IS DUE.
So, if you’ve been following this journal for very long, you’ve no doubt picked up on the fact, that like many women, I’m not real happy with my body. In fact, I hate it. I hate pretty much all of it. I hate the way my thighs swish together in track pants when I walk. I hate it so much I don’t buy track pants. I hate the shelf of fat on the top of my butt. I hate the kangaroo pouch that masquerades as my stomach. I hate the saddle bags on the top of my thighs. I hate the flab on the top of my arms, and I hate that my boobs have permanently migrated south. I do think I have nice hair, and my eyes are a pretty shade of green, but those two things aren’t weight-related, so when adding up all the ways I hate my body, they don’t exactly tip the scales.
More than how much I hate my body, though, is how much I hate that I even care. WHO CARES???? Nobody cares. I know that. Blaine doesn’t even care, and he sees me naked on a semi-regular basis. I hate that I waste one minute of even one single day fretting over my appearance. I hate that I’m too lazy to exercise (although I *am* actually exercising lately, which is more than I normally do) and I hate that I don’t have the willpower to avoid junk food. And even more I hate that I care because I know in the long run, it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to be lying in my coffin, worried that the pants the funeral director picked out make my butt look big. In fact, I’m not even sure people *wear* pants in coffins. But that’s a question for another day. (See? Feeling anxious about the size of your butt? Make a fat joke!)
So, while I do hate my body, I try to joke about it and not dwell on it too much (at least not out loud --- but on the inside? STILL OBSESSING) because most of all, I don’t want to pass my weight-hate on to my kids. Brayden has already come to me and told me some of the girls in her class talk about how fat they are (they are NINE, people!) and she’s made comments about her own “big” legs .. which for the record, are totally not big. I hate that she’s already picking up on that. To that end, a few years back I canceled my subscription to People magazine. Blaine always put a subscription renewal in my Christmas stocking each year and Brayden started asking for the magazines when I was done. Then I noticed she was cutting out the pictures of all the super-skinny, super-sleazily-dressed models and actresses and gluing them in a notebook. Hmmmm. Magazine subscription canceled. Those are not healthy body images and I don’t want her perspective warped at such a young age. Society will do enough to warp it when she’s older.
Anyway, what was my point? Oh, yeah. Although I hate my body, I don’t want her to hate hers, and I don’t want her to fret over hers like I fret over mine. So when I’m “dieting” at home, I don’t say the word out loud, just try to serve healthier choices around the house, without making a big production about it. I try very, very, very hard not to say the word “diet” in front of her, even if I’m on one. Or let her catch me moping over the way I look in front of my full-length mirror. I never tell the kids that I’m going to the gym to lose weight or get smaller, I always say I’m going to exercise, because that makes you healthy and stronger. It’s exhausting, all this positive-attitude crap, don’t you think?
Which leads me to the other afternoon when she and I were in Target. I take each of the kids out shopping before Christmas, one at a time, so they can buy their gifts for their siblings. Sunday was Brayden’s day. She and I had run several errands and it was getting on in the afternoon. When we finished checking out at Target, Brayden asked if we could stop at the food café and get a snack. Sure, that was fine, I was hungry, too.
Well, here’s the deal. I’ve been doing the Atkins diet (or *attempting* to do the Atkins diet, which is difficult for me since I basically worship at the Shrine of the Asiago Cheese Bagel) since returning from Seattle. Atkins isn’t a long-term solution for me, but if I’ve picked up five or six extra pounds (Hello, *seven* in Seattle thanks to my new boyfriend, Mr. Russell Stover) then it’s a quick way for me to drop a few pounds. I glanced at the menu and realized there is next to nothing at the Target food café that isn’t loaded with carbs.
I decided to order a hot dog, but of course not eat the bun. Apparently you will burn in Hell forever if you eat a bun on Atkins. But because I like the bun, because in fact THE BUN is the best part of the hot dog, as far as I’m concerned, I knew the bun would be a big temptation to me. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, because I didn’t want to admit to Brayden what I was doing …. But, I had to “fix” the bun so I wouldn’t eat it. So I did what I always do in restaurants, when I’m on Atkins, and some masochistic-waiter brings me bread --- I took the straw from my cup, poked holes in the bun, then filled the holes with diet soda. That way the bun becomes a sodden, soggy mess and I’m no longer tempted to shovel the entire thing in my mouth. Which I have been known to do with dry buns, on occasion. Really, have you ever heard of anything more pathetic??
Brayden looked over at me, a bewildered look on her face, and asked, “What on earth are you doing?” And although it went against my better nature to confess to her I am on a D-I-E-T, I thought I would try to be honest, in a positive-attitude way. So I told her I had eaten too much junk food in the hotel last month, and was now trying to lose a little weight, and that eating too much bread can be fattening, so I was making the bread soggy so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat it.
And she looked at me, just looked at me with the clarity and wisdom of her nine-year-old mind, and said, “So, why don’t you just get up and throw the bread away? There’s a trash can right over there. Do you want me to just throw it away for you?”
And I realized --- oh my gosh. My nine year old daughter is smarter than I am. *She* gets that if something is bad for you, just throw it away. If you don’t like the way eating something makes you look, or feel, get rid of it. Why couldn’t I have learned that lesson twenty-five years ago? It certainly would have saved me a lot of grief, and dollars spent on control top panty hose over the years.
I hope she stays that smart for a very long time, and never stands in front of a full-length mirror, feeling cranky about her saddlebugs.
PS. Ironically, I lost the seven pounds doing Atkins. But, I came home from Seattle with a screaming case of …….................……… eczema. (HA! You TOTALLY thought I was going to say a screaming case of something else, didn’t you?) After trying to treat myself over-the-counter for four weeks, I caved and went to see my doctor earlier this week. In at attempt to help clear up these bloody stumps I call legs, he put me on a seven-day course of steroids. So now I’m itchy, bloated, grumpy, and hungry. No doubt I’ll put those seven pounds back on, and THEN some. (sigh)
You guys, I love your comments in the guestbook so much …. You’re like my daily fix. I’m pulling out a few where people have asked specific questions or made specific comments, but even if I don’t mention you by name, know that I’ve read your note and most definitely smiled or laughed about it!
Chris from MN -- HA! Maybe that’s *my* problem, too, all-over squishiness!
Mesha in NC -- No, no creative ideas for scrambled eggs, although I did just buy this really cool omelet maker from Target. It’s like a hard plastic, two-sided dish that folds in half, only costs two dollars, and you put the eggs in and microwave for a minute or two, then stir and put in the “fixings”, then microwave for another minute or two. Take it out, fold it closed, and Viola, omelet! Best of all, no messy pans to clean up, which is the part of scrambled eggs I hate the most.
Amy in FL -- Hey, that’s great! Congratulations on the refund! My furniture is also in need of replacement, although not because of factory defect. Because my children think the sofa is their own personal jungle gym, and my dog thinks the ottoman is his own personal Kleenex. Nasty. Think anyone would refund me for THAT???
Missy in FL -- I don’t know what it is about the holidays that turn some people into total wankers. Your neighbors are being ridiculous. Six dozen cookies, for an EXCHANGE, no less, should not be complained about. Rather than tell you to drop tactful hints about the cost of the Santa you have rented, I’m going to suggest you pack up your household immediately and move to middle Georgia. I would love to have a neighbor who throws such fun Christmas parties.
And to all of you who have been so kind as to ask about Blaine …………… well, he’s Blaine, isn’t he? And life with Blaine wouldn’t be complete without some sort of complication or hurdle to overcome.
He went to Ft. Gordon yesterday for his surgical follow-up, where the doctor took one look at the harvest site on his arm, and sent him immediately to orthopedics for a consultation, who wanted to put him in the hospital yesterday for surgery. Apparently the skin graft came apart and one of the tendons in his arm is exposed. We’ve noticed it for the past week or so, but thought it was just a particularly juicy looking part of the wound, slower to heal. It’s actually quite exotic and bionic-looking, as he can flex his fingers and wrist and we can see the tendon contracting. My children are alternately entertained and horrified.
Turns out, this is a fairly common complication, happening to about a third of the patients who have this type of forearm tissue harvest. Blaine asked if he couldn’t have a local doctor handle things and they agreed. So we’re waiting on a referral to a local orthopedic surgeon, who might want to do another skin graft, or take a wait-and-see approach. In the meantime, it’s not hurting, and Blaine says as long as there’s no repeat MRSA infection like he got with his leg last year, he doesn’t care if little monkeys jump out of his arm playing the cymbals. So all’s good, I’m sure.
Except the size of my ass. And I’m off to ponder that, with a bowl of Cocoa Krispies.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006 11:11 PM CST
HUMPS, HILLS, WHATEVER.
Kendrie -- Day 356 OT
I went to bed fairly early last night and woke up feeling refreshed this morning. Funny how an extra hour or two of sleep can do that for a person. Rested and relaxed, I decided to do a little something “extra” for my kids today, just to show them how much I love them:
Really, it takes so little to make them happy, and arranging the chocolate chips into smiley faces is such a small thing to do.
So when Kellen walked in the kitchen this morning and sat down, I was expecting thanks and adoration. Instead, I was a little surprised to hear him bluntly ask, “What’s this?” I mean, isn’t it fairly obvious? *THIS* is a perfect example of motherly love and devotion, now sit down and enjoy it and thank your lucky stars you have such a fabulous mom. A mother who, obviously, stops at nothing to give her children the absolute best, as evidenced by the fine china and sterling silver I use at the breakfast table to serve my children. Try and control your jealousy, everyone who is reading this.
Instead of singing my praises, or even simply picking up the syrup, or his fork, he put his head in his hands, rested his head on the table, world-weary little man that he is, gave a great sigh, and said, “Thank **goodness** today is Hill Day.”
Hill Day? Hill Day? What the heck is Hill Day?
“Don’t you mean Hump Day?” I asked him.
“Uh, NO” he replied, with that good-heavens-my-mom-is-a-complete-idiot tone all children acquire as gifts on their sixth or seventh birthdays. “It’s HILL day today in the middle of the week …. Don’t you get it?? Wednesdays are at the TOP of the hill, and now for the rest of the week we are going DOWNHILL … get it? Hill Day?? Do you understand??”, rolling his eyes, obviously convinced I am too moronic to grasp the concept.
That boy better hush up tomorrow morning and eat his smiley face pancakes, is all I’ve got to say about it.
PS. Lisa, don’t feel bad, you’re not the first person to tell me that my site has reduced them to turning off thier computer speakers. I don’t know whether to be ashamed, or proud. :)
PSS. Amy in KY, fake baby, Fake!
Tuesday, December 5, 2006 5:17 PM CST
EAVESDROPPING
Kendrie -- Day 355 OT (Ten days until the one-year mark, woohoo!)
Conversation overhead at my children’s school today:
Parent: "Mrs. M, I just want you to know you’re very high on my list."
Mrs. M: "Oh, thank you so much. Um…………… prayer? Or shit?"
Kristie, silently eavesdropping: "HA!"
Monday, December 4, 2006 8:30 PM CST
WHEN “MILITARY INTELLIGENCE” REALLY IS AN OXYMORON.
Kristie: “Excuse me, do you have any idea how much longer it might be before my number is called?”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “You’re the next civilian number. But we give active duty military in uniform priority; are you familiar with our system?”
Kristie: “Yes, I understand the system. I’ve just been waiting a very long time.”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, we want the military members to be able to get right back to work so we allow them to get their refills first.”
Kristie: “Yes, yes, I understand, God Bless the USA, it’s admirable. It’s very admirable, indeed, as long as you’re active duty and in uniform. Which I am not. So I’ve been waiting for an hour and my number hasn’t been called, yet in the meantime all the military keep walking up and getting served in front of me.”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, as soon as I have a moment where there are no military waiting, you will be next.”
Kristie: “But what you’re telling me is that you have no idea when that will be, since any time an active-duty member walks up, they get to cut in front of me in line.”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, technically, yes, that’s how it works. As long as they're in uniform.”
Kristie, on a roll now, and feeling a wee bit indignant: “And in the hour I’ve been sitting here, you’ve filled twenty-four military member prescriptions, and only two civilian prescriptions. I know. I’ve been watching.”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, sometimes the system seems to work that way. We have no control over when the active duty members will show up … and Mondays are always a busy day.”
Kristie, huffing and puffing now: “So what you’re saying is that **theoretically**, I could sit here ALL DAY and never get called, as long as one military member after another continues to walk up? And they will ALWAYS be put in line in front of me???”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, I doubt it would take ALL DAY.”
Kristie, getting a little strident: “But it’s been an hour already and there’s no end in sight --- there are more guys in uniform walking up right now!”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Yes, ma’am, here they come. I see them.”
Kristie: “So basically, I might NEVER get called, is what you’re saying???? Until every active duty person in uniform, in the ENTIRE WORLD, in the ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE ENTIRE WORLD, is served before me, no matter how long I’ve already been waiting?????”
Base Pharmacy Tech: “Well, ma’am, try not to think of it that way.”
Kristie: “I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT FOR AN HOUR! THERE IS A SERIOUS FLAW IN YOUR SYSTEM! A FLAW, I TELL YOU, A FLAW! AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALIZES THIS?!?!?!?!?”
And at that point, I did what any sane, calm, rational, reasonable person would do. Stomped my foot, made a big production of rolling my eyes, tossed the ticket on her counter, and spit out, “Forget it! Just forget it! I don’t need your stupid, stupid, fat-head medicine that bad!” and stormed out. Because I am nothing if not mature.
(OK, to be honest, I was a little more polite than that. But I did hand her the ticket and say “Never mind”, which was pretty darn confrontational for me. But the foot stomping and eye rolling? TOTALLY did that in my imagination!)
Blaine went back this afternoon and waited for half an hour before giving up. Obviously, he is not as long-suffering as I am. Wimp.
So tonight I go to bed medicine-less. And tomorrow morning, Blaine, even though he is on convalescent leave from his surgery, will be putting on a uniform and driving to the base pharmacy to get my prescription for me from the active-duty-in-uniform line.
That, my friends, is proof of his true love if ever I needed it.
Sunday, December 3, 2006 6:12 PM CST
DEAR SANTA…
Kendrie -- Day 353 OT
Thanks (again!) for all the guestbook entries. Ya’lls own hair stories were cracking me up ("ya'lls own??" What am I? A hillbilly????) and I especially liked when Sherri from NC compared these journal entries to the free public entertainment you get on PBS (although “entertaining” might not always be the adjective of choice) and my plea for guestbook comments the same as an annual pledge drive. Ha! Pretty clever, Sherri! But seriously, I want to be the “old” PBS, with good shows like Clifford and Arthur and Dragon Tales. NOT the “new” PBS with those obnoxious Doodlebop mutants. God, I hate those humanoid puppet freaks. Er, wait. Maybe that’s a regular channel, and not PBS. Either way, them and their stupid, stupid bus driver make me insane with hatred and I say a prayer of thankfulness every day that my children were in school full-time before that vomitous mass of a television show hit the airwaves.
No, I don’t like the Doodlebops. Why do you ask?
Anyway, guestbook comment and verification procedure talk aside (although if you want to keep 'em coming, it's ok with me!) --- on to today’s update:
This is the letter Kendrie brought to me this morning, and asked me to mail to Santa:
“Dear Santa Clas,
I am sory that peple have been mean to you. So I give achare believe in you. And jesas caes it is caes Baby Jesas was burn on deseder 25 and that is Christmas. And you fanded the elfs to halp you mack toys. For littit kids to. Tell Jesas that I am prad of him. From Kendrie Escoe”
(I think the only words she spelled correctly were her own name. I have no earthly idea how she got into the gifted program at school. And poor Baby Jesus. I never realized he was burned on Christmas.)
Which prompted the following conversation this evening:
Kristie: “Kendrie, help me out a little with this letter you want me to mail. Who has been mean to Santa?”
Kendrie: “All the kids who don’t believe!”
Kristie: “Oh, I see. Well, what is this word here…. Achare?”
Kendrie: “It’s “extra” mom. I believe in Santa “extra” because those other kids don’t.”
Kristie: "Well that’s nice, honey. I’m sure Santa will be very happy to hear that.”
Kendrie: (starting to lose interest) “um-huh”
Kristie: “This is a good letter …. Did it make you happy to write it?”
Kendrie: (eyes drifting to the television) “Huh?”
Kristie: “I’m very proud of you! Do you think Santa will be proud of you?”
Kendrie: (serious pause) “Mom, Drake and Josh is on. Can we finish this later?”
I’m telling you, the kid is getting coal in her stocking, COAL, if *I* have anything to say about it!
Speaking of Christmas, don't forget to head over to Cali Ali's site if you haven't done so, and order a Santa Claus Christmas plate for yourself, or to give as a gift. I ordered mine last week and they arrived less than 36 hours later .... from clear across the country! I'd say Marey and her girls are working harder and faster than the elves up at the North Pole, with a turnaround time that fast!
Profits from the fundraiser are going to help Baby Donovan's and Noah's families, and I know everyone involved appreciates the support. And a HUGE Caringbridge Shout-Out to Postcard Cindy for donating a case of plates ---- Wow! Talk about someone who understands the concept of giving instead of receiving this holiday season!!!!
Friday, December 1, 2006 9:33 PM CST
THE ONE WHERE I THANK YOU AND CONFESS THAT I AM A LITTLE BIT EMBARRASSED THAT I DID THAT --- BUT NOT EMBARRASSED ENOUGH TO TELL YOU TO STOP
Kendrie -- Day 351 OT
Blaine -- sick of yogurt and mashed potatoes, that’s for sure
Thanks so much to all of you who braved the new verification procedure and signed in the guestbook. I’m like an addict, only instead of crack, I crave comments. Remember when you got your very first answering machine, and you would rush in the door after work or school and look to see if the red message light was blinking? And you’d be so disappointed when it wasn’t? Yeah. That’s me. I am seriously co-dependent on the kind words and notes of others, and a little embarrassed that I admitted it out loud. Maybe I need to join a mah-jong group, or bowling league or something, so that I’m not so reliant on all of you to brighten my day and fill my sad, lonely, cheerless, gloomy, forlorn hours …. (deep pathetic sigh) ….. I wonder if there’s a 12-step program for Caringbridge???
But, in the meantime, I’ll say thank you, quit cracking my whip, and just ask that you pop in every now and then to let me know you’re still here. Maybe I was being a little pushy with “daily” …. I mean, you *DO* have lives after all, right? But say HI once in a while! OK?!?
Now, for today’s flashback Friday:
Do you remember the before and after images of your child’s first haircut? If your kids were anything like mine, they were born bald and stayed that way quite a while. So by the time they FINALLY started growing hair, you were so grateful you vowed never to cut it? You had every intention of letting it grow long so that the entire world could enjoy the total beautifulness that was your child? And yet, the day inevitably came when you had to face the truth …. when you had to admit to yourself that the wondrous baby curls and ringlets that were so adorably adorable on your halo’d, angel-faced cherub …. Well, actually, weren’t so adorably adorable? That in fact, they looked pretty straggly and unkempt? And what the hell were you thinking????
That day came for me with all three. You’d think I’d have learned after the first one, but no, I fell for it all three times.
Brayden was practically bald until she was two, but around 18 months the few hairs that were on her head started getting really fuzzy. Finger-in-a-light-socket-fuzzy. We used to joke she looked like Albert Einstein, in his mad scientist phase. We kept putting off the first haircut, thinking it was bound to grow longer. Or straighter. Or thicker. Or anything! We finally decided to cut hers in desperation, hoping it would just start to grow. Period. When we walked in the salon, I told the hairdresser I wanted Brayden to look like Shirley Temple when she was done. (Why is it no-one but me ever thinks my jokes are funny?)
Barney is always a good support system for the very first haircut. And it looked SO much better once the fuzz was gone. She still didn’t have a lot of hair, but at least the hair she had was more manageable. And I thought, why did I wait so long?
Kellen was a lot the same way. I remember thinking I didn’t want to cut his hair because it would make him look too grown up, like a little boy instead of a toddler. So instead, he walked around for months looking like a hobo. A hobo who had never been introduced to Great Clips. 
At long last, I caved:
Finally, finally! A haircut! (To this day, he still hates having his hair sprayed with the water bottle before each haircut. I think this very first haircut traumatized him.)
Afterwards, he was so cute, and although he *did* look more grown up, I thought, why did I wait so long?
With Kendrie, I was definitely deluding myself. I had somehow convinced myself that the stringy, messy stuff she had going on were actually beautiful blonde curls. And I really liked those blonde, wispy “curls” …. and hated that once we cut the hair, the curls would be gone. So I hung on to them, definitely longer than was necessary. 
But all good things must come to an end:
As you can see, Kendrie was none too enthused about her first haircut. And my God, when did I get such a huge double-chin?
Nope, not getting any happier. At all. And yes, the hairdresser doing the job is laughing at her. Cold-hearted shrew.
But when all was said and done, and she was given a lollipop, which made everything worthwhile, it looked so much better, and yet again, I thought to myself, why did I wait so long???
You’d think by the third kid, I would have learned.
And truly, you’d think by the time the third kid grew her hair back from chemo, I would certainly have learned. I’m 40 years old, for pete’s sake, there aren’t too many learning-cells left in this brain of mine. If a message hasn't stuck by now, it's probably not going to.
Then again, when your child has been bald for a while, you’re so excited to see the blonde hair finally start to grow in, that you form a warped sort of attachment to it. So you let it grow, and convince yourself that it looks fine. Cute, even. And you feel thrilled when the ends start curling up again, because ever since that very first haircut, the hair has been straight as a stick. Yes, you like the curls. 
In fact, you love these curls! Total strangers stop you on the street to comment on the curls, and weep at the loveliness of the curls, and you vow never to cut it. Never! NEVER!!!
Then, you notice, that except for the curls on the bottom …. Well, the rest of it looks like crap. Total crap. Said child will not, under any circumstance, even remotely consider using a barrette or a bow or a hairclip or a headband or a ponytail holder, so the hair just keeps growing and hanging down and sticking out, and alas, despite all your optimistic hopefulness, looking worse and worse all the time.
So bad, that some parents might consider cutting it themselves. *SOME* distressed mother might even get so annoyed (I’m just saying) and so desperate (hey, it could happen) that she would grab her scrapbooking scissors (just, you know, as an example) and try to cut it herself. Confident in her ability to give a cute haircut. Despite the fact she has no training nor experience nor expertise of any kind. Ultimately resulting in out-of-control hair that is not only out-of-control, but now chopped off unevenly all over. (And no, I don’t know who would do that. I'm just saying. As an example. A completely ANONYMOUS example.)
(photo not available)
All I can say is thank goodness for our friend Miss Jeanette, who actually has gone to cosmotology school and has a real, live, certified license to fix my mistakes cut hair. 
And why on EARTH did we wait so long????
PS. Although seriously, I do miss the curls.
Thursday, November 30, 2006 8:56 PM CST
ODDS AND ENDS
Kendrie -- Day 350 OT
Blaine -- feeling good enough that the kids are getting on his nerves again. Or, maybe it's feeling *bad* enough that the kids are getting on his nerves???
**OK, Lisa, and anyone else living in a caffeine-deprived state, I’ve toned down the freneticism (is that a word?) of the music on the site and have chosen a much more calm, soothing selection from Trans-Siberian Orchestra. In through the nose ….. Out through the mouth. But you should enjoy it while it lasts, because I can already feel the musical frenzy building up inside of me again.
**Thanks to all of you who took the time to visit Ali’s site and take a quick peek at the adorable Santa Clause cookie plates they are selling this holiday season as a fundraiser. Thanks especially if you ordered one for yourself! Marey told me mine were mailed today (Wow! Are they speedy or what?!?!) and I can’t wait to see them. Mainly, I can't wait to serve up a big ole' plate of cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve, then as soon as the kids go to bed, eat all the cookies myself, leaving a few crumbs for "authenticity". It's no coincidence that Santa's favorite cookies and MY favorite cookies are the same!! Please remember this is a fundraiser Marey and her girls are doing to help two other pediatric cancer families deal with their transplant expenses, and an extremely worth-while cause. If you didn't get the opportunity to visit Ali's site and check out the plates for yourself, please be sure to do so.
** To that end, one of the families that the fundraiser will benefit received extremely bad news yesterday shortly after I posted my own update. Please visit Baby Donovan’s site and leave a note of encouragement for his family.
**And if I could steer you in the direction of one last site, there is a really touching, powerful update on the site of one of our All-Kids friends, Fergus, written by his mom Lauren. Fergus is doing well on treatment, but recently passed the 2-year anniversary of his diagnosis, a time that cancer parents can tell you is often bittersweet. Lauren did a great job telling the story of Fergus’ diagnosis and expressed very well the overwhelming emotions that many parents go through at that difficult time. (Although for the record, Lauren was WAY more cool and collected than me!) Please stop by Fergus’ site and wish them well for the remainder of his treatment protocol.
**Lastly, regarding the guestbook on Kendrie's CB site …. Thank you beyond measure to those of you who leave messages for us to read, letting us know you’ve checked in. Occasional notes are good, but regular, or even daily notes, are even better. (Hmmm, maybe I need to get more IRL friends???) Your notes make me laugh, and smile, and are helpful and informational and downright hysterical at times. I’ll confess, I even get a little bit sad on the days no-one signs in (I know, I need therapy). But, I simply couldn’t take one more single computer generated guestbook entry advertising ** YOUNG**HOT**WILD**NUDE**PORN**GIRLS **, etc. etc.
So, if you’ve been to the guestbook in the past day or two, you might have noticed that there is now a verification screen required before you can leave a message. It takes all of two seconds to enter four numbers, which will allow our friends and family to leave us notes, but not allow the spammers to gain access. I certainly hope you can understand the need for the added step and won’t let it keep you from leaving your messages, which are often the highlights of my day. (Again, with the therapy.)
That’s it for now. I’ve got some flashback Friday photos to post tomorrow, but hope in the meantime you’ll visit the sites of Ali, Baby Donovan, and Fergus.
Thanks! Love, Kristie
Wednesday, November 29, 2006 8:46 AM CST
‘TIS THE SEASON FOR DOING UNTO OTHERS .... WAIT, DO I HAVE MY JINGLES AND MY PSALMS MIXED UP?
Kendrie -- Day 349 OT
Blaine -- OK. Not great, but better than lousy.
‘Tis the season, but first, a few guestbook responses:
Stephanie: Wow, you’re like the Queen of the Adjectives!! I’m going to remember those!
Erin: Thanks!
Kathy: See? People do that. Movies are proof.
Alayna: Not at Sonic. NEVER at Sonic.
Randy: That puts “catching raindrops on your tongue” in a whole new light.
Kris: Nasty. But thanks for the heads up on the Pepcid. Good to know!
Deb: You are NOT lazy! You are fabulous and you know I adore you.
Sandy: That *does* make me feel better, thanks!
Diana: Yes, I have, and OHMYGOSH!!! The. Absolute. Best! Can you believe we MISSED this years because we were in Seattle???? Boo-hiss.
Kristin: Me, too!
Amy: OK, at least I wasn’t *that* bad.
Renee: You, my friend, are a genius.
Marlene: Oh, that’s just nasty. PS. Ha!!
Kathy: Whaddya mean it’s not chicken?!?!?!?
Cate: The highest calorie count? Are you sure about that? Because it’s one of my favorite things! {Picture me, with my fingers in my ears, “La-la-la-la, no calories at all, la-la-la”}
***************************************************
OK, so, you can look at the top of this journal entry and see that we are bearing down on Kendrie’s One-Year Off-Treatment mark …. Pretty darn exciting, huh? Of course, the majority of relapses happen during the first few years off-treatment … so the reason this one-year mark is exciting is that while we’re not out of the woods yet with regard to worry and concern and anxiety and stress over every little bump and bruise and ache and pain, every day that passes is another day closer to an easier comfort zone. And the one-year mark feels like a pretty significant milestone to us! To that end, be looking for some changes here on this site to mark the anniversary.
In the meantime, even though this journal has veered precariously towards “normal” of late, or at least as normal as this crazy life gets for all of us, not a day goes by that I don’t remember when we were in the thick of things, while Kendrie was on treatment. I no longer think about her cancer every minute of every day (or every second of every minute of every day like I did at the beginning!) but every day I remember, and feel grateful for where we are now, and worry about the families and children who are still in the middle of their own struggles.
To that end, I want to tell you about a way you can help two families who are indeed careworn right now. Please take a minute to visit Ali’s site. Ali was diagnosed with leukemia as a teen, and is now a successful college student, woohoo! Her mother Marey is an online friend of mine who has done great works indeed, to raise awareness and funds for those fighting cancer. In addition to Relay for Life, TNT, Pennies for Patients, and many, many other things, Marey and her girls are currently making and selling adorable Santa-cookie plates for Christmas, as a fundraiser. They will even personalize them with your childrens' names ... and where else am I going to find a Christmas plate with "Brayden, Kellen and Kendrie" on it??? Their goal is to raise enough money to pay one month’s rent for two families, Noah and Baby Donovan, who are fighting their own extended battles against childhood leukemia. Plus, fighting those battles in treatment centers across the country, which means they are dealing with the extra costs of maintaining two households while their children are treated far from home. 
I’m ordering two plates, selfishly, because I think they’re cute. Plus, it’s a great cause and I know the end goal will be much appreciated by those families. See? It’s so much easier to justify spending money when you know it’s going for a good cause!
Marey, I’m so proud of you and all you do for others. I want to be just like you when I grow up. If, you know, that ever happens.
Monday, November 27, 2006 9:16 PM CST
HEY, THIS MILK TASTES SOUR. DRINK SOME AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK.
Kendrie -- Day 347 OT
Blaine -- That is one nasty looking scabby wound thing on his arm, is all I have to say.
Early this afternoon, I drove my mom to the Atlanta airport so she could catch her much-anticipated flight back home to OKC. Although *I* loved having her here, and I know the *kids* loved having her here, I do think four weeks was a little long for her to be sleeping in a 9-yr old’s bedroom and sharing a bathroom with three young (and let’s face it, not always the neatest of) children. But we will miss her dearly and are already looking forward to seeing her again at Christmas. Let’s hear it for Grandma Betty and the one dollar bills, hip, hip, hooray!
On the way back home, I drove through Chick-Fil-A (yippee, Diet Dr. Pepper!) and bought a large container of chicken salad for lunch. I put the container in a cooler I had in my car and drove a few miles down the road to shop at a Garden Ridge Pottery for lighted fake plastic Christmas candle stakes to go in our front yard to match the lighted fake plastic Christmas candle stakes I bought last year but which didn’t all survive the summer in the garage.
I was probably in the store half an hour, but didn’t worry about the chicken salad because it was in a cooler with a bunch of those freezy-things, that you use to keep items cold and can re-freeze over and over. (On a side note, how fab are those freezy things?? I just love them.)
Anyway, I finished my shopping, returned to my car, got on the highway headed home, and opened the chicken salad to eat while I was driving. (Please, no guestbook comments about how dangerous it is to drive while performing other distracting chores like plucking your eyebrows or reading a map or text-messaging. I was hungry, people, and my growling stomach was a much bigger distraction than my container of chicken salad.)
One bite was all it took for me to know that Ewwwwww, something is not right here. I sniffed … it *smelled* OK ….so I took another small bite, cautiously …. Nope, definitely not right. I don’t know what was wrong, but it was definitely …. Not right. I spit the bite out, then got off at the next exit and flipped an interstate U-ie in order to go back to Chick-Fil-A. Not because I was indignant at the prospect of being served not-right chicken salad, but because I was hungry and couldn’t think where the next Chick-Fil-A might be.
I walked back in the restaurant, clutching my bag in hand, offending contents inside. When I got to the counter, I explained I had purchased the chicken salad less than an hour ago and that it tasted …. Just …. Not right. The kid behind the counter looked at me and asked, “What does it taste like?” “Well” I said, “it just tastes bad. Not good. Just icky.” I crinkled up my nose and made a face, so he would understand my true feelings. Then, I offered him a bite, which he declined. Really, can you blame him? He also told me that no, no-one else had complained about the chicken salad today, but that they would be happy to replace it for me.
I said, “Well, if you’ve got a different batch made up, that would be great, thanks.”
And he took my chicken salad container, walked off, and was gone for a very long time.
He returned with a bite-sized amount in a bowl, with a clean spoon, and offered me a taste. It tasted fine, so he left again to get me a full-size serving.
Again, he was gone for a very long time, before returning with my new container of chicken salad.
So, in your professional opinion, do you think he:
a) Took my old chicken salad, stirred it up, including the bite I had spit out, and served it right back to me, laughing all the while with his friends about “the stupid cow up front who is complaining but can’t even tell the difference”, or
b) Did indeed give me a brand-new container of chicken salad, but made sure he and all his co-workers spit in it first, or
c) Thought about how much he hates the stupid, whiny customers at his fast-food job and that even working retail at Wal-Mart during this Christmas season wouldn’t be as bad as serving up replacement chicken salad for dorks like me.
And on a side note, there was another Chick-Fil-A less than five miles down the road. Next time (although I hope there is never a next time) I will simply toss the not-quite-right chicken salad in the trash and buy new at a different restaurant. Because the only thing worse than taking a bite of bad chicken salad is trying to explain what is wrong with it to a teenager, using very, very, very, very, very, very grown-up words like “icky” and “funny” and “just not good”. Seriously. Thesaurus, anyone?
Sunday, November 26, 2006 6:20 PM CST
CHRISTMAS TREE ’06
Kendrie -- Day 346 OT (Hey, have you noticed how close to "The One Year OT Anniversary" we are getting?!?!?)
Blaine -- Gimpy, but getting there, slowly but surely
Can someone please explain to me…….
How three reasonably bright children …..
Who think nothing of hanging Christmas tree ornaments onerightontopoftheother …..
Or hanging five ornaments from the very same branch, sideways, so that none of them show ……
Can then turn around and miss the HUGE empty spots they have left all over the sides of the tree???
So, a show of hands. How many of YOU will be waiting until your children go to bed tonight, to sneak into the living room and furtively re-arrange the ornaments on the tree? Not that *I* am. Not because I’m OCD or anything. I’m just saying. Maybe.
And yes, Thanksgiving is over, so you know what this means. The official beginning of Kristie’s annual holiday musical obsession with Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I can’t even tell you the happiness this music brings me. Me = Happy!
Friday, November 24, 2006 8:26 PM CST
UPDATED THANKSGIVING ENTRY
Ha, ha, ha! No, we do not yet allow our children to drink alcoholic beverages, although trust me, many are the day the three of them have driven US to drink. But to clear up a little confusion in the guestbook, Lager is our dog. That’s right, look up “Classy” in the dictionary, and there’s a picture of the Escoe family …. Definition: people who name their pets after beer.
Our first two dogs were named Fosters (a golden retriever we had for twelve years before she passed away) and Lager, the deaf, arthritic, gassy English Setter who will celebrate his 16th birthday next spring (please God, don’t ever let him die because my children will just melt into little puddles.)
Proving how high-brow we are, Blaine has already informed me that the next set of dogs we get will be named Sam and Adams. Although if I have my way, they will be named Bartles and James. See? Pure class, baby, pure class.
THANKFUL FOR ………. (words uttered round the dinner table)
Blaine: “My family”
“That I’m not in the hospital today”
Brayden: “My family”
“People that protect us”
“Teachers, Food, Friends, God”
Kellen: “The five of ya’ll”
“Lager, My Gameboy Advance, Food, Coke, Chocolate Milk”
“Electricity so we can watch TV”
Kendrie: “Doctors”
“God, My Family, Lager, Dogs, Food, Grandma”
“That we live in America from the Pilgrims”
Grandma Betty: “One dollar bills”
Kristie:
“That I have daughters who enjoy helping me cook, even the yucky chores like peeling potatoes”
“That I can pass on the old family tradition of making the best-cornbread-dressing-recipe-in-the-world-from-Grandma-Dallas, even when smushing it up with your hands is a little icky. And hairdressers, because obviously Kendrie is in serious need of one.”
“For being able to start new family traditions, like our Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve fondue fountain adventure; what better way to justify chocolate, then by dipping fruit into it and pretending that its healthy?”
“For being home from Seattle and able to spend today with my family”
“For my family, especially for a seven-year old cancer survivor who still likes to dress up in her Indian costume on Thanksgiving Day. And for an eight-year old boy who will sometimes agree to dress himself for a holiday dinner. And for Goodwill, since it appears all his clothes come from there.”
“That no-one in our family was diagnosed with cancer today. Trust me, for us, that’s quite a holiday challenge!”
Happy Thanksgiving, and what are YOU thankful for?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006 11:42 PM CST
I CURSE THE BOTTOMLESS SUPPLY OF $1’S
Kendrie -- Day 342 OT
Blaine -- His arm looks like something out of a horror movie, I'm not even kidding, and he had about a gallon of fluid drain out of his neck today, but hey, his primary doc said all looks good!
You know those people? Those people who will hit the stores this Friday at 6am, loving every minute of The-Day-After-Thanksgiving-Sales? Loving the crowds, thriving on the chaos, eagerly searching for the best prices??? Well, I am not one of them.
I am also not one of those people who wait until December 24th to begin Christmas shopping. I hate rushing; I hate long lines; I hate packed parking lots; I am definitely crowd-phobic. I HATE that feeling that all the best toys will be gone if I don’t push and shove my way to the front of the line, and I sure as heck can’t take the pressure of waiting until the last minute and hoping I will find the perfect gifts in a hurry. I cannot take the stress!
Instead, I am one of those people who shops periodically throughout the year, picking up a toy or book or game that strikes my fancy, or an outfit or shirt or jacket whenever I see a clearance rack. And along about mid-October, every year without fail, I drag out my stash of purchased-throughout-the-year items, take inventory of the things I have and the things I still need, for every single person on my list, and give myself until November 15th to finish. And in case of an absolute, essential crunch, I will extend my personal Nov 15th deadline to Nov 20th. I know. I'm a little OCD. I even carry around a mini-notebook with lists in it, with columns with headings "Already Bought", "Need to Buy", "Need to Mail", "From Santa", "From Mom and Dad", etc. But under NO circumstances am I to have a single thing left to buy after Thanksgiving ---- NONE!
Brad Pitt could be signing autographs, naked, at the mall, and I wouldn’t go if it was after Thanksgiving. Not even if he were swimming in a heart-shaped vat of Diet Dr. Pepper --- that should tell you how serious I am.
This year, knowing I would be in Seattle for most of November, I gave myself an earlier deadline -- November 1st. That was pushing things a bit, even for me. Only two weeks to catalog the items, make my lists, and do all the shopping. But I accomplished it. Because I am nothing if not anal. And it was a relief to be in Seattle and know that all the Christmas gifts were purchased and hidden away behind the laundry baskets in my closet, ready to be wrapped as soon as I got home and got the tree put up.
When the kids woke up Monday morning and realized we had made it home during the night, there were smiles and laughs and hugs, for about six minutes. Then, they started in with wanting to know WHEN WHEN WHEN would we take them to Target so they could spend the money Grandma Betty bribed them with while we were gone. Because heaven forbid they hold on to their money for more than a day, it was burning a hole in their pockets and they NEEDED NEEDED NEEDED to spend it, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE can we go NOW NOW NOW??? I managed to put them off for two days, but quite frankly was sick of listening to them, so we went today.
Can you guess what happened?
With $32, $31, and $26 dollars, respectively, Brayden, Kendrie, and Kellen EACH managed to pick out something for themselves that I had already purchased for them for Christmas. I tried as hard as I could to steer them in other directions, without actually spilling the beans that “No, no, NO you cannot buy a new (insert toy or movie or game here) because I already bought you one and it’s waiting to be wrapped and put under the tree and if you buy **that** one then MY present will be redundant!”
And you know what this means?
Not only do I have to return the duplicate items, and buy replacement gifts …….. it will have to be done AFTER THANKSGIVING ….. egads. I will be in Target and Toys ‘R Us with the other 72 million people who are shopping for Christmas items. Something I try to avoid at all costs .... I’m feeling a little claustrophobic just imagining it.
Of course, I can't really blame my mom. If I were being honest, it’s all my fault. If my children weren’t such hooligans, my mother wouldn’t have needed to bribe them with money.
I curse the one dollar bill.
Kendrie, toothless. How cute is she? Please take note of the new soccer ball she is holding. There is a matching one behind the dirty underwear in my closet. (sigh)
You know what? After typing this entry, I realized the solution to my problem is to donate the duplicate items to Toys For Tots and be done with it. Like my kids are going to notice ONE less present each under the tree????? Giving to charity, and avoiding retail stores at the same time. Truly, a win-win situation.
Monday, November 20, 2006 9:41 PM CST
BACK HOME. NO THANKS TO MY IMAGINATION.
Kendrie -- OT Day 340 (Woo-Hoo!)
Blaine -- 14 Days Past 2nd Free-Flap Surgery; 6 mo Past Radiation; Lymph Nodes Tested Negative for Cancer; Healing; Hurting; Hoping for Teeth in Six Months.
The Good News: Getting the All-Clear from Blaine’s Seattle doctors to head back home to Georgia.
The Better News: Getting to the Seattle Airport and finding out that your flight to Chicago has been delayed by two hours which means you will miss your connection …. BUT …. American Airlines can re-route you through Dallas and you will still make it home that same day, in fact, five minutes earlier than the original flight.
Even Better News: Finding out that the seats on the final leg of your re-routed flight plan are bulkhead, baby, BULKHEAD!!!!
Best News of All: When the pilot comes on in Dallas and announces they had a **wee** bit of trouble with the landing gear on the last flight, and they need the mechanics to come change a tire on the plane before you can take-off, and this might delay things a bit, and then you wind up sitting on the runway for almost two hours, well, you might spend a few moments thinking about the meal you just had, which will obviously be your very last meal on Earth, EVER, another delicious Au Bon Pain ham & swiss cheese sandwich that you had just enough time to grab during the layover, and then the rest of the delay you’ll be busy prophesizing about your IMMINENT DEATH upon landing, when the new wheel will most certainly be defective and the plane will be forced to emergency land on its belly and then the plane will skid down the runway (I saw Memphis Belle, people, I know about these things!!) and then slide into the lake at the end of the runway, never mind that there are no lakes at the Atlanta airport, but you will have the complete scenario of your demise, either fiery on the runway or watery in the non-existent lake, firmly and painfully etched in your mind and you will agonize over your poor innocent children, who will take care of the poor, innocent children, and FOR GOD’S SAKE DID I NOT TELL BLAINE WE SHOULD NEVER FLY ON THE SAME PLANE?????? And well, at least the two hours you spend updating your will on a cocktail napkin and making funeral plans and crying over your precious babies who you will never see again …. at least for those two hours your legs will be stretched out in comfort because you’re in bulkhead, baby, BULKHEAD!!!
So, we made it home safe and sound. Too bad Blaine’s doctors only gave him pain meds and no Valium. Because I swear, if he had Valium, I totally would have stolen it for myself.
Saturday, November 18, 2006 3:49 AM CST
42 POUNDS
Number of pairs of workout shoes I brought to Seattle: 1
Number of pairs of workout pants I brought to Seattle: 2
Number of days I have been in Seattle: 14
Number of times I have intended to go to the hotel workout facility: 14
Number of times I have actually gone …… um ……….. 0
Number of naps I have taken in the last three days: 3
Number of hours of television I have watched: many
Number of calories I have burned: few
Number of pounds I have gained the past two weeks: 42 (As evidenced by the blue jeans that *fit* when I got here, but which today barely zipped up over my Buddha belly and which had to be unzipped for personal comfort as soon as I got back from the pharmacy.)
And as I lounged on the bed this afternoon, watching my fourth episode in a row of The Take Home Chef, I glanced around and noticed the half-eaten box of Russell Stover chocolate on the nightstand, the half-empty bag of Quaker rice snacks on the mattress next to me, the empty Milk Dud boxes in the trash, and the three empty cans of Diet Dr. Pepper on the floor. And I thought to myself, “Yes. Yes, indeed. Those people you hear about who weigh twelve-hundred pounds and can’t get out of their bed and when they die it requires a crane to get them out of their house and then they have to be buried in a piano box? Yes, THIS is how it starts.”
Friday, November 17, 2006 1:55 AM CST
Well, there are a few things I’ve learned during our time here in Seattle:
1) Having a non-English speaking member of the house-keeping staff clean your hotel room while you are sitting on the bed in your pajamas checking your e-mail is indeed slightly awkward.
2) Milk Duds that a friend takes the time to mail to you in a care package taste even better than the Milk Duds you buy on your own.
3) Luck decrees that the more items you have to drag from the grocery store back to the hotel room, the harder it will be raining.
4) And the more likely it will be that you’ve forgotten your umbrella.
5) When you don’t normally watch TV, the idea of spending five or six uninterrupted days in a hotel room with a television at your disposal, and no children clamoring to watch Nickelodeon or The Disney Channel, will seem quite delicious. You will realize, however, by the end of day three, that you’ve watched every unsolved crime documentary ever made. You will have learned about Treacher-Collins Syndrome, how police search for missing persons in Florida, the lifestyle of the female prisoner at the North Carolina Correctional Institute, current treatments available for anorexics and bulimics, The View, Family Feud, Trading Spaces, What Not to Wear, Ten Years Younger, It Takes a Thief, Baby Story, numerous football games, hours upon hours of CNN and MSNBC, Barbara Walters Special, Political Countdown, Entertainment Tonight, Jeopardy, Dancing With the Stars (both nights!) Jay Leno, Conan O’Brien, and more re-runs of Friends, Seinfield, and Everybody Loves Raymond than you can shake a stick at. And while overall this will be enjoyable, especially when you have endless bags of Quaker caramel corn rice cake snacks and Diet Dr. Pepper with Styrofoam cups (Hi, Heidi!) at your disposal, you will realize that if you’re being honest, you’d much rather be in your own living room, watching That’s So Raven with your own kids.
6) I have learned that no matter how adaptable I *think* I am, I am not cut out to be a city dweller. I don’t like walking to fill prescriptions, or walking to buy lunch, or walking to buy a box of Kleenex. I miss having my own washer and dryer. I miss my car. I miss Target. I miss Sonic. With the exception of one brief moment, earlier this week, after I bought a hot chocolate from the coffee shop on the main floor of my hotel (so Seattle clichéd!!) and walked outside to flag a taxi, holding my Cocoa Grande in one hand and my purse in the other, and felt very Marlo Thomas-ish from the opening scene of That Girl when she twirls around and throws her hat up in the air …. Well, except for that very quick similarity, I just don’t make a very good city girl.
Now, before you think I’m complaining about the city of Seattle specifically, let me reassure you I’m not. The area we are in, the University District, is very neat. So named, because U of W is right here. We could see the stadium from Blaine’s hospital room window. And as you would expect from a young, college area like this, there are dozens and dozens of restaurants, stores, bars, etc, all within a few blocks of our hotel. So it’s not like I’m having to walk very far, for anything. It’s just bizarre to me to have to walk. At all.
Back home, I walk (granted, not often) for exercise. I get in my car and drive to the gym and walk on a treadmill, going nowhere. And I like it. Sometimes, in the evening, the kids will get on their bikes and I will walk with them around our neighborhood. I like that too. But walking ….. for the primary purpose of “getting someplace” is just odd to me. Blaine and I walked to dinner the other night. We walked to a store to buy our kids gifts to bring home. I walked to a bookstore the other day, and walked down the street to use the ATM. Public transportation is OK, although I haven’t braved the bus system. And I’m a little sad I haven’t been picked up by The Cash Cab just yet, or is that only in NYC?
Public transportation has obviously enhanced a lot of lives. Sandra Bullock, for one, and her exciting adventure in Speed. And The Magic School Bus, which has helped a lot of kids learn about Science. But as for me? I’ll stick to my mini-van, thank you very much, parked in my garage with its luggage rack on top and soccer association magnet on the back and empty juice boxes and French fry wrappers on the floor. I’m an imposter here in the city, and I know it. Which leads me to number 7:
7) There’s no place like home. Kendrie has lost BOTH her front teeth while we’ve been gone. The Tooth Fairy has depleted Grandma’s stash of one dollar bills even further. It breaks my heart that we’ve missed it. Blaine meets with his surgeons for his follow up tomorrow and we’ll find out just how quickly we get to return there. To my van. To my washer and dryer. To my toothless child…. Best of all, to all three kids and the Disney channel.
************************************************
PS. Totally not Caringbridge or Kendrie or Blaine or cancer related: If you are a fan of music, specifically, cheesy love songs, go to this site: Frema and join in the Cheesy Love Song CD swap. I think it sounds like a hoot and am totally doing it .... but you have to sign up by tomorrow .... er, what time is it? Today, you have to sign up by today!!!
Thursday, November 16, 2006 9:57 AM CST
I feel very unsettled today. It's odd. Life outside my hotel window is almost unrecognizable. There's this big yellow thing in the sky, casting a golden glow on the buildings around me. And something chemical must have happened, maybe the hole in the ozone layer exploded or something, because for some bizarre reason, the sky is now blue. And for the first time since I arrived thirteen days ago, it's not raining, or threatening to rain, or blowing hurricane-gale winds against our 7th floor hotel window.
I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Should I make a run for the grocery store or laundromat ... dare I say, WITHOUT an umbrella?
Speaking of which, what is it about Seattle-ites, who consider you to be a total weiner if you use an umbrella, while most of them simply walk around, stoically facing the wind and rain with their heads uncovered, yet so many wear rainboots? I haven't owned rubber rainboots since I was about five years old. Of course, I also have never lived full-time in Seattle, or maybe I'd break down and buy myself a pair, too. In the meantime, scoff all you like at my marks-me-as-a-tourist-umbrella, at least my head is dry.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006 2:12 AM CST
400 POUNDS OF SLEEP APNEA
Well, on a sad note, the accordion man appears to have checked out of the hotel today. Blaine and I were treated to about three hours worth of practice this morning, then it stopped around 11am and we haven’t heard anything since. Of course, it’s possible we just couldn’t hear anything over the EXTREMELY LOUD volume at which I was watching the finale’ of Dancing With The Stars. (Who do you want to win? Mario or Emmit? I seriously can’t choose; they are both so stinkin’ cute that I want them to TIE for first place!) It’s too bad about the accordion music, though, as I had promised to lead Blaine in a rousing rendition of the German Polka this evening. I’m sure he’s severely disappointed.
You remember I mentioned the snoring in last night’s post? Well, I wish I could better describe the noise … the racket …. the 500 decibel jet-engine CLAMOR that is coming from his body. It’s not cute-snoring, or even the only-mildly-annoying-snoring that people do when they’re really, really tired. It’s the chainsaw cutting of wood-type noise, and it stops and starts in fits and jerks and he’s moaning in his sleep and exhaling and groaning and OHMYGOD I can’t take it any more. Logically, I understand that it’s because of the nature of the surgery. They’ve engrafted SO MUCH tissue to the roof of his mouth, and the back of his throat, and it’s swollen, and stitched, and raw, and quite frankly I’m amazed he can breathe at all, so it’s really no wonder that he’s snoring. Plus, because of the drainage and the incisions, he has to sleep in as semi-reclined position, on his back. Certainly not comfortable. I’m trying to be sympathetic, but must confess, it’s making me crazy. He sounds like how I assume a 400 pound person with sleep apnea would sound.
And I know he’s not resting. One doesn’t *rest* when one is continuously jerking and shaking and coughing and gagging and struggling for breath as if you have a sock stuffed in your mouth. Neither, unfortunately, does one’s wife.
Further proof that he is insanely sleep deprived? How about the conversation we had last night …. He had been “sleeping” about half an hour, then he jerked up and started ripping the covers off the bed. I was sitting next to him, checking my e-mail with the computer on my lap, and I looked over, completely bemused as to what he was doing:
Blaine: “Holy Shit! Did you see that?” (still yanking at the covers)
Me: “What? WHAT?” (thinking holy cow, if we have bedbugs I will have a heart attack)
Blaine, frantic: “Did you see it? Did you???”
Me: “Blaine, calm down. What is wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”
Blaine: “I was having contractions. But I can’t tell the difference between the real contractions and the fake contractions”
(OK, so now, I’m trying really hard not to laugh at him, and go on to use my most indulgent, soothing voice.)
Me: “Honey, you dreamed you were having a baby?”
And he looked at me, looked me right in the eye, with the most disgusted, you-are-a-total-ignoramus look on his face and said, “You know I can’t carry a baby”
Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, sighed, and continued: “But the scientists say soon all the ice will be gone and we’ll be closer then.”
And then he went back to sleep, and was snoring again within thirty seconds.
Closer to whom?
Closer to what?
Closer to men having babies?
In the meantime, I think he seriously needs to rest. At least until the ice is all gone.
PS. He had no recollection of this conversation this morning and swears I made the whole thing up.
Monday, November 13, 2006 11:47 PM CST
Rested. Relaxed.
Well, in a totally welcome, but slightly surprising move, Blaine was released from the hospital today. His doctor had initially predicted Wednesday, then re-projected Tuesday if things were going well. Over the weekend, they removed the last of his drain tubes and his feeding tube. Once they saw this morning that he was eating and drinking enough on his own, plus could manage his meds orally, they decided to remove his staples and his PICC line and send him home. Well, as “home” as you can get when you’re clear across the country.
I just *knew* that once they began to control his pain appropriately, he could do the rest for himself. Even in the hospital, the guy is slightly type-A and has trouble sitting still. And, everyone knows you don’t go to a hospital to rest OR get well. Too many interruptions for that. He paces, fidgets, and walks the halls. It’s always easier to be in a hotel without the constant disruption.
His comment, once we found out we would be returning to the hotel this afternoon, was “Good, now I can get some rest … you know, relax for a change.”
Since leaving the hospital, he has done the following: check e-mail, watch ten minutes of football, take a shower, and lie beside me snoring loud enough to wake the dead. (To be fair, it’s not restful sleep since he has so much trouble breathing through the swelling and tissue grafting in his mouth …. Truth be told, he’s already woken up twice while I’ve been typing this. But for the few moments he DOES sleep, my goodness, the snoring is unbelievable.)
Since leaving the hospital, *I* have done the following: unpack suitcase, put away hospital stuff, walk to pharmacy to drop off prescriptions, walk to grocery store, dragging an empty suitcase behind me, to buy enough soft foods (mashed potatoes, yogurt, applesauce, Boost, etc) to get Blaine through the next few days, walk back to hotel, dragging full suitcase behind me, unpack groceries, walk back to pharmacy, prescriptions not ready yet, walk back to hotel, fill ice bucket, go get package from front desk (yeah, Renee’!) walk back to pharmacy one final time to pick up prescriptions, walk back to hotel, crush Blaine’s pills, explain medication schedule to Blaine …. again ….. get Blaine a drink, get Blaine some food, remove dressing from wound on arm (OHMYGAWD I’ll have to show you a picture of the harvest site later, when I get back home and have my digital capabilities again) apply waterproof adhesive for shower, remove waterproof adhesive, re-apply medicated dressing, re-bandage arm, fix his splint and fluff his pillows. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the picture.
I should mention that we left the hospital with TWELVE written prescriptions for medication. Pain meds, antibiotics, oral rinses, numbing agents, blood thinners, digestive medications, et. al. The pharmacist had a question regarding two of the prescriptions and had to talk to the doctor before she could fill them. Then, filling twelve prescriptions takes time. A lot of time. One hour and forty-five minutes, to be exact. That’s how long I sat at Walgreens, waiting, not wanting to make a FOURTH trip back to the hotel. Running errands on foot, it’s a foreign concept to me, and one which makes me grateful I am a suburbanite.
So I sat, and waited. And waited. And waited some more.
And while I was waiting, I bought a Redbook magazine and ate another box of Russell Stover caramels.
So, by the end of this ordeal, Blaine? Will be rested and relaxed. And I? Will weigh 800 pounds.
**************************************************
Not relevant to anything but I promise I’m not making this up: The person in the hotel room next to ours is practicing an accordion. For the past three hours, that’s all we’ve heard, is accordion music. At first it was funny. Then it was a little confusing. Now we’re honing in on 10 pm and all I can say is Lawrence Freaking Welk better knock it off pretty soon or I’ll be banging on the wall with a broomstick handle.
Sunday, November 12, 2006 3:30 PM CST
MAYBE I WAS ASTHMATIC
Call me crazy, but I have this “thing” about breathing. Mainly, that I like to.
More specifically, I can’t stand to have my airway obstructed, even in the slightest way. I can’t stand to breathe in tepid, recycled air. I have a physical, mental, emotional NEED to be able to draw in deep, cleansing, bracing lung-fuls of air at all times. Otherwise, I feel claustrophobic.
I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I couldn’t hide under the covers because I couldn’t stand having my face sheltered by the blankets. If it was a choice between the monster in the closet and having to breathe my own old, used, warm, exhaled air, well, I’d take my chances with the monster.
Maybe I was an asthmatic in my previous life.
As you can imagine, this has put quite a damper on my current lifestyle opportunities. I can’t be a cowboy because I could never wear a bandana over my mouth. I can’t be a belly dancer because I could never wear a veil over my face. I can’t be a chain-smoker because I could never be hooked up to oxygen with a tube in my nose. I can’t hang out in saunas because I can’t stand to breathe in wet air. I can’t even be a bank robber, for pete’s sake, because I could never wear a pair of panty hose over my head. And I discovered this past week that sadly, I can’t be a brain surgeon because I could never wear the mask over my face.
Maybe I was an asthmatic in my previous life.
Whatever the case, it came about when Blaine had his PICC line inserted on Thursday. Although a minor-enough procedure that it can be done in his hospital room, it still requires a sterile field since they’re inserting a catheter so far up into his arm. Safety procedures, hospital policy, blah blah. The technician told me I was welcome to stay and watch, but I’d have to wear a mask.
“Sure,” I say, thinking it will be interesting to watch. I’m getting sort of good at this gory hospital stuff. She hands me a mask, I slip it on and hook it behind my ears ………… one second, two, three ………… aaagh, get this thing off my face! I snatch off the mask, take a deep breath, and excuse myself from the room.
A few moments later Blaine’s nurse walks by and asks why I’m out in the hall. I smile sheepishly and explain that I just can’t wear the mask on my face and cover up my mouth that way.
His reply? “Don’t feel bad. I have chronic bad breath, too.”
Maybe I was an asthmatic in my previous life.
Or maybe I just needed a breath mint.
Saturday, November 11, 2006 10:29 AM CST
SHARING CHOCOLATE IS NOT MY FORTE'
Blaine and I have been married for nineteen years (nineteen and a half, if you’re really counting) and I think it’s a pretty good marriage. Solid, based on mutual respect, similar beliefs, and the fact we genuinely like one another. He’s the one person I would choose to have with me if I were going to be stranded on a deserted island the rest of my life. We can talk for hours and I really respect his opinion. Plus, he would do the hard jobs like gathering coconuts and constructing shelter from bamboo leaves and arranging HELP signs on the shore with driftwood. He is dependable beyond reproach, trustworthy and I am completely, 100 percent comfortable with him.
That said, there are still a few areas in our relationship that are off-limits. Private, personal things. Places where we respect one another’s space.
For example, certain aspects of personal hygiene. I don’t floss in front of him, or put on my deodorant. I have no idea if he trims nose hair or ear hair, because in a million years he wouldn’t do that with me as an audience. If either of us is going to be attending to business in the bathroom that takes more than twenty seconds, we shut the door. Absolutely no clipping of nails in front of one another, but that’s probably got more to do with my freaky aversion to feet than a privacy issue.
And, although some will find this odd, despite nineteen years (twenty-one if you count the two years we dated before we got married) and three kids together, we absolutely, under no circumstance, EVER, would pass gas in front of one another. Pass Gas. See? I can’t even say the “f” word. That bodily function is simply off-limits and not shared, even in the privacy of our own home.
I know some of you (KW and LL, you know who you are because we’ve talked and laughed about this) have the same rule of sensitivity in your own households. Others (I don’t want to name any names JH you know who you are, too) go to the other extreme, having contests among family members, or have told me that your husband finds great amusement in holding your head under the covers and letting it rip. I guess, within some relationships, it’s considered entertainment. Hey, whatever floats your boat.
But not us. We love each other dearly, but we are much more private than that. Some might call it “uptight”. I prefer to think of it as “respectful”. Which is why the following conversation, which took place yesterday, amuses me all the more:
Blaine: “What’s that you're eating?”
Kristie: “Russell Stover candy. The caramel kind. I was in the mood for some chocolate so I bought them at the gift shop”
Blaine: “Save some for me.”
Kristie: “No. I don’t want to. You don’t even like chocolate that much. Plus, they haven’t OK’d you for clear liquids, let alone solid, chewy candy.”
Blaine: “Still, save me some. I’ll be able to eat them later.”
Kristie: “No! I’ll buy you more later …. These are mine.”
Blaine: “If you loved me, you’d prove it by saving me some of your candy.”
Kristie: “You want me to prove my love for you by sharing my chocolate?”
Blaine: “Yes. Prove your love by saving me some.”
Kristie: “Prove my love for you? By saving you chocolate? You want me to prove my love for you? How about the fact I’ve WIPED YOUR ASS for you the past three days??? Hmmmmm?? Doesn’t that PROVE MY LOVE for you??????”
Blaine, coming out of his drugged state long enough to look at me, goggle-eyed: “What? Wipe my ass? You did not! Uh-huh, no. THAT didn’t happen!! Oh God, did you…… “
And I’ll admit. While I wiped and cleaned and suctioned and patted every other bodily orifice he has, I never went anywhere near his backside. But the lie was totally worth it to see the look of horror on his face. I giggled for twenty minutes just remembering how mortified he was to imagine.
And that’s how you know Blaine is getting better. Because despite my respect for our personal private boundaries, it’s becoming fun again to get a rise out of him.
Saturday, November 11, 2006 10:29 AM CST
SHARING CHOCOLATE IS NOT MY FORTE'
Blaine and I have been married for nineteen years (nineteen and a half, if you’re really counting) and I think it’s a pretty good marriage. Solid, based on mutual respect, similar beliefs, and the fact we genuinely like one another. He’s the one person I would choose to have with me if I were going to be stranded on a deserted island the rest of my life. We can talk for hours and I really respect his opinion. Plus, he would do the hard jobs like gathering coconuts and constructing shelter from bamboo leaves and arranging HELP signs on the shore with driftwood. He is dependable beyond reproach, trustworthy and I am completely, 100 percent comfortable with him.
That said, there are still a few areas in our relationship that are off-limits. Private, personal things. Places where we respect one another’s space.
For example, certain aspects of personal hygiene. I don’t floss in front of him, or put on my deodorant. I have no idea if he trims nose hair or ear hair, because in a million years he wouldn’t do that with me as an audience. If either of us is going to be attending to business in the bathroom that takes more than twenty seconds, we shut the door. Absolutely no clipping of nails in front of one another, but that’s probably got more to do with my freaky aversion to feet than a privacy issue.
And, although some will find this odd, despite nineteen years (twenty-one if you count the two years we dated before we got married) and three kids together, we absolutely, under no circumstance, EVER, would pass gas in front of one another. Pass Gas. See? I can’t even say the “f” word. That bodily function is simply off-limits and not shared, even in the privacy of our own home.
I know some of you (KW and LL, you know who you are because we’ve talked and laughed about this) have the same rule of sensitivity in your own households. Others (I don’t want to name any names JH you know who you are, too) go to the other extreme, having contests among family members, or have told me that your husband finds great amusement in holding your head under the covers and letting it rip. I guess, within some relationships, it’s considered entertainment. Hey, whatever floats your boat.
But not us. We love each other dearly, but we are much more private than that. Some might call it “uptight”. I prefer to think of it as “respectful”. Which is why the following conversation, which took place yesterday, amuses me all the more:
Blaine: “What’s that you're eating?”
Kristie: “Russell Stover candy. The caramel kind. I was in the mood for some chocolate so I bought them at the gift shop”
Blaine: “Save some for me.”
Kristie: “No. I don’t want to. You don’t even like chocolate that much. Plus, they haven’t OK’d you for clear liquids, let alone solid, chewy candy.”
Blaine: “Still, save me some. I’ll be able to eat them later.”
Kristie: “No! I’ll buy you more later …. These are mine.”
Blaine: “If you loved me, you’d prove it by saving me some of your candy.”
Kristie: “You want me to prove my love for you by sharing my chocolate?”
Blaine: “Yes. Prove your love by saving me some.”
Kristie: “Prove my love for you? By saving you chocolate? You want me to prove my love for you? How about the fact I’ve WIPED YOUR ASS for you the past three days??? Hmmmmm?? Doesn’t that PROVE MY LOVE for you??????”
Blaine, coming out of his drugged state long enough to look at me, goggle-eyed: “What? Wipe my ass? You did not! Uh-huh, no. THAT didn’t happen!! Oh God, did you…… “
And I’ll admit. While I wiped and cleaned and suctioned and patted every other bodily orifice he has, I never went anywhere near his backside. But the lie was totally worth it to see the look of horror on his face. I giggled for twenty minutes just remembering how mortified he was to imagine.
And that’s how you know Blaine is getting better. Because despite my respect for our personal private boundaries, it’s becoming fun again to get a rise out of him.
Saturday, November 11, 2006 10:29 AM CST
SHARING CHOCOLATE IS NOT MY FORTE'
Blaine and I have been married for nineteen years (nineteen and a half, if you’re really counting) and I think it’s a pretty good marriage. Solid, based on mutual respect, similar beliefs, and the fact we genuinely like one another. He’s the one person I would choose to have with me if I were going to be stranded on a deserted island the rest of my life. We can talk for hours and I really respect his opinion. Plus, he would do the hard jobs like gathering coconuts and constructing shelter from bamboo leaves and arranging HELP signs on the shore with driftwood. He is dependable beyond reproach, trustworthy and I am completely, 100 percent comfortable with him.
That said, there are still a few areas in our relationship that are off-limits. Private, personal things. Places where we respect one another’s space.
For example, certain aspects of personal hygiene. I don’t floss in front of him, or put on my deodorant. I have no idea if he trims nose hair or ear hair, because in a million years he wouldn’t do that with me as an audience. If either of us is going to be attending to business in the bathroom that takes more than twenty seconds, we shut the door. Absolutely no clipping of nails in front of one another, but that’s probably got more to do with my freaky aversion to feet than a privacy issue.
And, although some will find this odd, despite nineteen years (twenty-one if you count the two years we dated before we got married) and three kids together, we absolutely, under no circumstance, EVER, would pass gas in front of one another. Pass Gas. See? I can’t even say the “f” word. That bodily function is simply off-limits and not shared, even in the privacy of our own home.
I know some of you (KW and LL, you know who you are because we’ve talked and laughed about this) have the same rule of sensitivity in your own households. Others (I don’t want to name any names JH you know who you are, too) go to the other extreme, having contests among family members, or have told me that your husband finds great amusement in holding your head under the covers and letting it rip. I guess, within some relationships, it’s considered entertainment. Hey, whatever floats your boat.
But not us. We love each other dearly, but we are much more private than that. Some might call it “uptight”. I prefer to think of it as “respectful”. Which is why the following conversation, which took place yesterday, amuses me all the more:
Blaine: “What’s that you're eating?”
Kristie: “Russell Stover candy. The caramel kind. I was in the mood for some chocolate so I bought them at the gift shop”
Blaine: “Save some for me.”
Kristie: “No. I don’t want to. You don’t even like chocolate that much. Plus, they haven’t OK’d you for clear liquids, let alone solid, chewy candy.”
Blaine: “Still, save me some. I’ll be able to eat them later.”
Kristie: “No! I’ll buy you more later …. These are mine.”
Blaine: “If you loved me, you’d prove it by saving me some of your candy.”
Kristie: “You want me to prove my love for you by sharing my chocolate?”
Blaine: “Yes. Prove your love by saving me some.”
Kristie: “Prove my love for you? By saving you chocolate? You want me to prove my love for you? How about the fact I’ve WIPED YOUR ASS for you the past three days??? Hmmmmm?? Doesn’t that PROVE MY LOVE for you??????”
Blaine, coming out of his drugged state long enough to look at me, goggle-eyed: “What? Wipe my ass? You did not! Uh-huh, no. THAT didn’t happen!! Oh God, did you…… “
And I’ll admit. While I wiped and cleaned and suctioned and patted every other bodily orifice he has, I never went anywhere near his backside. But the lie was totally worth it to see the look of horror on his face. I giggled for twenty minutes just remembering how mortified he was to imagine.
And that’s how you know Blaine is getting better. Because despite my respect for our personal private boundaries, it’s becoming fun again to get a rise out of him.
Friday, November 10, 2006 10:10 AM CST
I BLAME THE WIND
So, last Saturday, Kendrie had a soccer game. It was cold that day, cold and windy. I layered her in several shirts, her uniform, her coat, with a hood, and put a stocking cap on her head to keep the wind away. She looked like the little brother in A Christmas Story, all bundled up and trying to run. However, because she is such a klutz like her mother star athlete, there were several occasions when she fell down while tripping over her own feet performing amazing feats of soccer genius, and the cap would fall off. And she would run around for a few moments in the cold wind with no hat on.
So, it was no huge surprise that when I left the ICU Wednesday night, and turned my phone back on, that there was a message from Grandma Betty that our little soccer star was complaining of an earache. Unfortunately, due to the time change, it was at that point almost 1am in Georgia, but being the hysteric concerned parent that I am, I called my mom anyway to see how she was feeling. It seemed that then, in addition to the ear pain, Kendrie was running a fever.
So, in discussing our options, that was about when we realized not only were my kids’ insurance cards still in my wallet, I also hadn’t left any sort of note, authorizing my mom to take my kids for medical treatment. Yessiree, preparation is my middle name. So I told my mom not to worry, I would take care of things. The phone lines to our doctor’s office on base open at 7am, and I would call on Thursday morning, explain the situation, and get her an appointment. I came back to the hotel, stayed up until midnight whining on the internet to all of you about Blaine, then realized that 7 am Georgia time was 4 am Seattle time. Needless to say, I thought it might be wise to set an alarm. So I did.
4 am – Call Tricare to request appointment; they take message and promise to call back; lay there holding phone for half an hour.
4:30 am – Call Tricare again; only to be told it’s a training day and no appointments available. Nurse will call back to discuss options; lay there holding phone for another half an hour.
5:15 am – Nurse calls back; authorizes visit to local MedStop.
5:20 am – Call Grandma to get phone number to MedStop.
5:22 am – Call local MedStop; explain situation; they agree to see ear-achy child without insurance card, but need copy of military ID.
5:30 am – Groan. Get up and shower.
6:15 am – Go to hotel lobby, make Xerox copy of front and back of military ID, fax to MedStop; call Grandma Betty and let her know ear-achy child can now be seen and give directions to local MedStop.
And that’s how I came to be in Blaine’s room early yesterday morning, having been up since 4am. Tired, and a little sleep-deprived. But relieved to know that we did the right thing, since Soccer Girl did actually have an ear infection, as confirmed by the doctor at MedStop. Props to Grandma for handling things on the homefront.
I was feeling a little fuzzy, having started my day so early. I was also discouraged to discover Blaine had slept very little and wasn’t feeling any better. That’s my gripe about a patient-administered pain pump. To actually *receive* the medication, the patient has to be awake to press the button every six minutes. So just how is he supposed to get any sleep? And if he inadvertently goes to sleep, and is unable to push the pain button for say, half an hour, then he wakes up, after receiving NO medicine, his pain level is worse than when he started. It’s quite the vicious cycle.
So I spent the morning fluffing pillows and helping suction and holding urinals and untangling drain tubes and changing disgusting oozing bandages and grumbling under my breath and reminding myself that Florence Nightingale most likely had a much better attitude. Of course, she probably slept more than four hours a night, and didn’t have those jerks from pain management to deal with. (Yeah, because back in her day, giving some guy a swig of whiskey and a bullet to bite was SUCH a better option ………… my gosh I am the biggest whiner on the planet) But bottom line, Blaine’s pain wasn’t improved at all and I didn’t know what to do about it.
His nurse offered to call Pain Management again, and I swear, a snort came out of my nose …. Oh, yeah. Like THAT’S going to do any good! (snort again for good measure) But the nurse said, “Well, I have to at least try. He’s miserable.” I rolled my eyes and thought, “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
Then, I thought, “What the heck is that ringing noise?” only to discover that in my sleep-deprived stupor that morning, I had forgotten the cardinal rule of ICU rooms --- I had left my cell phone on, and someone was now calling me.
A quick glance at the return number showed me it was the military base calling. I wondered if the nurse needed to talk to me about Kendrie again … maybe they wanted to find out what MedStop had diagnosed???? So I answered the phone, trying to be sneaky, worried all the while that some other patient’s pacemaker was going to quit working because of me.
And guess who it was? Blaine’s doctor (and mine, too) calling, I *thought*, to check on Blaine. Which seemed odd, but whatever. I mean, why else would he be calling? To wish us well? Discuss the weather? Read me my horoscope????
Oh wait, I know. How about to tell me I HAVE FREAKIN’ SKIN CANCER?!?!?
Yep, that’s right. The annual-physical-jamboree I did for my 40th birthday? I had a funny looking spot removed, certain it was nothing, glad it was gone because it was ugly, and I’m nothing if not vain, and it turned out to be skin cancer. SKIN CANCER. He wanted to call and let me know there would be a referral to dermatology when I get back from Seattle.
Aaaaaahhhh, I have skin cancer!!
{OK, you do understand, right, that I’m being totally tongue in cheek? He reassured me that it’s the most commonly diagnosed kind, the most easily treated, and I am not one bit concerned about it, so don’t you be, either. I just think this is the most perfect example of irony I’ve ever seen …. And I’m still laughing about it. He doesn’t think the dermatology guy will even need to do anything else, but he’s sending me just to be sure. Hmmmm, wonder if I can get some botox while I’m there? Or maybe a chemical peel? Do they DO those in the Air Force?}
So I was basically giggling about the whole thing, because how funny is that? I’m in the hospital with my husband, who has just had reconstructive surgery as part of his cancer treatment, when my own doctor calls to tell me I’ve got skin cancer ….. come on, you’ve got to admit, that’s pretty hysterically ironic, in a sort of “what the heck is going on in this comedy of errors that is my life” kind of way. And I decided, I blame the wind. If it hadn’t been windy on Saturday, Kendrie wouldn’t have gotten an earache. And I wouldn’t have had to get up at 4am to make her an appointment. And I wouldn’t have been tired when I went to Blaine’s room, and wouldn’t have forgotten to turn off my cell phone. And my doctor wouldn’t have called, and I wouldn’t have found out I have skin cancer.
I blame the wind.
And decided to go grab some lunch.
This is part 2 of the story, and it’s the best part. I was down in the cafeteria, where I decided, what with having skin cancer and all, that I was entitled to thumb my nose at my diet for this meal. So I’m sitting at my table, nose in a book, HUGE plate of food in front of me, and this girl walks up to my table. Now, they’re doing some remodeling work in the cafeteria, so about half the eating section is closed off and there aren’t as many tables available, so for a split second I thought maybe she was going to ask if she could share the table with me. But no, she says, “Excuse me, is your name Kristie?” and all I could think was, “Holy cow, first I’m in trouble for falling asleep in the private consultation room, and now I’m in trouble for leaving my cell phone on??!”
Turns out, she’s a local Seattle-ite (Seattle-ostonian?) who follows along with this journal. Her name is Heidi, and we had corresponded by e-mail a few times these past few weeks, when she had kindly given me some sightseeing suggestions, and told me to contact her if I needed anything while I was in Seattle. (Actually, several people from this area did that ….. you Washington people have been so kind and helpful!)
Anyway, Heidi thought I could maybe use a visitor in the hospital, and sat with me the rest of my lunch so we could chat. You guys, it was twenty minutes of grown-up conversation that didn’t revolve around blood clotting and antibiotic ointment and drain tubes and urine output ---- it was great! I felt like a human being again!
Then, spreading goodwill and humanitarian effort, she left me a care package --- are you ready for this? A 24-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper (I could literally feel my central nervous system tingling in anticipation) ….. STYROFOAM CUPS to drink it with, a great book to read …………… AND A FLAT IRON!!! HEIDI BOUGHT ME A NEW FLAT IRON!!!!! No more Medusa-head for me!
Heidi, not since Angelina Jolie visited Africa has such benevolence and kindness been shown. I can’t even tell you how much I appreciated it …. I know you’re married and have a son and another one on the way, but I think I might just love you a little bit.
Then, it just keeps getting better.
I returned to the room, to find out pain management had come to see Blaine. A different doctor, who apparently looked around and said, “Well, this is unacceptable” and suggested we try a new medication. She explained it wasn’t a quick fix and might take a day to accumulate in his system, but that he *should* start feeling better. Hey, it didn’t even matter, she could have done a rain dance and shook feathers at him. Just knowing someone took him seriously and was willing to TRY, made a huge difference. Both to him and to me.
And I think, maybe, possibly, just a little bit, by last night, he was in less pain. I mean, he wasn’t skipping around the room or doing cartwheels or anything, but there were a few brief minutes yesterday when his eyes were clear and he seemed resilient again.
I came home last night, pooped, but happy. I drank three, count ‘em, THREE Diet Dr. Peppers from my Styrofoam cups (Heidi, I'm not even kidding. I love you) and collapsed into bed, knowing that when I go to the hospital today, Blaine should hopefully be feeling even better, I will feel rested and human, and best of all, most importantly, my hair will once again be sleek and shiny.
It’s a good life I have, skin cancer and all.
Thursday, November 9, 2006 1:22 AM CST
I WAS WRONG. ONE BIGGER.
Thanks to all of you for continuing to check in on Blaine and offering your words of support and suggestions. Although frankly, some of you frighten me with your very blatant ideas! :)
I should clarify that overall, Blaine is receiving excellent care. We really like his surgeon, and the nurse practitioner, and the resident .... and his ICU nurses have all been wonderful, both male and female. Who, by the way, have also all been young and fit and attractive. What's up with that? Is it like a RULE that you have to be good looking to work at this hospital???
As compared to say, oh, I don't know, somebody's WIFE, who not only has already resorted to wearing sweatpants and tennis shoes since I'm there in the ICU so long each day, sitting in the world's most uncomfortable chair, but at least his room HAS a chair, which is more than I can say for some of the other rooms so by golly I'm not going to complain about it, but who also is walking around town looking like the Lion from the Wizard of Oz because my flat iron BROKE IN HALF on the plane ride here, which I discovered the first time I tried to use it and it burned the everlasting-gobstopper-crap out of my thumb, so my naturally coarse, frizzy hair is a nightmare, especially in this city where is has rained EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY since we got here, so I'm frightening the eldery and small children with this wild bush atop my head and the stinking pharmacy down the street where I could possibly buy another flat iron isn't a 24 hour store and since I leave the hotel at the buttcrack of dawn and don't get back until late at night it's already closed and so I'm just STUCK with this crazy birds nest above my forehead..... (whew, Kristie, slow down, it's just hair.)
Anyway, what was I saying?
Oh, yes, that's right, Blaine. He's getting very good care, it's just the situation yesterday with his pain management, or non-management, I should say, came after an extremely intense day, which I would tell you the whole story, but quite frankly, I'm beat. Short version involves Blaine's ventilator tube getting blocked while I was the only person in the room, and him turning blue, seizing, and out-of-his-mind-eyes-rolling-panicked-hysterical because he couldn't breathe, was tied to the bed, and wound up being bagged in front of me. Not one of my more tranquil moments. It also involved him pulling out his catheter with the balloon still inflated .... not one of HIS more tranquil moments. And one which I'm sure he'll be horrified I just shared with the internet. Bleeding, oozing, suctioning, barfing, alarms, blech. Just all told, a tiring, stressful day yesterday, capped off by the Pain Management Specialist telling me there wasn't anything more he could do.
So fine, I re-grouped, said a thankful prayer for propofol and the fact Blaine most likely wouldn't remember most of yesterday anyway, and went back in today, ready to advocate properly. Buoyed by your comments in the guestbook, loaded for bear, can of whup-ass in each hand.
And, basically, was shut down in every direction.
I thought the guy yesterday was a prick? Oh, no, he was a mere Jr. Prick, a Prick in TRAINING, whose *MENTOR* was Blaine's pain management doctor today. My mother raised me to have better manners, but it took every ounce of self-control I had not to call the guy an asshole to his face and demand he leave the room. Because he was. A big, round, puckered asshole.
NOT because he refused to increase Blaine's pain meds, or try a different medication. Or do anything whatsoever in addition to, or differently, than he was already doing which wasn't working because hello? Could he not look over and see my husband laying in bed crying from the pain?
No, he was an asshole because he not only said no, but he did it in the most condescending way possible. I thought the lady in the waiting room the other day talked down to me? No, she was like my sweet Jewish Grandmother, compared to this guy, and I'm not even Jewish.
I took college anatomy, I understand how the nervous system works. I understand that even pharmacology has its limitations. And I even understand that yes, having my husband BREATHING is actually a positive thing, an exact question this man asked me. But to have Blaine's complaints dismissed in such an insulting, patronzing, "just suck it up" manner was very hard to take.
I immediately went back to the surgeon, who told me they would defer to pain management. I asked the nurse practitioner, who I like and trust, if going to the hospital administration would make a difference. She said, and I think she's probably right, that while I could file a complaint about behavior and bedside manner, in the short term, that's not going to change anything for Blaine and his pain. THEY are pain management. They're like, the BOSS of the pain world. And if they say no, the answer's no. End of discussion.
Do you have any idea how MADDENING that is????
Anyway, I can't go on about it any more or I swear I will need high blood pressure medication.
Blaine's face is killing him, but the good news is that the surgery appears to have gone very well. Blood supply to the transfer site is good, although it would be helpful at this point if his nose would quit bleeding. There's a reason I didn't go to nursing school, people, and let's just say the last few days have been a little too labor-intensive, in a totally disgusting sort of way for me. The bodily fluids you will clean up for love, no?
His arm, where they took the tissue and nerves, is hurting. The splint should come off next week. Ironically, the skin graft on his thigh, where they cheese-gratered the skin to close the wound on his arm (he's like a walking jigsaw puzzle, isn't he?) is not hurting at all, and that's the part doctors said some patients complain about the most.
Of course, because it's Blaine and SOMETHING has to go wrong, his little butterfly-princess veins have given out. They moved the iv's from the arm to the feet, but still are having trouble, so he'll be getting a PICC line inserted tomorrow. And hopefully be moved out of ICU and into a regular room. With internet access. So I can hop online and thrill you throughout the day with tales of my inadequacy and complete inability to advocate for my husband. The one thing in my favor is that they had turned off the propofol today, so at least Blaine was awake and could hear me arguing with the doctors. At least he'll know I tried, right?
PS. One more thing, so many of you have been kind enough to e-mail me privately and I want you all to know how much I appreciate the notes of support. I feel terrible that I haven't had time to answer all of you ..... forgive me??
Wednesday, November 8, 2006 1:07 AM CST
THE BIGGEST ONE
::warning::vulgarity ahead::consider yourself warned::
::scroll down at your own risk::
Dear Porn World,
Hey, guess what?! Great News!! I single-handedly discovered the biggest prick in the world today! And in case you'd like to contact him for a starring role in your next adult feature, he can be found at the U of W Hospital; 5th floor ICU; Pain Management Team.
The end.
Tuesday, November 7, 2006 8:46 AM CST
Well, things went well with Blaine's surgery yesterday. I intended to update when I got back to the hotel last night .... actually, I intended to update during the day (more on that later) but we got up at 3:30 am to make it to the pre-op check in on time, and I didn't get back to the hotel until 10 pm, and what is it about just sitting in a chair all day that makes you so exhausted? But I was, so I went straight to bed last night, after soothing myself with a Diet Dr. Pepper because the hospital cafeteria only sells Diet Coke, and NOT with styrofoam cups, I might add, and so I was really jonseing for my DDP fix, but I won't gripe because at least it's not that swill that passes for Diet Pepsi gag.
We didn't actually have to leave the hotel yesterday until 5:15 am, but Blaine was a little nervous, and had to take two showers with this special medicated soap they gave him, and did I mention he was a little nervous? So the alarm went off at 3:30 am. Ironically, it was 3:30 am the night before that we were just GOING to bed, after my all-day flying extravaganza Shuttle-Atlanta-Dallas-Layover-Seattle-Shuttle event.
Needless to say (but you know I'll say it anyway because I just can't shut up most of the time) I was still pretty tired yesterday morning. They let me stay with Blaine through the pre-op stuff, then wheeled him down for surgery and showed me the doors of the surgery waiting room around 6:30 am. I was one of the first ones there and the room was still pretty vacant. It's a good-sized room, probably thirty or forty chairs, with an employee attendant area, and thankfully no annoying television for people to hijack with The Maury Povich show, or anything. There are two small rooms off to the side, private rooms, with telephones. I assumed that's where people went if they needed to make a private call, but since the outer room was basically vacant, I decided to set up camp in the private room for a few minutes so I could hook up the laptop Blaine borrowed from work.
Unfortunately, because I am a moron, I left the password sitting on the nightstand at the hotel and the computer was basically worthless. Although I don't understand technology, and it makes no sense to me that I couldn't even operate the dvd player without the password, it seems I couldn't, so pretty much I brought the laptop and the movies with me for no reason. And of course, although I had it hooked to the phone line, I couldn't get on and do any sort of CB update.
I was frustrated, and tired, and annoyed with myself and my worthlessness, so I layed my head on the table. And fell asleep. The sleep of the dead. For about half an hour. Only to hear a phone ringing, and then someone's voice calling out, "Escoe? Escoe? Anyone here named Escoe?" I jerked awake and lurched out into the main room, only to discover it was now PACKED with people, people whose eyes were all ON ME, in my sudden awakedness. Only to watch the hospital-worker-lady hang up on the caller because I was too slow in my jerkedness, and then, only to have her chastise me, in front of the ENTIRE ROOMFULL OF PEOPLE, about how that room is a PRIVATE, DOCTOR'S ONLY CONSULTATION ROOM and NOT FOR MY OWN PERSONAL USE, and THEY HAD ALREADY HAD ONE DOCTOR UPSET BECAUSE MY TIRED BODY WAS DRAPED ACROSS THE TABLE AND HE NEEDED SOMEWHERE TO TALK TO THE FAMILY AND COULD I PLEASE MOVE MY STUFF BACK OUT INTO THE COMMONS AREA WHERE IT BELONGED??????
I. Was. Mortified.
I felt like I was six years old, getting caught with my hand in the cookie jar and getting my knuckles rapped in front of the entire school. I started sweating, and got that weird blotchy-rash thing on my chest. I do NOT do public humilitation well. I wanted to profess, "It was an accident! I didn't mean to fall asleep!" but at that point I was too embarrassed to even bother. Everyone. Staring. I know it sounds silly, but I could FEEL the eyes upon me of every other waiting room family, smirking because I got caught trying to get away with something. Trying to claim the private room for my own. When really, that wasn't it. I only wanted to check my e-mail real quick, honest! A furtive glance around the room showed no chairs available, so I just packed the computer back into the rolling suitcase, along with my book and magazine, and exited the room, trying to hold my head high, which is hard to do when the back of your neck is all sweaty and flushed.
And then I skulked around the hospital for the next twelve hours, waiting to hear from the operating room. I spent time in the cafeteria, the front lobby, and another waiting room I found. Thank GOD for cell phones, is all I can say, so I didn't have to face those people in the first waiting room again.
Anyway, what? Oh, yeah, Blaine. That's what this is about, not me and my neuroses.
The nurse told me they did prep-stuff (IVs, etc) for about two hours, then made the first incision at almost 9am. The doctor came to see me at 8pm, so surgery must have lasted about ten hours. He said the tissue transfer went well, he sent a few lymph nodes to pathology but thought everything looked benign, and overall he was very pleased. I asked, smiling, if he had managed to grab some dinner, and he said no. So then I asked, curious, if he had had any lunch. Or breakfast. And both times, he said no. So then I just blurted out, "Good heavens, do you even go to the bathroom the entire time?" before realizing that was probably not the most appropriate thing to ask your husband's surgeon, who you've only met a handful of times before this. PS The answer is no, in case you were wondering.
It took another hour before I could see him in the ICU, where he will spend the next day or two. As of last night, they had him completely sedated, on a ventilator, but no trach-tube, which will make him happy. The swelling and brusing had already started, and the incisions on his neck make him look like somebody tried to slit his throat. Well, actually, I guess they *did* slit his throat. :)
I'm headed back up there now because I don't know how early they will try to wake him today and I want to be there when he first wakes up. The next few days will be the roughest, with the discomfort and swelling. The doctor said the previous radiation will slow down his healing, but that he had high hopes this surgery, *this* time, will be the fix. I sure hope he's right, because after yesterday, I'm running out of places in the hospital to hide out.
Sunday, November 5, 2006 3:22 AM CST
Well, I'm here, safe and sound, despite some pretty constant turbulance between Dallas and Seattle. I kept expecting to hear that "Sorry for the bumps, ladies and gentlemen, give us a second to get over/below/around the turbulance and things will calm down" announcement, but it appears today's pilot was more of the "just plow right through this stuff" variety. Fine, whatever. What's a few more gray hairs???
I was a little annoyed that I couldn't get a direct flight (like normal) from Atlanta. The layover in Dallas added almost four hours to the trip, and Lord knows I always need something to whine about. But ...... what a great airport! Comfortable chairs in the gate areas, nice television screens in each area, and an Au Bon Pain just across from my gate. So at least I got to spend those extra hours in comfort, eating the world's best ham and swiss cheese sandwich, watching Texas spank OSU. Not that I was rooting for one team over the other, but it sure beat hanging out reading an out-of-date People magazine like I normally do.
And, the best news of all, American Airlines offered Diet Dr. Pepper with their beverage service!! I know, you're thinking, "that chick and her crazy obsession with DDP" but I'm telling you, it's heaven in a can. And best of all, had the plane actually fallen from the sky and plummeted me to a fiery end, I'd least I'd have died with my thirst satisfied.
Blaine and I had big sightseeing plans tomorrow .... but apparently there's a typhoon blowing in as I type this, so it looks like we'll probably change our ferry trip for a movie and dinner at the IHOP. Because Lord knows we're all about exploring local culture and I'm sure the Seattle IHOP is *so* different than our IHOP at home ::rolly eyes::
Thanks for all your well wishes; Blaine seems to have survived whatever that bug was. Although, the Security Nazis confiscated my Purell at the airport today, so if Blaine passes the germ on to me, and I don't have my front-line hand sanitizer to defend myself, I'll be really upset. Guess after IHOP tomorrow I'll be headed to a local pharmacy, as well, to pick up some more Purell. AND Diet DP :)
Friday, November 3, 2006 11:14 PM CST
SENCERLY YOUR LOVER
Blaine arrived in Seattle on Wednesday and I’m flying there tomorrow. Via a car service to Atlanta, via a very long-layover in Dallas, via a three-hour time change, via a shuttle service from the airport, which all totaled, means I should be arriving at our hotel around 4am MY time. Odds on how cheerful and pleasant I'll be at that point? I guess as long as I don't encounter Mr. Ugly Shiny Black Pants it should be ok. If you don't know what I'm talking about, be glad.
I let Blaine go up alone for the pre-op, knowing full-well he could manage that on his own and that by staying here, I’d have a few extra days with the kids before I leave. With children as dependent as mine, at least the youngest two, who will melt into little puddles when the car service arrives tomorrow afternoon, in fact, I wouldn’t put it past Kendrie to attach herself permanently to my lower leg in an attempt to prevent me from physically leaving the premises….. well, it’s only delaying the inevitable, but I thought at the very least it would give my mom a few days to get acclimated as well, before I abandon her, throw her to the wolves, allow her to enjoy this quality bonding time with her grandbabies. (Did I mention that she made me drive her to the bank today, so she could get 100 one-dollar bills, which she plans to use to bribe my children into behaving well these next three weeks? What does that say about desperation on the part of a grandparent????)
Blaine had his pre-op appointment yesterday and felt things went well. The gist of the surgery is the repair/reconstruction of the holes in his palate, with some facial plastic surgery added in as well. And looking around for more cancer, thrown in for good measure, because hey, if they’re going to peel your face off, they might as well poke around in there while they’re at it. The doctor told him the operation Monday should last approximately eleven hours; he’ll be in intensive care for three days afterwards, kept unconscious for the first day or two, then they’ll start waking him on day three and plan to move him to a regular room for another week or so once they feel he’s ready.
Which is why, knowing he’s got quite an endeavor coming up, I was glad when I had trouble reaching him on his cell phone today. That meant he was obviously out and about, busy enjoying the Seattle sights, doing the happy tourist thing before becoming hospital bound next week. But then I couldn’t reach him a few hours later, and then again a few hours after that.
He finally called to tell me (are you ready for this?) that since awaking this morning, he has been alternating between the bed, and the bathroom floor, puking his guts up. Yes, that’s right … less than 72 hours before major surgery, and he’s sick as a dog again. I’m not sure if some random, germy stranger on the airplane infected him with some random, germy virus, or what. He was just sick last week with what we thought was the stomach flu. Every few months he goes through these spells of extreme nausea, fatigue, and hot and cold flashes, which all the doctors swear is not related to the cancer, or the treatment, or all the drugs they’ve got him on. Riiiiiiight. This is a man who, the entire first sixteen years of our marriage, called in sick to work, I’m guessing, a total of four times. And two of those times he just wanted the day off to go fishing. And we’re supposed to believe these constant bouts of illness are just a coincidence? WHAT-ever.
Once again, I gambled that he would be ok by himself, and once again, I suck. There’s no room service in this hotel, no gift shop with overpriced Pepto-Bismal or saltine crackers or anything that could remotely help him feel better. I know he’s sick because he refused to talk to the kids on the phone tonight and told me he would call back tomorrow. I know he’s not DYING because when I went so far as to offer to contact one of the local Seattle people who have been kind enough to e-mail me personally with information about the area, and ask them, without shame or pride or embarrassment, to take him some Tylenol or Sprite, he declined. At least I know that I’ll be there tomorrow to heat up some chicken soup and wipe his brow with a cool cloth and make appropriate cluck-clucking-oh-you-poor-baby noises with my tongue.
So, here we go, specific prayer requests:
1. That my plane not fall from the sky tomorrow thank you all so much who understand completely where I’m coming from with this you made me feel a lot more normal in my weirdness if thats even possible;
2. That whatever it is that’s ailing Blaine be of the 24-hour variety; and most importantly,
3. That we not arrive home in three weeks to discover our oldest daughter has run off to Vegas to marry one of her classmates. (Cue horrifying discovery below)
Thursday, November 2, 2006 11:47 PM CST
INTIMIDATED
Kellen, this, your first season of kid-pitch baseball, is over. And you? Did not enjoy it that much. Which makes me sad.
Like many parents, I have been operating under (and perfectly happy to do so, I might add) the belief that MY son is a talented athlete. This belief came about because you have been a standout player on each of your previous baseball teams; so naturally, I like to think it’s because you’re so athletically gifted. Not that MY genes had anything to do with it, because everyone knows that bending over to pick up a nickle is about as sporty and coordinated as I get.
But, if we’re being honest …………. Being a “star” athlete on a t-ball team really isn’t a big deal. I mean, there were kids on your team who hit the ball and ran directly to third base, and kids who lay down in the outfield and cried rather than chase a ball. Standing out on a team like that, at that age, isn’t hard to do, assuming you can pay attention to the ball for half a minute. Plus, you have always been tall for your age, and fast (I’ll give you that, you *are* pretty speedy) and that’s about all you needed to shine amongst the daisy-pickers and butterfly-chasers of the t-ball world.
Then came two years of coach pitch and once again, you did really well. Taller than the other kids? Check. Faster than the other kids? Check. Able to hit pretty much every ball gently lobbed across the plate, in the perfect position, by the coach? Check. And naturally, I assumed that once you got into kid-pitch, you would continue to wow us with your abilities and talent.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the new baseball league you played in this fall. The birthday cut-off changed. Different league, different rules. And suddenly, not only was this your first year in kid-pitch ball, but you were the youngest 8-yr old on the team. Playing against boys, MOST of whom were 9 and 10 years old. MANY of whom stood taller than you, and SEVERAL who out-weighed you by at least fifty pounds. You looked like a Cambodian out there, next to these guys. And from day one, you were intimidated.
It didn’t help that the very first pitch, of the very first game, the batter got beaned in the back. Obviously, control is still a work in progress for most 10 yr old pitchers. “Take your base” the coach said …. And you looked over at me in the stands, wide-eyed, as if to say, “Oh, no …. No base is worth THAT!” And thus began the downward spiral.
The first five games of the season, this is all I remember seeing through my viewfinder:
You, standing in the dugout, waiting your turn to bat, nervously watching the other team’s pitcher, stressing, and getting more and more discouraged because you never got a hit. You played your defensive positions just fine, and did well in practice, but that was small consolation. You wanted to get on base, like your older, bigger team-mates had managed. And you psyched yourself out every time you went up to bat. 
Every parent wants their child to succeed at the things they try, or to at least enjoy trying. Instead, by half-way through the season, you had started saying, “Why should I go to the game? I’m just going to strike out.” in a dejected voice which broke my heart ….. mainly because I knew with that attitude, it might very well be a self-fulfilling prophecy. But we had the second half of the season to go and I still had high hopes for you.
Then, we went out of town for game #6. The other team forfeited game #7, game #8 was cancelled due to weather, and you had a stomach bug for game #9. Suddenly, without warning, it was time for the final game, and you were thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis close to not getting a hit the entire season.
Kid-pitch baseball in the fall, at least where we live, is considered “instructional”, so the games move pretty slow, as they allow any kid who expresses an interest to attempt pitching, and they stop often to explain things to the players. Most games, each player only got one, or two at the most, attempts at bat. Because of your late position in the line-up for this final game, Kellen, I knew you would only get one chance and as you came up to the plate, I sat in the stands, crossing my fingers in my pockets, muttering under my breath, “Please let him get on base, please let him get on base … I don’t care how, just please let him get on base.” Then, remembering that first pitch of the season, and the tears of the struck batter, I amended it to “Well, maybe not by getting hit with the ball …. But a hit, or even a walk, would be great, thanks in advance!”
Strike one.
Strike two.
{Oh, shit. He’s going to strike out and he’ll never play baseball again and Blaine is going to be CRUSHED I tell you, crushed, but that’s nothing compared to the damage we are doing to his self-esteem by forcing him to play in this league oh shit he’s going to strike out}
Ball One.
Ball Two.
Ball Three.
{Oh, no, don’t swing at a bad pitch. Only swing at a good pitch … please don’t let him throw a strike. If you swing, hit it. Don’t swing … swing ….. don’t swing!!!}
Ball Four -- take your base!
I'm telling you, I couldn’t have been any more relieved or proud if it had been a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth inning of the World Series with a tie game and bases loaded and a million dollar bonus on the line. I felt bad for their pitcher, who at this point just wanted to go home, but for Kellen to avoid the bone-crushing disappointment of a hitless season ….. Whew!! Thank heavens!! Then, the pitcher walked the next three batters (No kidding, he REALLY wanted to go home) and so Kellen made it all the way around and scored a run for his team.
Ok, so technically, it was *still* a hitless season for Kellen. But he got on base and scored a run, and his faith in the great American pastime of baseball is restored. If nothing else, he figured out how NOT to swing at every ball that came near him, which has to count for something.
Now all we have to do is take him religiously to the batting cages and hope he gains fifty pounds in time for Spring Ball. Because quite frankly, *I* can’t take the stress, and would prefer to go back to thinking my son is the next Babe Ruth. Even if it's not true. Just humor me, people.
Wednesday, November 1, 2006 8:26 AM CST
HALLO-WHINE
(Let me preface this by thanking all of you for your kind thoughts regarding Blaine and his upcoming surgery {and my complaining about how much this sucks.} He read through all of the messages and wanted me to tell you how much it means to him to have so many people praying for him these upcoming weeks. He left for Seattle today, and I'll keep you posted on how things are going ... thankfully, I will have computer access while I'm there. Can you imagine me trying to catch up on three week's worth of updates at once???) :)
Growing up, I have three very distinct memories of Halloween. The first is of my mother and father working in the Haunted House that the fire department used to put on as a fundraiser each year. My mom was president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary and every year they would rent some dilapidated, run-down, vacant house in our hometown and turn it into the best, most frightfully delightful haunted house my elementary-school eyes had ever seen. Despite spending innumerous evenings with my parents and the other firefighters and their wives, watching them (in broad daylight, mind you) transform the house into a dwelling of shrieks and spooks and spine-tingling goodness, despite the fact that I played in the same house in the daytime with my friends and I KNEW how un-scary the house really was, despite the fact that every year I would promise my mom and dad that THIS year I wouldn’t be so scared that I almost wet my pants, well, despite all that, every year I freaked out. I clearly recall the humiliation of hearing my mom’s best friend Diane yelling out at the front door, “Knock it off, you guys, it’s Betty’s kid and she’s crying already!” before ever crossing the threshold and knowing that once again, those firefighters with their vampire and mummy costumes, fake blood and strobe lights, had successfully freaked me the hell out. Yet I went back, year after year.
The second memory involves a Halloween Costume Party I remember my parents attending. My parent’s weren’t “date-night” kind of people, so for them to leave my sister and me with our grandparents and get dressed up to go to a costume party was huge. My dad went as a blackface (I know! How incredibly un-PC could we be?!?!? It was the 70’s, is my only defense, and people weren’t quite as “enlightened” as they are today) and my mom went as a cannibal woman, complete with a crazy hair and make-up, a bamboo reed skirt and a bone in her nose. Ah, what I wouldn't give for a picture of that. I remember thinking it was so cool they were going to a grown-up party, and loving both of their costumes. When they came home later that evening, my mom told me they had stopped at McDonalds to grab a quick bite (What? They didn’t serve food at the party?) She stood in line behind a woman ordering food, who turned around, saw my mom and nearly jumped out of her skin. I remember thinking that was the funniest damn thing I had ever heard and that my mom was the coolest ever.
My third memory of Halloween is not quite as warm-fuzzy. Let me preface this by saying that although I love my mom dearly, I have to admit that inventiveness wasn’t her strong suite. In between the haunted houses, and cannibal woman episode, I think she had about used up her creative streak and Halloween wasn’t real high on her priority list.
This is the only photo I have from my younger Halloweens:
The picture, obviously, is me and my younger sister dressed up to go trick-or-treating. I especially like the fold-out paper pumpkin decoration behind my sister's head. I assume we’re going trick-or-treating, since I'm holding a pumpkin bucket, but maybe that’s not right. In fact, the back of the photo is labeled “1969 Halloween”, which I find hard to believe, considering that means my sister wouldn’t even be a year old and clearly, in this picture, she is upright, walking, and holding what appears to be a cigar in her hand. I think perhaps my mom had been hypnotized by the ugly sun-dial clock in the background and had her years confused. But nevertheless, it appears we were going trick-or-treating, although I have no recollection of that.
What I *DO* recollect, clearly, however, are the years we went trick-or-treating when we were older. Really, it was pretty much a non-event in our neighborhood. The year that stands out most in my memory is the year I was probably ten or eleven, and my mom forgot to get us costumes, so at 4:00 on Halloween afternoon, panicked because I had no outfit, I improvised by putting two balloons in the chest of my pajamas and went as a “clown”. I have no idea what my sister went as. Probably a hobo. We did "hobo" a lot.
My mom didn’t want to go with us, but didn’t want us out after dark by ourselves, either, so we went door-to-door at something like 4:30 in the afternoon. It was still broad daylight, and in fact, I remember walking up the front steps of one neighbor’s house just as he was coming home from work. “Geez, could you kids at least give me time to eat dinner and get to the store to buy some candy?” was his greeting. Another lady met us with an exasperated sigh and said, “Hang on, I’ll go see if I can find something.” That was the year I decided I was too old to trick-or-treat any longer, and realized that my neighbors were a big bunch of poopie heads.
My point is that Halloween wasn’t a huge thing in our neighborhood growing up, and that’s ok. But I want it to be fun for my kids and go to a lot of effort to make it enjoyable. I want their Halloween memories to be good ones. Not that mine aren’t good, but you know what I mean. Which is why, although I’ll probably catch some flack for it, I’m going to go way out on an unpopular limb here and say something incredibly mean-spirited, but about which I feel strongly in my bones: You. You, there. You people with the church “Fall Festival” on Trick or Treat Night ….. You’re really cramping my style. Quite frankly, you annoy me.
There. Now I feel better.
The first few years we lived in this neighborhood, Halloween night was a like a wonderful Norman Rockwell painting, with dozens and dozens of costumed kids running everywhere, laughing, chasing one another, and parents strolling along, enjoying a balmy night and pleasant, neighborly atmosphere. Many of the houses in our neighborhood decorate for Halloween, people play Halloween music (well, ok, *I* play Halloween music, me and the guy down the street) and folks sit out on their porches with their candy bowls in their lap, waving to the adults as they follow the kids from house to house. Ours was the kind of neighborhood that people, who don’t even live here, drive to on Halloween night to go trick-or-treating. Sure, a few grumpy neighbors leave their lights off, but so many people take part it doesn’t matter.
And that’s the gist of what I loved about Halloween in our neighborhood. In this busy, busy day and age of jobs and hobbies and church and after-school-kids-activities and “Oh my gosh we have to stay inside tonight and watch Dancing With the Stars” and all the other stuff people have going on in their lives, a time where some people wouldn’t recognize their next door neighbor if they backed into them in the Kroger parking lot, it was one night each year where all our neighbors were outside, walking around, saying hello. We don’t have block parties on the 4th of July, nor does anyone go caroling at Christmas. But by golly, Halloween was a real sense of community, and I loved it. Most of all, I loved it for my kids.
Then, you people with your paranoid “We want to provide a safer, more family-oriented alternative to Devil’s night” …. Well, you’re spoiling everything.
I have no problem with the idea of a Fall Festival at a church or mall. Quite the opposite; I think it’s great. More power to you. I just wish you would do it the weekend before or after. Our church did it last weekend. Why can’t the rest of you do the same?
Because, for the record, you’re ruining my neighborhood trick-or-treat night. This year, there were markedly fewer trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood. Don’t get me wrong, I still went through six party-sized bags of candy, but definitely fewer kids going door-to-door. Fewer neighbors I got to see and say hello. And for every family that chose to celebrate someplace else, that meant one more empty house for my own trick-or-treaters. It makes me sad to hear the disappointment in their voices when they run up to the next house, only to realize all the lights are off, and hear them say, “I guess they’re not home” …. Houses that just a year or two ago, took part.
Why do you make these people choose between their neighbors and their “church family”?
I asked one of Kellen’s classmates yesterday if he was excited to go trick-or-treating and he replied his parents didn’t believe in Halloween and wouldn’t allow him to trick or treat. Then turned around and excitedly told me about the costume he would be wearing to his church’s Fall Party that night.
OK, um, .. hello? Costumes and trunk or treating in a church parking lot? To quote Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman: “That’s just geography”. You’re still celebrating the holiday and you’re not fooling anyone with your big, goofy scarecrows holding big, goofy “Fall Festival” signs … call it what you will …. It’s Halloween.
And those of you who are worried about the safety of going door to door and collecting candy from strangers …..well, right. Because inviting the entire town to join you at church means there won’t be any strangers at your celebration? It’s an Outreach Ministry, this Fall Festival you are hosting, and in fact, you’re hoping lots of newcomers (ie, strangers) attend. I’d bet there are MORE strangers there than at your next-door neighbors house. Strangers are strangers, it doesn’t make it safer if they’re in a church. Don’t believe me? Ask any Catholic.
I don’t know, where was I going with this? Mainly I’m just annoyed that under the guise of “Fall Festival”, strategically held on Halloween night, you’re chipping away at my neighborhood celebration, and at the memories I’m trying to make for my kids. As my kids were running around the front yard in their costumes last night, waiting for it to get dark so we could start, I saw two neighbor families come outside with their own costumed children, take pictures, then get in their cars and drive away. My kids saw it too. When my neighbors choose to spend the evening at a church or mall or anyplace having a “festival”, and not with me and my children, I take it a little bit personally, even if that seems silly. Despite the claim of fostering community spirit, I’d say off-neighborhood fall festivals are doing just the opposite. And no, I won’t be adopting the “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” philosophy. *OUR* happy family memory will be of one parent taking the kids trick-or-treating, while the other parent sits in the front yard with a candy bowl, Halloween For Kids music in the background, big blow-up spider on the lawn, greeting the neighbors.
Brayden, rock star, Kellen, ninja who refused to wear the ninja mask because it was too itchy, and Kendrie, Evil Kneivel.
And for the record, you fall-festival people, you, the kids still trick-or-treat. I can’t tell you how many children came by our door late last night after returning home from the church. By then, of course, my kids were done treating and had already walked past all their empty houses. I guess, in the spirit of fairness, I should have turned off my porch light since none of those people were home when my kids went door-to-door. But that would be un-neighborly. And it would make me like the grumpy neighbors from my past, so I didn’t.
Now, before anyone blasts me in the guestbook for being a Druid-loving pagan, please know that’s not what this is about. I’m not anti-fall-festival. It’s just that I don’t understand why communities can’t have both, on different nights. One night for celebrating with your church family, and one night for celebrating and enjoying your neighbors. There are too few opportunities for neighbors to spend time together, and I hate that this one is being ruined.
And yes, for the record, the Book Fairy did come to our house last night. This is Kendrie, gathering her candy "donation". Because Blaine and I enjoy lying to, manipulating, fostering imagination in our kids, we once again told them that they could leave their Halloween candy on the porch and the Book Fairy would come during the night and trade them for books. They drove a harder bargain this year, insisting on getting to save TEN pieces for the next day, instead of the usual five. But all told, as they examined their Bailey School Kids and A-Z Mystery books this morning, I think they were satisfied. I know I was. I just hope next year is equally as satisfying.
Monday, October 30, 2006 12:32 AM CST
CAN’T PUT IT OFF ANY LONGER
Well, geez. I’ve stalled on writing this journal update because honestly? I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, and then really some more don’t know what to say. It’s not terrible news. It’s not fabulous news. It’s just more of the same, continuous, never-ending saga about Blaine and his ongoing struggle with cancer-surgeries-reconstruction-complications-more cancer-more reconstruction-more surgeries-more complications-more reconstruction-ooh-let’s-throw-in-some-radiation-now-crap. Those of you who are familiar with the journey certainly don’t want or need a recap. Those of you who are new to this site will have no idea what I’m talking about and assume I’m carrying on in my crazy-lady style as normal. Where to begin? How much to share? (sigh)
Little tiny chipmunk nutshell: My husband has cancer. It sucks. If you know all about it, just skip to the end.
Slightly bigger baby-squirrel nutshell: My husband was diagnosed with sinus cancer almost four years ago and naively, we thought he’d have one surgery to remove the tumor and be done. What optimistic morons we were.
Slightly even bigger full-grown squirrel nutshell: My husband was diagnosed with sinus cancer almost four years ago and the tumor was so stinking big that in order to remove it, the doctors also had to remove his soft palate, hard palate, cheekbone, and teeth. You could look in his mouth and see the bottom of his eyeball. Cool, huh? Reconstruction was set to begin later but before they started, our daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. Blaine’s treatment was put on the back burner while we focused on her care and since then, it’s been one setback after another for him. Nobody’s fault, but frustrating just the same.
The gist of what really bugs me: Every surgery brings about a complication, which brings about another surgery, which usually doesn’t go as planned. Every surgery, we go in with the cheerful attitude that *this* time, *this* surgery, *this* procedure, should be the magical fix. He should be finishing up, getting back to normal, and all this will be but a blip in the rear-view mirror of life. And yet, it doesn’t. Nothing goes as planned; nothing has been easy. It’s almost embarrassing, like people are going to think we ENJOY the drama and are dragging it out on purpose. Trust me. We do not; we are not.
He’s had tracheotomy holes that wouldn’t close, bone grafts that didn’t take, tissue transfers that shrunk, a lip that forked in half, eardrums that have become blocked, ruptured, and then blocked yet again. Three (that I can think of, off the top of my head) unsuccessful reconstructive operations. How much general anesthesia can one person undergo? At last count, he’s had fourteen surgeries in the last three and a half years. And of course, one of the crown jewels in our “unexpected complication” tiara, a staph infection in his lower leg after they removed the fibula bone to use it to reconstruct his head. I didn’t know how serious the infection was until the doctor said to me, “Well, we’re no longer worried about him losing his leg.” Of course, I guess I should have been better prepared for how things could go after the very first doctor, after the very first surgery, said to me, “Well, we’re lucky, he’ll be able to keep his eye.”
He’s seen dentists, oral surgeons, plastic surgeons, oncologists, speech therapists, radiologists, prosthodontists, nutritionists, pathologists, neurologists, pain management specialists, therapists, and the Center for Disease Control, thanks to the MRSA infection. And like we don’t feel special enough as it is, at the end of the day …………… the cancer came back.
Bah.
But, because we’re suckers for a good time, here we go again! Wheeeeeeee!
Blaine will be leaving for Seattle on Wednesday for yet another attempt to close up that hole in his head. This will be the fourth time we’ve tried it, and while it’s very tempting to cut bait and be done, and just go back to the Prosthodontic-Denture-Device-From-Hell that he wore earlier, the other side of the equation is that he’s come too far, and gone through too much, to quit now.
The treatment of cancer itself, obviously, is a life-or-death issue. But the treatment of complications and effects of cancer becomes a quality of life issue that can be equally as important to the person going through it, and his poor, pathetic, wilting flower of a wife who deals with it vicariously, and when all is said and done, she is SO going to Tahiti for umbrella drinks on the beach!
Hopefully, optimistically, confidently, with a little bit of luck, *this* surgery will fix things, *this* will be the last one, *this* should get his life back to normal. (Well, the last one except for the surgery he still has to have to get teeth attached to his implants ….. dear heavens will it never end????)
They will be doing, in essence, the same surgery they did a year and a half ago, where they took bone and muscle and tissue out of his leg to rebuild the oral cavity, only they’ll be taking it out of his arm this time. Since arms aren’t weight-bearing, we’re all hoping recovery is easier and quicker. And, we’re hoping that after this, he can eat without food coming out of his nose, talk normally, breathe normally, and that he won’t suffer from chronic sinus problems and pain. (Once the radiation burns finally heal up, of course.) And one small, teeny-tiny, last little thing, that he not get another resistant staph infection because ANOTHER six week stint of self-administered IV high-dose antibiotics through a PICC line and all the completely stinkin’ miserable side effects **that** entails would pretty much put us both over the edge is all I have to say about that.
Blaine will have pre-op in Seattle on Thursday and Friday, and then I’ll join him this weekend. Surgery will be on the 6th of November. Guesstimation is that he’ll be in the hospital for a week to ten days, then he has to stay in a nearby hotel for another week to ten days, depending on his recovery. Last time, I thought he could manage the hotel by himself, and then his brother planned to fly up from Texas and bring him home. In the middle of all that, Blaine’s mother passed away and of course, his brother couldn’t come. (You know, it’s a miracle we have ANY friends and people don’t shy away from us like the black freakin’ plague.)
THIS time, we’re not taking any chances and I will be staying with him the entire time, much to the chagrin of my children, who are quite certain they are being abandoned. (I hear our dear friend Joe R. breathing a sigh of relief, thought, since he was kind enough to cash in his frequent flyer miles last time to go up and get the poor guy!) We’re hoping to be home by Thanksgiving. Grandma saves the day once again and will be flying here to Georgia to take care of the kids. It’s no longer called “babysitting” around here …. She has “Month of November Duty”.
So, my dear, dear Internet friends. If I could ask of you a few particular favors, it would be that you pray, meditate, cross your fingers, or sacrifice a live chicken, whatever floats your boat, specifically for the following things to happen:
1. Serious (and I do mean serious …. have I mentioned serious?) pain management after surgery. He has been on narcotics for so long, and has built up such a tolerance to them, that in the past we have had quite a struggle in the hospital getting the doctors and nurses to take his post-operative pain seriously. Seriously. The surgeons at the Army Hospital in Augusta finally *got* it last time he was in and gave him enough drugs. The doctors in Seattle? Haven’t gotten it yet. I hope they get it this time, because while it *has* taken me three years to grow a spine, I’m no longer hesitant about calling some doctor’s home number at 2 am and opening up a can of phone-line whup-ass if I have to. (How do you think the doctors in Augusta finally realized we weren’t kidding around, and that he’s not just a druggie, looking for a fix?) Serious. Pain. Management.
2. Quite simply, that the surgery works. I’m not sure how much longer Blaine can plod along this path and maintain his mental health.
3. OK, you’ll think I’m a lunatic (what’s new) but Blaine and I never fly together if I can keep from it. It’s a crazy, irrational *thing* I have. And I know it’s crazy and irrational, but I have it anyway. Obviously, since I’m the one bringing him home from Seattle, we’ll be flying together. So please, pray that our plane doesn’t crash. Because despite Blaine’s maddening, annoying, extremely patronizing and rude commentary about how statistically there’s a greater chance we’ll be killed in a car accident on our way TO the airport, blah, blah, blah, shut up Blaine, it’s one of my biggest, most absurd fears that the plane he and I are on together, without our kids, will go down in a fiery crash, plunging us to our untimely and premature deaths and our children will wind up as orphans, doomed to lives of burlap sack clothing and gruel and stale bread for dinner, living in an orphanage with an evil, uncaring warden, holding out their dinner plates with a pathetic, “Please, sir, may I have some more?” I know, I told you, it’s ludicrous. But these are thoughts that go through my head at night.
So, thanks for letting me vent. Sometimes it’s good to write it down and get a black and white narrative of what exactly the poor guy has gone through, as a reminder. It helps me not get so annoyed with him on the days he doesn’t feel good. And liquor. Liquor helps a lot, too.
PS. I was kidding about the live chicken. Mostly.
Saturday, October 28, 2006 3:06 PM CDT
HAVE YOU HEARD THE WONDERFUL NEWS?
Blaine, cancer, whining. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bah. I’ll get to that later. For now, I have to share with you the marvelous thing I just discovered!!!
I took my kids through the McDonalds drive-through after Kendrie’s soccer game to grab some lunch (never mind the studies that show kids who eat fast food regularly are at a greater risk for childhood obesity, heart disease, juvenile diabetes, and HappyCrap Toy Overload -- I just sat through a soccer game in 55 degree weather with an arctic wind of 20 mph blowing in my face, trying to squeeze my adult-sized body into my son’s child-sized jacket because it’s the only thing I had with a hood on it, bemoaning my cold, frozen, stiffened fingertips, not realizing there were mittens in the glove-box of my car the entire time, and after that fiasco by God I’m taking the easy route and doing McDonalds for lunch!) and do you know what?
McDonalds is now serving Diet Dr. Pepper! Diet Dr. Pepper, people, the beverage of caffiene-addicted champions! It's like Mayor McCheese passed a "Make Kristie's Life Better" law! And if that in itself wasn’t enough to make me happy, they are serving it in Styrofoam cups! Hole in the ozone be damned, it’s like I’ve won the lottery! And I seem to be in love with the exclaimation point!!!!!
Ok, granted, I’ll admit, it doesn’t quite reach the perfection that is the Sonic Diet Dr. Pepper, because McDonalds doesn’t serve rabbit pellet ice, but come on. The perfect beverage in the perfect vessel …. Considering we only have one Sonic in our entire town, but there is a McDonalds every few blocks, I’d say two out of three ain’t bad!
Woo-hoo!!
(Seriously. Do you think I'm a little *too* easily pleased?)
Thursday, October 26, 2006 9:24 PM CDT
NEEDS. DESIRES. IMPULSES.
Back when Kendrie was going through her leukemia treatment, I posted a lot about the frustration I used to feel regarding her behavior. Tantrums, whining, pouting, power struggles, etc. We wondered how much of it was due to steroids, how much was due to her frustration and lack of control over her life and what was happening, and how much was normal, bratty 4-yr old behavior? I always felt somewhat guilty for being aggravated and/or irritated with a little kid with cancer …. Why don’t I just yell at some blind people while I’m at it, or steal money from the Salvation Army buckets this Christmas? But despite my guilt, I somehow still managed to express my dissatisfaction to all of you in this journal. A lot. And then some more. And then probably some more after that.
Once again, I find myself feeling irritated with someone who has cancer. Someone named, oh, I don’t know …. let’s call him "finger quotes" Blaine "finger quotes." See, despite the fact "Blaine" has cancer and **still** feels like total dog-shit from the radiation …. that he had ….. FIVE MONTHS AGO …. and he can’t seem to catch a break to save his life, and is in bed as I type this with what appears to be either the flu, or a freaky late-term reaction to the vancomycin which was probably stored in his fat cells last year after his antiobiotic-resistant staph infection and now that he’s lost twenty pounds since radiation, the vancomycin has probably been released back into his system, just like those LSD hippie flashbacks from the 70’s, making him sick as a dog …….. well, despite all that, I find myself getting frustrated with him and with the situation.
I am a woman. I have needs. Desires. Impulses.
Do you understand what I’m saying?
More bluntly,
I have a need to get a good night’s rest every night.
My desire is for at least six or seven solid, relaxing, un-interrupted hours of sleep.
My impulse is to beat to a bloody pulp anyone who interferes with that.
"Blaine" still cannot sleep more than a few hours at a time or the pain from the dry, irradiated areas of his mouth is unbearable. So he stays up late at night watching tv, depriving himself of sleep, to the point of exhaustion, because he says the pain is not worth the sleep.
Also, he sets his alarm for 5am every morning, whether he is going to work or not. Day in, day out, Saturdays, Sundays, it doesn’t matter. He can’t stand to sleep any later than that. So, the alarm goes off at 5am. Which would be fine, if he heard it when it went off. But he’s so sleep-deprived that it doesn’t even phase him, so I wind up having to reach over and shake his arm several times, “politely” (finger quotes again) telling him to turn it off. You can just imagine how polite I am.
Then, I’ll have to wake him again every few minutes because he still hasn’t reached over to turn off the alarm, which, to make matters worse, he normally has set to some incredibly annoying talk radio show, because waking up to the bleating of pompous political zealots is TOTALLY how I like to start my day. Why don’t I just jump into an ice-cold shower and then eat some nails for breakfast, to really get the day started off right?
Or even better, some nights he has gotten out of bed in the middle of the night to take pain medication and isn’t even in the room when the alarm goes off; he’s usually fallen back asleep on the living room sofa. I can’t reach the alarm clock from my side of the bed, thanks to The Child Who Shall Not Be Named and her maddening habit of wandering into our room in the middle of the night and collapsing dead-center on our mattress, arms and legs akimbo.
So I have to get out of bed on my side and walk around the king-size mattress in the dark, usually tripping over the dog on the way, to turn off the freakin’ alarm clock. Then, of course, because bladder control is one of the first things to go once you turn 40, I’ll stumble into the bathroom to potty, and then get back in bed. Where, having been blessed/cursed with the sonic hearing of a bat, I will lie awake for an hour, listening to extremely irritating noises like the coffee dripping in our coffeemaker, Kellen snoring in his bedroom, every car entering and leaving our neighborhood, the wind chimes on our back porch, the whispers of the crickets mating outside our bedroom window, the hum of my neighbor’s computer three doors down, people arguing across town, and grass growing in Kentucky. I. HEAR. IT. ALL.
Blaine will take his pain meds, then sit on the sofa and turn on the tv, which throws an annoying glare into our bedroom, so I’ll have to get up and shut the bedroom door, to avoid both the glare and the noise of the tv. He’s actually a very considerate person, so I’m not sure why it’s so hard for him to remember to shut the flipping door when he leaves the bedroom, but for some reason it is.
And I will lay there, stewing and mulling over how annoyed I am to be awake, since *MY* alarm isn’t set to go off until 6:00, knowing full well that I won’t be able to go back to sleep because at this point Kendrie has her foot in my back and her elbow across my windpipe, or is stealing my pillow, or totally hogging the bed and I’m banished to the far six inches of the mattress. Until the point where I want to get out of bed, storm into the living room, and shout at him, “Can you not just sleep like a NORMAL person?!?!?!’
But of course I don’t. Because none of this is his fault. Instead, I come here to the internet and bitch and vent to the rest of you, who are kind enough to pretend you care. You’ve also been kind enough to inquire how he’s doing in the guestbook, so I’ll tell you about what he’s got coming up in the next journal entry. Let’s just say, in the extremely short picture, besides having to live with his shrew of a wife, is that his outpatient surgery scheduled tomorrow to get tubes put in his ears, because not only can he not sleep, but he’s also as deaf as our geriatric dog, has been postponed thanks to the stomach flu. And Kellen caught the bug from him today, also.
Hello, Life? Kick us when we’re down, please.
But for now, I have a *need* to go find one of those satin eye masks to wear to bed. I *desire* ear muffs attached. And the *impulse* to wear full-body protective armor since Lord knows Kendrie and her flailing limbs will wind up in bed with me again tonight.
(sigh)
************************************************
PS. Please, please make time in your schedule to donate blood between now and the holidays. Especially those of you living in Georgia and surrounding areas. I was donating this morning and the technician commented that as of 10am today, the entire state of Georgia only had eight hours worth of O negative on the shelves. And all I could think was I sure hope if I have a car accident today and need blood, it happens before dinnertime. The supply situation is always short during the holidays. So please donate if you can. Cancer patients, accident victims, surgery, illness .... please make a difference, and thanks in advance!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006 9:16 PM CDT
3RD GRADE HELL
Note to Self:
Self? You are a moron. When are you going to learn? You are 40 years old and you’re still making the same dumb mistakes you made when you were a pre-teen. And a teen. And a young adult. And a not-so-young adult. Now, you’re middle-aged and you’re still an idiot.
Although certain parts of your 40-yr old body are changing … and expanding …. and drooping …. Other parts have not changed. Will never change. Parts like your big wrinkly forehead. Parts that you should be more careful not to draw attention to.
So please quit making the same stupid mistakes you made when you were younger.
Dear Lord, please deliver me from this 3rd Grade Hell otherwise known as “The Growing Out Of The Big Chunky Bangs I Oh-So-Optimistically Had My Hairdresser Cut This Afternoon Thinking I Could Pull It Off When I Totally Can’t”
Amen.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006 8:28 PM CDT
“YOU ARE A WINNER TODAY!”
At the new gym I’ve been going to ….. (I just love saying that. “My new gym”. It’s a clean, nice facility with pleasant, helpful people, and I’m forging quite a bond with the geriatrics who push their walkers from machine to machine, despite my annoyance that most of them can leg-press more than I can. In addition, by using the adjective “New”, it lets people know I haven’t actually been working out for very long. Which might explain why in the three weeks since I started, I’ve actually put on five pounds. I’d like to think it’s because I’m lifting weights and everyone knows that muscle weighs more than fat. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure it’s due to my inability to push away from the dinner table and the fact I think a “balanced meal” means a Twinkie in each hand.)
So, back to the story about my gym ~~~
Those of us taking part in the Wellness Program have a computer where we sign in and record the workout we plan to do each day. After we’re done, we sign back in to the computer, enter how much time we spent on the bike, elliptical, how many repetitions we did on the weights, etc, then sign off the computer. It tracks the calories burned, visits, miles, etc. Each time you sign off, there is a prompt to click and your name is entered into a random computer-generated psuedo-slot machine-type thing …. And then 99 times out of 100, the screen flashes, “Sorry, try again next time!” But on Friday, the slot machine rolled, I got three fruits in a row, and the screen flashed, “You’re A Winner Today! (notify the front desk)”
Not knowing exactly what this meant, I walked to the front desk and said to the receptionist, “Hi, I’m a winner today!” She looked up at me and said, “I beg your pardon?” and I said, “Well, of course I’m a winner all the time, but today I’m a winner on your computer!” still smiling because I totally crack myself up.
She said, “Oh, congratulations, would you like it cold or at room temperature?”
And all I could think, after completing my workout, especially the part when I accidentally pulled the safety cord out of the treadmill while I was on it, and it came to an emergency stop and I almost fell off, flailing about like those people do on the funny commercials, dropping my iPod and having every eye in the room turn to me at once, all the grandmas and grandpas hollering, “Are you OK, young whippersnapper????” …. All I could think was Ooh, yes, an ice-cold soda would really hit the spot right now. Hmmmm, wonder if they have Diet Dr. Pepper?
So I replied, “Well, do you have diet, or is it all regular?”
To which SHE replied, “Uh, this is a gym. We don’t recommend you drink soda. I’m talking about bottled water.”
To which *I* replied, rather sheepishly, “Oh, of course.” (pause) “I suppose there’s no chance that Halloween bucket over there has any Kit-Kats in it, either, does it?”
I’m starting to understand why I have a weight problem.
Monday, October 23, 2006 5:03 PM CDT
Genius. Brilliant.
Go here.
Sunday, October 22, 2006 8:19 PM CDT
A “WHEN I GROW UP” CONVERSATION WITH KELLEN
Kellen: "Mom, when I grow up and graduate from college and join the CIA as a ninja warrior, will you let me go on secret missions everywhere in the world?"
Kristie: "Um, I don't think so. In fact, no."
Kellen: "Why not?"
Kristie: "Because the world is a dangerous place. You’ll have to have your CIA boss call me and ask me for permission."
Kellen, in a “bummer” sort of voice: "Oh, man, that stinks."
Thursday, October 19, 2006 10:45 PM CDT
MAYBE IT WASN’T TOO SOON AFTER ALL
I realize I’m backtracking a little, but wanted to share something with you that happened last week. At the time, I thought it was funny, but we were leaving for vacation the next day and I just didn’t have a chance to type it up. In light of THE TALK I had with Brayden yesterday, it seems even more relevant to tell you about it now.
It was Fall Break here and my girlfriend Renee and I took our kids to a farm that had pumpkins, a petting zoo, story-time, hayrides, etc. A nice, family-oriented fall day. The county we were in didn’t appear to be on Fall Break themselves, as there were several busses and young, Pre-K-ish-looking groups there on field trips.
Before embarking on our wholesome, clean-cut adventure of wool spinning and tree climbing and baby chick observing, we herded our kids over to the Port-A-Potties located right next to a pen of sheep. None of my kids needed to go, but I did, so I told them to stand right there, and I stepped into one of the “facilities”.
Pants down, balancing over the seat, and suddenly I hear, in an extremely loud, squealing voice ….. “Wow!!!! Look at the size of his wiener-dinger!!!” and shrill, hysterical laughter all around. Oh. My. Gosh. Those are **my** kids yelling about sheep anatomy! I thought I was going to die of embarrassment, and felt torn between pulling up my pants as quickly as possible to get out there and hush them up, and just staying in the port-a-potty all afternoon, pretending like I had no idea whose kids they were. Realizing their comments and screeching were getting louder and wilder, with shouts of “Look at that! Look, right there!”, I hurried out of the john and rushed over to them ……
They were cracking up. I thought Kellen was going to burst he was laughing so hard. I looked over, to see the source of all the commotion ………… oh, my. That **was** a pretty impressive specimen ….. then I noticed it wasn’t a “wiener dinger” at all (we use such highly technical terms at our house) but actually another part of male anatomy. At that point I was worried other people would notice the ruckus my kids were causing with their pointing and laughing, or that they would traumatize Renee’s boys, who are younger, or scar the young kids in the Pre-K classes for life, so I quickly and quietly said, “Ya’ll, stop it. That is not his penis, those are his testicles. And we don’t talk about those in public. Even on a sheep.” And then I have to admit, as embarrassed as I am to confess this, I started giggling. Because come on. I was scolding my children for laughing at ginormous sheep testicles. Could life BE any more ridiculous????
Later that night, at the dinner table, of all appropriate places, they kids felt compelled to mention it to Blaine. Apparently it made quite an impression, is all I can say. But once again, I told them the dinner table was not the proper place for this discussion. Something along the lines of …. “It was just a sheep. It was just a part of his body. It’s not that big of a deal, ok?” and at that point I truly thought it was over.
So imagine how I felt when *after* dinner, I walked into the living room to hear Brayden whispering to Kellen: “Well, just imagine. An octopus has EIGHT of those testicles!!!”
“Brayden, honey” I said, knowing I had to discuss it whether I wanted to or not, “an octopus has eight TENTACLES, not eight testicles.”
Hmmmm. Maybe she and I should have had THE TALK some time ago?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006 7:39 AM CDT
OH. UNBELIEVABLE. AT NINE YEARS OLD?
First of all, to answer the guestbook request about who sang the previous song on the site ….. I feel bad because someone e-mailed me privately to ask the same thing and I didn’t know the answer. I know the name of the song is “Bittersweet” and I downloaded it off iTunes, but I didn’t write down the name of the artist …. so lame of me, sorry. But if you browse iTunes, you should be able to find it through a process of elimination.
Secondly, in my ongoing quest for all things truthful, except when it applies to the weight on my drivers license, I feel compelled to point out that I didn’t actually RIDE the bike the entire five hours it took us to get around the lake at Callaway last weekend. We stopped for lunch, and stopped again to paint the pumpkins. And stopped once or twice for me to take pictures and yell at my children that I was tired of them being so grumpy so just get over it and start having fun. Hmmmm. Where on earth do they get their bad attitudes? All told, we were on bikes for probably three to three and a half hours. Not five hours, but still quite long enough for me to need an inflatable donut the next day.
So, with those disclaimers out of the way, on to today’s topic, a subject guaranteed to put chest hair on and strike terror in the hearts of mothers everywhere: I had to have THE TALK with Brayden yesterday.
No!
Yes!
Can you believe it??? At the tender age of 9???
I know. Unbelievable.
I volunteer in the kids’ classrooms on Tuesdays for about an hour and a half in each room, plus have lunch with all three of them. Basically, I go in with them in the morning and stay all day, because I am a nosy, snooping, meddlesome, caring, concerned parent who likes to know what’s going on in their lives. This way I can spy on watch over them and help out the school and their teachers at the same time. I noticed in Brayden’s room yesterday morning she had a new student. A student whom I shall call Shakeem (and yes, that is totally his real name … could I make that up? No. If I was making it up, I would call him David or Joe or something.) Her class also had a substitute teacher yesterday and I noticed Shakeem was having trouble staying in his seat and being quiet, and the sub seemed perturbed with him pretty early on.
When I met Brayden for lunch, she brought her friend Regan to the Parent’s Table to sit with me. I asked, in my Oh-So-Causal-Because-I’m-A-Cool-Mom-But-Really-I’m-Being-Totally-Nosy-So-I-Can-Stay-On-Top-Of-Things-Manner, “So, I noticed that new boy Shakeem was having some problems this morning. That’s got to be hard, to be the new kid, and have a substitute the first day, before you really even know the rules.” Brayden said, “Oh, it wasn’t the sub. Sha-King (she totally mis-pronounced his name, but how cute is that?) is SUCH a troublemaker!” and Regan said, “Yeah, he’s bad. He’s really bad.” Of course, this seems to be a theme with Brayden and Regan, but wanting to follow up, like any prying concerned parent would, I asked what made him such bad news. This is the conversation that followed:
Brayden: “Well, at his last school, he said he got his girlfriend pregnant”
Me, choking on my delightfully-delicious-yet-nutrionally-sound-enough-to-meet-county-board-of-education-health-requirements-cinnamon-roll: “He said WHAT?!?!??!?!”
Regan: “Yeah, he said he got his girlfriend pregnant. He’s bad. He’s really bad.”
Me: “OK. I really don’t think that is true” {Come on, this is 4th grade we’re talking about …. While I’m sure there’s a remote chance this could have happened, I prefer to bury my head in the sand and ignore the fact it’s even biologically possible} “You know, sometimes when new kids come to a new school, they want to impress people, and for the other kids to think they’re cool, so they tell stories that they think make them look tough. I really don’t think he got his girlfriend pregnant” {All the while, frantically mumbling in the back of my mind, don’t let it be true, don’t let it be true!}
Brayden: “Well, if it is true, you know what that means.”
Me: “Um, what?”
Brayden: “That means he …. Well, you know ….{looking around and speaking in a whisper} the “S” word”
Me, spluttering, and coughing up cinnamon roll: “Oh my gosh, where’s my water????!! I’m choking, seriously!”
The “S” word????? Aaaacccckkkkkk! She’s nine -- are Blaine and I being totally naïve??
Granted, I had the “What a period actually is and what happens when you get your first one” talk with her last summer, because while I don’t expect it to happen for at least another year or two (or preferably three or four) I wanted her to be prepared in the event it were to happen at school. I can’t imagine being one of those girls who has no idea it’s coming and thinks they’re dying in the bathroom the first time.
But I managed to keep that conversation to periods and bodily functions and avoid the topic of the actual act of sex altogether, thinking, obviously incorrectly, that we had a few years before that discussion as well.
Little loudmouth lying braggart Shakeem ruined it.
So I took her with me to the grocery store last night and we had THE TALK in the van on the way. It went fine, but was horrifying all the same. Not knowing what she might have already heard from her friends at school, I asked her to tell me what she had heard about sex and what she thought it was. I’m sure she’ll be mortified when she’s older to know I posted her answer on the internet, but honestly, it was so cute I have to share:
“Well, two people get in bed, and smooch, and roll all over each other, and I think you must get really hot because the girls always wear tank tops.”
See why I’m mad at Shakeem? There was no need to go past the tank top comment until he opened his mouth and generated a discussion that didn’t need to take place for several years yet.
Now, before anyone goes off on me about how kids are maturing sooner, and girls are getting pregnant younger and younger, and even elementary schools are having to implement sexual-harrassment policies and address these issues among their students ….. I get that. I really, truly get that. And it’s unfortunate.
In fact, it just sucks and makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with the parents of the world today, if their 9-yr olds are bragging about getting their girlfriends pregnant. (No offense to Shakeem’s parents … I’m just saying …. “in general” …. )
So anyway, we had the talk. It went fine. I hope it helped her more than it scared her. I tried really hard to stay age-appropriate and emphasize the moral beliefs Blaine and I have. But most of all, I was happy to see her go to bed last night with the same stuffed dog she sleeps with every night. At least in *my* mind, she’s still the same little girl she was before.
Damn Shakeem.
Monday, October 16, 2006 8:59 PM CDT
ER, DID I SAY *QUALITY* FAMILY BONDING TIME???
Well, I have no doubt that those of you who have read this journal for awhile, or at least through our last two or three family vacations, have come here tonight, expecting to read an entry about obnoxious children, ill-mannered, disagreeable, quarrelsome, ungrateful hooligans, and the hazards of traveling with such social boors.
You will not be disappointed.
Is it ALL children on the planet, or just mine, who somehow lose their brains when they travel? Who forget common niceties like saying please and thank you, let alone keeping their hands and rude opinions to themselves ….. who lose the ability to ride in the car more than two miles without fighting over the dvd player ….. who turn their noses up at all planned activities …. who, despite the plethora of fun things to do and neat things to see, declare themselves bored every five minutes, declarations accompanied by huge, aggrieved SIGHS just in case we didn’t believe how bored they were …. who decide picking fights with their brother and sister is the only activity worth doing …. and who somehow manage to become deaf to the requests and threats of parents? Parents, who, I might add, have vowed in the past NEVER to take said children on another vacation, BUT THIS TIME WE MEAN IT, YOU BRATS, WE’RE NOT EVEN KIDDING AROUND!!!!
There. I feel better already.
At last year’s Quiet Heroes Luncheon in Atlanta, I bid on and won a three-night stay at a villa at Callaway Gardens in Pine Mountain, Georgia. The villa was part of the silent auction, serving as a fundraiser for CURESearch, and I was so excited to be high bidder. We waited until now to use our stay, hoping to enjoy autumn and the beautiful fall weather, and picking this weekend, as the 3rd anniversary of Kendrie’s leukemia diagnosis. It seemed like a great time to make a fresh start as a family. To come together and make happy family memories. To make good times out of bad, and hold hands 'round the campire singing Kum-Buy-Ya together .....
(SNORT!)
They whined, they argued, they fussed, they complained. Mainly, it was the complaining that annoyed me. We took them to a nice restaurant for dinner; Kendrie griped that they didn’t serve macaroni & cheese. We let them pick souvenirs at a gift shop; Brayden griped that we didn’t give her enough money. I rented movies from Blockbuster and even BOUGHT A NEW DVD PLAYER WHEN OURS BIT THE DUST ON THE DRIVE THERE, DAMNIT; Kellen griped that all the movies I chose were dumb.
But hands down, the two highlights of the trip were when Kendrie dropped her fishing pole in the lake and cried for ten solid minutes because Blaine couldn’t go back and get it off the bottom of the lake with his Magical Fishing Pole Retrieving Abilities, and when Brayden proclaimed, halfway through our five hour bicycling trip around the lake (let me repeat that, in case it’s not clear --- I rented a bike and pedaled my fat ass FIVE HOURS around that lake) that she was bored (SIGH!) and I said, trying hard to be the happy, positive, encouraging mom that I am …. “Brayden, honey, the weather is beautiful, the sun is shining, we’re having a nice ride on a gorgeous day, couldn’t you just enjoy nature for a moment?” to which she replied, “They're just leaves” in a totally snotty voice.
At which point I told her to shut up. Me, the mom who doesn’t allow anyone in our house to say shut up to anyone else, told my 9-yr old daughter that if she couldn’t think of anything nice to say, THEN. JUST. SHUT. UP.
Go ahead and call DFACS now.
Despite their constant grumbling, I do have them trained properly (most of the time) to smile for the camera. And Lord knows I always have my camera. So I’ll give you the gist of the weekend, in pictures (those of you with dial-up, forgive me):
The beginning of our bike ride; still smiling.
Hey, it wouldn’t be a fall festival without a little happy requisite pumpkin painting. Yes, happy times. Afterwards, I put all three kids’ pumpkins in the basket of my rental bike and rode them all the bumpy way home, looking like stupid ole’ Miss Gulch from the Wizard of Oz, balancing Toto in my damn basket. All the bumping caused the pumpkings to rub against the basket, and some of the paint to flake off, which brought about a huge temper tantrum from Brayden, who claimed I didn't care about all the hard work she had put into the pumpkin. Did she thank me for hauling those frickin’ pumpkins all the way back to the villa for her? Or express any thankfulness that I managed to ride that entire way on a rental bike without killing myself? No, of course not. But she sure carped on the fact I let her pumpkin get scratched. You know. Happy times like that.
This was a pretty scene. No children to ruin it with their whining.
"Zip it and smile or I swear you’ll be grounded all weekend. I don't care if you're bored. Look like you're having fun."
Hey, wait, now he's actually starting to have fun. Of course, Kendrie hadn’t started in on her temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums about the fishing pole at the bottom of the lake yet. But it's coming, never fear.
This was Brayden’s favorite part of the weekend, the drive-through animal safari in Pine Mountain.
We rented a zebra-van and hit the road. We were the first family in the park that morning, and let's just say those animals have the entire Pavlovian response to the zebra vans down pat.
Kellen really enjoyed it, also, when he wasn’t squealing like a girly-man.
This was the view we had most of the hour-long drive. I felt pretty much the same way when I realized, the next day, that I had left my spare camera battery in the damn zebra van. Of course, no one turned it in. Why would they?
Kellen’s favorite part of the weekend, the bike rides.
The first day, I didn’t have a bike, so we headed over to the bike rental place, with Blaine and the kids riding and me walking. That’s why I’m still smiling at this point. I hadn’t yet begun the Buns of Steel Eternal Never-Ending Bike Ride Around the Lake. Did I mention it took us five hours??? Natalie, *how* does Eamon do it???? Better yet, WHY??? My ass STILL hurts!
Naturally, the kids complained that my walking to the bike rental facility was taking too long and slowing them down. So I got on Blaine’s bike. And he got on Kendrie’s 18-inch Rhino Booster. And pedaled her on the pegs. He is such a stud.
Actually, this was one of the (FEW!) spontaneous happy moments of the weekend. After visiting the Butterfly Center, we let the kids goof off on the grass, and they laughed joyfully and wrestled gleefully with one another. Until Kellen poked Kendrie, or Brayden hit Kellen, or some other calamity, who can even remember who was mad at who which time with these kids?
Requisite butterfly photo.
Requisite flower photo.
And lest you think the entire weekend, 24/7 was horrific ….. well, it pretty much was. No, I’m kidding, we did have a few pleasant episodes mixed in amongst the squabbling. The best moment of all? Saturday night, while Blaine and I hung out in the guest bedroom watching the Florida/Auburn game, and the kids were in the guest bathroom, mixing up “potions”, which consisted of emptying every shampoo, conditioner, and mouthwash container the villa provided and pouring them and arranging them in various ways with every utensil found in the kitchen, then calling those concoctions “inventions” and declaring they were in a “Science Club”.
You know what? Fine. But we could have done that at home, for a LOT cheaper, don’t you think? And my ass wouldn’t have been near as sore.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006 11:16 PM CDT
THE ONE WHERE I GET ALL REFLECTIVE AND SAPPY ON YOU
Fall has always been my favorite time of year. Football, leaves changing colors, cool, crisp air, jeans and sweatshirts, pumpkin patches, the whole she-bang. My very most favorite time. I pink puffy heart fall. If I could find a place to live that was fall year-round, I would move there in a nano-second.
Since 2003, however, fall has been bittersweet for me. On this day, three years ago, Kendrie was in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at our local Children’s Hospital while the doctors tried to figure out why she was so anemic and not responding to blood transfusions. I was in total denial that anything could be seriously wrong, and hoping she would get out of the hospital in time to visit the State Fair, and vacation in Tennessee with our friends the Deatons. Instead, this Friday, the 13th, will be the 3-year anniversary of the day she was diagnosed with leukemia. The day I learned you can be punched in the stomach and feel your heart being ripped out of your chest, even if no one actually touches you.
We were taken by ambulance to the Children’s Hospital in Atlanta where she underwent more testing, and then her chemotherapy regimen was started. As soon as my mom could get a flight to Georgia to watch Kellen and Brayden, Blaine came to Atlanta to be with us. We rented a room at a hotel a few blocks away from the hospital and he and I took turns sleeping at the hospital each night. Whoever’s turn it was to go to the hotel and take a shower would walk back and forth, and I remember how cool and crisp the air was. Fall had arrived. I remember putting Kendrie in a wagon at the hospital and pulling her around the koi pond, pointing out the leaves that had changed colors, and watching the late-afternoon sunlight shine down on her blonde hair. Her blonde hair. "Oh my God she’ll be bald soon", I remember thinking. I remember feeling that it was impossible for the weather to be this glorious, when I was spinning out of control and cracking up inside. This was fall. We were supposed to be visiting pumpkin patches, and watching college football games on the television. Instead, we’d been immersed in this surreal world of childhood cancer. How the hell did THAT happen?
Three years later, things are good. Things are great. Kendrie’s monthly bloodwork, done earlier this week, showed perfect numbers. She’s playing soccer, loving school, and we had to have her bangs cut for the first time in ages. But still, when I feel that early-morning chill in the air, or see the Halloween decorations in the neighborhood, or hear the local high school marching band on the field next to Kendrie’s soccer team, practicing for their Friday night half-time performance, I can’t help but reflect back on our very own Fall of 2003. I remember the ambivalence; the world was beautiful, the world was falling apart. I am so grateful to be done with that world, and so terrified that we could be thrust back in it at any time.
It’s a fine line to walk, being grateful for the life lessons, yet wishing we had never experienced them. And while I know we should look forward, and we do, it’s hard not to look back. It seems insulting to the courage she showed, and the struggle we faced as a family, NOT to look back. I’m so proud to look back and see how far we’ve all come. I hate looking back and remembering any of it.
{Warning: This is where I start to ramble and really go off on a crazy-lady tangent and just basically blah blah blah to hear myself talking more blah blah …. } How can I complain about what she went though, when there are so many families not as fortunate? How can I gripe for one second that fall has been contaminated, when she is here with me? It’s so bizarre, this time of remembering. It’s exhausting to go through life looking over your shoulder, scared about what *might* happen. It’s impossible to go through life with a constant smile on your face and Pollyanna attitude, knowing your earlier naiveté is gone, and missing it, but knowing that you look like an idiot now if you pretend nothing ever happened. I don’t want to dwell, or feel bitter. I don’t want to act as if it didn’t exist. When will my own personal timeline no longer be divided by “Before Kendrie got sick” and “After Kendrie got sick” ….. When will I quit being a crazy person? When will the simple act of a change of seasons no longer hold such significance? When will fall no longer feel tainted?
On the one-year anniversary of Kendrie’s diagnosis, I pretty much had a nervous breakdown in the parking lot of my hairdresser’s salon. Freak. (me, not her.) The second year anniversary was much less climactic. This year, it’s not difficult, but I find myself remembering. And hating it. And being grateful, all at the same time.
We are spending this anniversary of Kendrie’s diagnosis away for the weekend, relaxing as a family. I feel the need to pull my children close to me and enjoy fall the way it is supposed to be enjoyed. Nature walks. Leaves changing. Cool, crisp air. Our first fall since 2003 with no chemotherapy, no shock of diagnosis, no steroid tantrums, no spinal taps. No bald heads, no pain or nausea. No need to take Zofran on vacation. Just the five of us. No leukemia allowed. Just us.
We’re gearing up for Blaine’s next step. I’ll write more about that later. For now, I am readying myself. Spending the weekend with my kids. Enjoying us. Enjoying fall.
Kristie
Tuesday, October 10, 2006 8:30 PM CDT
FOR EVERYTHING ELSE ……
One Adult Admission to State Fair: $6
Kids under 10: Free
Four Unlimited Ride Wristbands: $60
Playing games on midway to win piece-o-crap prizes because Lord knows your kids don’t already have enough crap in their toy-boxes at home: $6
Three hotdogs, two caramel apples, two bags cotton candy, seven sodas, one order chicken strips, one pork pulled sandwich, and one funnel cake: $47
Hearing your 7-yr old daughter’s infectious giggle on the Yoyo swing ride: Priceless
Watching your 9-yr old try so hard to stay cool and nonchalant on the Super Himalaya ride, then burst out laughing when she just can’t contain herself: Also priceless
Introducing your kids to the time-honored State Fair tradition of cotton candy for lunch and funnel cakes for dinner: The most priceless of all
Letting your 8-yr old eat an entire bag of cotton candy, then ride three spinning rides in a row until he renders himself completely sick: Not quite as priceless
Having to explain to your kids why it’s not OK for teenagers to look that way or dress that way or act that way: Less priceless
Having to listen to your son complain, despite the fact you have spent $119 and seven damn hours at the fair, that you didn’t buy him a root beer float like you promised: Even less priceless. In fact, it’s down right annoying.
Why do I let these kids out of the house, anyway???
PS. Kidding, really. The kids and I had a great time today; beautiful fall weather, the yummy goodness that is fair food, holding baby chicks, learning to spin wool, plowing with real plows behind real horses, holding our noses while we ran through the cow pens, and no fighting because I threatened them within an inch of their lives before we ever left the house. Ahhhhh, good times.
Except for the root beer float incident.
(UPDATED INFO): Hey, thanks for the nice comments about the cabinet. I admit, I was pretty pleased with the final product as well. Especially considering *I* didn't have to put it together, ha! (but still smarting a bit from Blaine reminding me I'm not the craftiest girl on the planet .....) I got it at Store Your Media and the product number is SPARTA 2362.
Monday, October 9, 2006 9:38 PM CDT
AND I MIGHT OR MIGHT NOT HAVE …..
Despite appearances to the contrary, I am a very organized, neat person. And by “appearances to the contrary”, I mean the fact that my house is always a mess and I’m constantly griping about how I can never find my car keys, I forget people’s birthdays, I am never able to catch up on my e-mails, I have a to-do list a mile long, and I’m the type of person who spends ten minutes looking for sunglasses that are on top of my head. But if you can get past **that** sort of thing, I’m very organized. A place for everything; everything has a place; and all that jazz.
A few years ago, we bought an entertainment center with a very short, very deep cabinet under the tv which we use to store some of our tapes and dvds. We have a bigger cabinet for the rest, but the movies we’ve watched recently are usually under the tv. And of course by "we" I mean the kids, since it seems they are always the ones choosing which movie we're going to watch.
Over time, we wind up with a hodge podge of tapes and dvd’s, all flung willy-nilly into that cabinet space, none of them returned properly to their holders. Basically, it looks like a Blockbuster threw up in the cabinet. Every few months I’ll go through the cabinet and match up movies to cases, re-arrange, stack neatly, and swear that THIS time, the space will stay organized.
And a few weeks ago, I might or might not have thrown a complete temper tantrum when I couldn’t find the dvd case for Nanny McPhee, and while searching, realized what a disaster area this cabinet truly is, once again.
And I might or might not have griped about the mess, while transferring tapes from this cabinet here to the big cabinet there, putting away movies into their proper cases, knowing all the while that while it looks good now, it’s only a matter of time until it’s a mess again.
And I might or might not have made some sweeping pronouncement about how sick I am of this disaster area and how I’m going to take action right now!
And I might or might not have gone online and ordered a special media storage cabinet with doors on the front, convinced that the cabinet will help us stay organized, or at the very least, the doors will conceal the Blockbuster vomit.
And the cabinet might or might not have arrived very quickly. And I might or might not have been very excited.
And I might or might not have told Blaine that I planned to assemble the cabinet the next day while the kids were in school.
And Blaine might or might not have reminded me of the extremely crappy job I did assembling our last bookcase.
In fact, he might or might not have made some incredibly rude comment about how the blind kid with no arms in his seventh grade woodshop class was handier than me and could probably do a better job.
And I might or might not have been extremely insulted by his condescending, superior handy-man attitude and told him congratulations, he had just awarded himself a new can-do project, and that media cabinet would sit, unassembled, until HE put it together.
And the cabinet might or might not have sat in our entryway, in its original box, for over a week.
(In case you don't believe me that it sat here like a lump for an entire week, notice that the kids are using it as a platform for their toy cars.)
And I might or might not have made snide, rude comments under my breath about “Well, I guess Ty Pennington Jr is too busy to put my new cabinet together” every time I walked past it.
And I might or might not have gone away this past weekend with my girlfriends, and feeling a little guilty about the fact Blaine, recovering from radiation, would be alone with the kids for four solid days (did I mention that they were school holiday days, so he had the kids 24/7?) I might or might not have left a list of suggested fun (read: time-consuming!) activities, such as “Go to batting cages” or “Go to matinee” and the like, hoping to help him fill his days with them. Because I'm organized like that.
And apparently, Blaine might or might not have decided to take matters into his own hands, strapped little tool belts onto the kids, and put them to work assembling our new cabinet.
And it might or might not have looked pretty darn good when I got back home this evening.
And I might or might not have looked inside, counted 89 DVDs, 122 VHS tapes, and 44 home movies (more on this later) and wondered why it is we spend the vast majority of our TV time watching Hannah Montana reruns and none of the movies we’ve paid perfectly good money for. We have enough home entertainment to watch a different movie every day for almost three-quarters of a year, yet we spend all our spare time with Zach and Cody. What's *wrong* with this picture????
But it doesn’t even matter, because the anal, neat-freak part of me is happy.
At least until it looks like Blockbuster threw up in there again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(UPDATED INFO): Hey, thanks for the nice comments about the cabinet. I admit, I was pretty pleased with the final product as well. Especially considering *I* didn't have to put it toether, ha! (but still smarting a bit from Blaine reminding me I'm not the craftiest girl on the planet .....) I got it at Store Your Media and the product number is SPARTA 2362.
Thursday, October 5, 2006 10:46 AM CDT
YET ANOTHER GLIMPSE ….
In keeping with our theme of “Kellen and his Bodily Functions”, I give you a glimpse into my life from yesterday afternoon, which explains why rock stars and celebrities and game show hosts weep in jealousy for the glamour that is my life:
I was on the phone with a friend when I heard Kellen calling from the other room, “Mom …. Mom …. MOM!!!! The toilet is fixing to overflow! MOM HURRY THERE’S WATER EVERYWHERE IT’S A FLOOD AAGGGGHHHHH!”
And I walked to the bathroom, expecting a clogged toilet, only to discover our own Trevi Fountain, with water pouring out and overflowing the bowl at a rapid rate. “I’ll call you back!” I said to my girlfriend and threw the phone down. As I stepped into the bathroom, I realized the rugs were soaked, the water was already standing an inch deep, and still coming. Straddling the toilet so my shoes wouldn’t get wet from the sheet of water raining down the sides of the bowl, I jerked the tank cover off the back of the toilet and pulled up on the round float-y thing that connects to the chain hanging from the metal arm hook-y thing. (Yes, I’m pretty sure that is the exact scientific descriptive term.)
There wasn’t much else I could do from this position because if I let go of the float-y thing, the water would begin pouring out again and there was already a lake in the bathroom. So I turned to Kellen, “Quick! Go grab a towel! Hurry, hurry!” He ran out of the room, with me shouting, “Hurry! Bring me a towel!” after him the entire time. I could see the huge puddle of water ebbing closer and closer to the hardwood floor in the hallway and the rugs couldn’t soak up any more. … “Run, Kellen! Get a towel! Faster!”
And the child, I swear I am not making this up, ran back into the bathroom, full of support and resourcefulness, and threw a Single. Paper. Towel. into the lake.
Because he is nothing if not helpful.
That boy, he’s not right in the head.
Wednesday, October 4, 2006 11:52 AM CDT
RETHINKING THAT X-BOX 360
So, while I doubt we are the ONLY house in America without a gaming system, I do know that our kids are in the minority, not owning a Gameboy or Playstation of X-Box or any of those things. Kellen has a Gameboy Advance (hand held electronic thingy) that he bought with his own money last year, but he really doesn’t play it too much. Combine our lack of a gaming system with my recent No-TV-During-The-Week-Decree, and to hear my kids tell it, we might as well haul our own water from the river and make lye soap and sew our own clothes from burlap flour sacks.
But Blaine and I have held firm. We believe the studies that say kids who don’t watch as much tv or spend as much time on the computer or video games do better in school and are more creative. While we’re certainly not opposed to any of those things, we simply think moderation is key. Plus, to be perfectly honest, sitting in front of the tv doesn’t wear them out like bike-riding or roller-blading, and parents everywhere know **THAT** is the ultimate goal in life so they go to bed without any complaint each night, tired to their very core. Right?
So every time I see my kids spend an hour drawing pictures, or reading, or building massive forts for their stuffed animals, or playing baseball in the front yard or whatever, I pat myself on the back. Kellen recently turned his bedroom into a “camp” for his sisters, complete with a list of activities they can do “during camp” …. the activities list is posted on his bedroom door, along with the amount of time each activity should take.
It’s actually very clever and creative and I was feeling quite smug about my imaginative children and how resourceful they are. Kids can find very ingenious ways to entertain themselves when they have to. Then, Kellen came to me and made the following comment:
“Hey, guess what. Brayden and Kendrie and I all just weighed ourselves to see who was heaviest.”
And I’m thinking, Oh, good. A little math and creativity at the same time. Sort of like their own personal health experiment.
Then he said: “I weighed 73 pounds. 73! That’s a lot! Then I pooped. Then I only weighed 72.”
Um, ok. THIS is how he’s filling up his free time? Maybe I should get him that Playstation after all.
Monday, October 2, 2006 10:20 PM CDT
WHY YES, I HAVE. THANKS FOR NOTICING.
Apparently, I was correct when I stated to Blaine that owning an iPod would help me lose weight and get in better shape. My intent was to use it at the gym to listen to music and enjoy my workouts better (of course, by “better” I mean AT ALL.) But I was wrong. You don’t even have to go to the gym to lose weight with your iPod. I have discovered the secret, and am happy to share it with you:
TWENTY EASY STEPS TO LOSING WEIGHT WITH YOUR IPOD
1. Open birthday present containing iPod. Toss and fling wrapping paper and bow around room, exercising wrists. Later, once your children realize there is cake in the other room and leave you stranded and alone, pick pieces of wrapping paper off floor, pretending to touch toes a few times.
2. Pat self on back that husband picked up on your oh-so-cleverly-disguised clues about wanting an iPod for your birthday. Subtle, faint hints along the lines of “Blaine, they sell iPods at Wal-Mart. You DO know my birthday is next week, right?” When you open gift and see iPod, self-back-patting can commence. Pat with each arm 50 times, working those tricep-y things in the back of your arm that hang down and frighten you at baseball games.
3. Immediately put iPod in closet and do nothing with it for the next two weeks. Spend lots of time mentally compiling play list that you want …. But admit to yourself that “thinking” isn’t a Weight-Watchers approved activity.
4. Finally, finally, get iPod out of box and get ready to make music history.
5. Spend hours on iTunes downloading music, snacking on Quaker caramel-corn-flavored rice cakes the entire time, convincing yourself that if you eat food while listening to the very music you INTEND to exercise to later, those calories don’t count.
6. At long last, prepare to copy music to iPod.
7. Discover that apparently your computer is such an old piece of crap that it is incompatible with your new iPod because of some hi-speed vs. lo-speed USB something. Of some sort. Or something. Yell at computer screen. Pound computer desk. Kick leg of table. Swear. Shake fists at the heavens. Total body workout.
8. Dig through every fricken’ fracken’ piece of literature that came with the damn computer to find out if your USB-whatever-the-heck-that-is is hi-speed or lo-speed. Taking all those stupid manuals out of the computer desk, looking through them, and replacing them surely burns calories of one sort or another; bending, lifting, and replacing will whittle the waist.
9. Fire off extremely pathetic e-mail to girlfriend whose husband owns an iPod that works, begging for help. Acknowledge that finger-activity burns very little calories, so the typing itself is not helpful, but the hatred for all things technological coursing through your veins has GOT to be revving up your metabolism.
10. Go to local electronics store to ask about getting a new USB whatchamacallit, having to chase down sales representative in store. Walk at least a mile to and from registers to computer area, looking for elusive salesperson named “Dave”.
11. Accept that "Dave" has gone home for the day and wander up and down every aisle looking for the damn thing yourself. Stomp around the department when you can’t figure it out -- it’s like a step class and good for the calves. Power walk through the department, cursing and mumbling under your breath, until you realize the employees suspect you are shoplifting. Or crazy.
12. Buy something that looks like it might work and bring it home, only to discover you have no idea how to install it. Again, see: technology; burning hatred of; vein coursing.
13. Determine that to install new whatsitwhoozy, you must remove cover off hard-drive. Summon screwdriver, and husband to use it. Once cover is removed, commence to choke on the 79 pounds of airborne dust that is suddenly flying through the air. Coughing is VERY good exercise for the stomach muscles.
14. Remember that “supervising” from your computer chair is a very involved, high energy activity. Constantly leaning forward, to peer over his shoulder and offer helpful pointers, such as “I think that poke-y thing goes there” and “It looks like you need to line up the doo-hicky with the black blobby thing” and then leaning back to snort in contempt, is good for the abs.
15. Once new card is installed and working properly, and hard drive cover has been replaced, sweetly thank husband for his help and reassure him you can take it from here. Bonus calorie burn for smugness.
16. Realize you’ve somehow dropped your digital card reader behind the computer desk. Spend ten minutes trying to squeeze your size XL butt into a size M space between the wall and the desk to pick up the reader. Twist, turn, shimmy; all good for the hips.
17. Admit defeat. Yell for husband. Again. Louder when he pretends not to hear you. Throat and vocal cord exercises will prevent the need for chin-lifts later in life.
18. At long last, get all USB devices re-hooked up. Turn computer on. Jump up and down for joy when it actually WORKS! Jumping is good for the thighs, although not so great on the bladder control.
19. Attempt to transfer music from iTunes to iPod, holding breath the entire time. Breath-holding is a form of cardio and every bit as good for you as working on the elliptical.
20. Dance around the room in a combination of relief, happiness and pride when you discover the whole thing is working just as it should and you have jammin’ new tunes for your next visit to the gym. Dance into the living room to thank husband for cool gift and for his help. Dance around the room, congratulating self on your own fabulousness and extreme techno-savvy, until 7-yr old daughter states, “Mom, quit dancing. Seriously. I’m not even kidding.”
Number of cool new exercise tunes: Seventy-four and counting.
Total pounds lost: One. Half.
Blows to Ego: Too numerous to count
Sunday, October 1, 2006 10:48 PM CDT
MAKE - A - WISH
(Yeah, I wish ice cream had no calories and cured heart disease, but that’s another story.)
I’m sorry it’s been so long between updates. I appear to have been stricken with a severe case of Jamaican Sleeping Sickness …. About 8:30 each night, I fall asleep on the sofa and dream I am on a cruise to Jamaica. Instead, I am sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by take-home projects from my kids’ teachers. Put some reading glasses on my nose and a newspaper across my stomach, cue snoring in the recliner, and I’ll have turned into my dad at the rate I’m going.
Anyway, on to bigger and better things:
I have never been in a bar brawl or a street fight (shocking, I know) and I’ve never been struck by another human being in my life. Unless you count those “this hurts me more than it hurts you” spankings I got as a youngster, or the fact Blaine let go of the truck door last Thursday night in a wind storm and I was standing at the perfect wrong spot and the damn door blew shut right on my face and I swear I thought it broke it my nose …. But, I’m rambling, and that’s another story, too.
My point is that although I’ve never been physically hit by anyone else, I don’t think any sort of uppercut to the jaw could possibly hurt worse than the shock and pain of that first gut-wrenching moment when you’re told your child has cancer. Only really, it was more like a sucker punch to the stomach, because I walked around the first two weeks feeling like all the breath had been knocked out of me and I could vomit at any second.
I’ve talked about it in this journal before, but it was close to a week after Kendrie’s initial diagnosis before I found out leukemia isn’t always fatal. The day after diagnosis, all I knew was that we were being sent to Atlanta because our local pediatric oncologist said he couldn’t take on her case. Then, a few days into things in Atlanta, the social worker came in the hospital room to meet with Blaine and me and discuss the resources available to us. Kendrie was out getting a heart function test, or ultrasound, or x-ray, or something {one of the many tests they have to perform before starting chemo treatment} and it gave us a quiet hour to visit with the social worker. We were SO overloaded with information, and still in shock, and most likely not asking any intelligent questions yet. I’m sure she could sense we were overwhelmed, and to close the meeting on what she must have thought would be a cheerful note, she said, “Well, just think, at least your daughter will get a wish from Make-A-Wish!” And I promptly burst into tears. And thought yet again about vomiting.
Ironically, about a week after we got home from that initial hospital visit, I opened the mailbox one afternoon to find an envelope from our local Make-A-Wish organization. Although by this point I knew things were not quite as dire as they seemed initially, I was still pretty deer-in-the-headlights and reeling from the changes that had taken place. Opening the mailbox and seeing that envelope wrecked me. I thought, “Oh my gosh, do they know something I don’t know? Is that why they’re sending me information on getting the wheels in motion for her wish NOW?” Once again, I was struck with the inability to take a deep breath …. the nauseous, sick-to-my-stomach feeling …. It was pretty much becoming a theme for me by that point. Come to find out, though, it was nothing of the sort. It was a fundraising letter; I’m sure everyone in our town got one that day. But how ironic that it arrived just a few weeks after finding out Kendrie would be eligible for a wish of her own.
If you’ve followed this journal for very long, you’ll know that Kendrie’s wish was for a trip to Disney, and to stay at Give Kids the World in Florida. MAW handled everything. We took the trip in February of 2005 while she was half-way through her treatment. I wish I could say it was the best trip EVER, but it wasn’t because my children acted like the spawn of Satan and I seriously thought about leaving them on the side of the highway with “Free to a Good Home” signs around their little necks.
But regardless, the Make-A-Wish organization did a wonderful thing for our family by making the trip available, at no cost to us. So when I heard that Cold Stone Creamery was having a fundraiser night for MAW last Thursday night, there was no doubt in my mind that we would go. A fundraiser? Combined with ice cream? Really, the only thing that would have made it any better would have been for Brad Pitt to personally scoop up my Rocky Road,then feed it to me with a little silver spoon. Naked. (Him, not me.)
So the kids and I had ice cream for dinner that night, then I let them run off the sugar high at soccer and baseball practice. 
I made a point of letting the CSC manager know we were a wish family and thanking him for having the fundraiser. I also thanked the two MAW interns who were there passing out flyers and told them how wonderful GKTW is. I also told the CSC cashier that we had gone on a wish trip and that I wanted to donate, when I purchased the “star” to put on the wall and show our contribution. 
By the end of the visit, everyone in Cold Stone thought I was a lunatic. A lunatic with a camera. A lunatic with a camera who never shut up.
I suppose they’re probably right. But if I could figure out a way to get those calories out of the ice cream, I’d be the genius blabbermouth lunatic who had the last laugh, wouldn’t I? Of course, it would help if I could stay awake past 8:30 pm.
Kristie
Wednesday, September 27, 2006 11:15 PM CDT
BAD NEWS FOR SAMMY
Conversation overheard on the way to Kellen’s baseball practice last night:
Kellen: “I love baseball. I want to play with Sammy Sosa sometime.”
Brayden: “Who’s that?”
Kellen: “You know, a real ball player. Like Barry Bonds. I want to play baseball with one of them.”
Brayden: “Kellen, first you have to go to middle school. Then high school. Then college. And grow up. Then by the time you are old enough to play, that Sammy guy will BE. DEAD.”
Poor Sammy. I don’t know where these kids come up with this stuff, but it doesn’t sound too hopeful for *him*, does it?
Kristie
Tuesday, September 26, 2006 7:55 PM CDT
LITTLE KNOWN LATE TERM EFFECTS
There are many late term effects from chemo and radiation for which cancer-kids have to watch once treatment ends. Apparently, the most prevalent for Kendrie appears to be: extreme un-coordination. **
After tripping over her own feet at soccer practice tonight and poking herself in the eye, her coach thought she had gotten dirt in her eye so he poured water over her face to try and wash it out. She came over to where I was sitting on the sidelines to get a Kleenex to dry off her face, and asked me, in the most pitiful voice possible, “Why did God give us fingers, if he knew we were just going to poke ourselves in the eye with them????”
Well, honey, I’m not sure. But I’ll put that question on my list for someday when I see him, right behind questioning him about war and famine …. Why, oh why, must we have fingers?
**If you think I’m going to admit fault in this situation, you’re crazy. My nickname in high school might have been “Klutz”, but my genetics and DNA will NOT be taking the blame for HER lack of coordination. I’m blaming chemo, and nothing you say can change my mind!
PS. Thanks to all of you who ate at your local Chili’s for lunch or dinner yesterday. The kids and I met friends there for dinner and had a really nice time. And I would like to publicly say THANK YOU to the anonymous person who bought our dinner for us. {I think it was you, kind lady in the lavender scrubs who recognized Kendrie and came to the table and said hello, although the waiter wouldn’t tell us, so I can’t be sure!} You probably didn’t know this, but the other little girl at our table (Haley from middle Georgia) was a fellow cancer patient as well, recovered several years from treatment for Wilms Tumor ….. so your picking up the tab was a kindness to both of our cancer families, and we really appreciated it!! I know St. Judes did, too! But I still would have liked to say thank you in person!
PSS. Don’t forget that Thursday is a fundraiser day for the Make-A-Wish Organization at Cold Stone Creamery ..... eating ice cream is a sacrifice that I guess I’ll just *have* to make …. for the good of the children .... (sigh)
Monday, September 25, 2006 12:08 AM CDT
MANIC MONDAY
My kids love school; they really, truly, do. They just don’t like getting out of bed in the morning. Especially Monday morning. No matter how much rest they’ve gotten over the weekend, how much relaxation and fun we’ve had, they’re never ready for Monday morning. They let me know this in various ways, such as moaning when I wake them up, rolling over and burying their faces under the covers.
Kellen and Brayden normally only need one reminder that it’s time to get up and start getting ready for school …. Kendrie usually makes it as far as the sofa before collapsing with fatigue, and would stay on the sofa, huddled in a blanket, complaining that “I'm cold!” or “It’s too early!” or “I’m still tired!” all day if I’d let her.
Once they get to school they’re ok, although Kendrie and I did have the following conversation this morning as I walked her to her classroom:
Kendrie: “I don’t want to go to school!”
Kristie: “You’re just grumpy because it’s Monday. You should go to bed earlier on Sunday night.”
Kendrie: “No, I really don’t want to go to school!”
Kristie: “Why not? You love school.”
Kendrie: “Yes, but it takes too long! It takes up my whole day!”
Kristie: “Well, just be glad you don’t go to school in China or Japan or any of those places. Those kids have to go to school from 8 in the morning until 5 at night, like a real job. They stay MUCH longer at school than you do.” {I have no idea if this is true, but I heard it somewhere and at this point, I’m looking for anything to make this kid quit whining.}
Kendrie (in her most “well DUH, Mom!” voice): “Well, yeah, but they’re studying cool stuff -- They’re all learning how to be ninjas!”
So there you have it. The REAL reason that Mitsubishi and Sanyo and Fujifilm are such successful international companies: The ninja training of their CEO’s. Bet those guys don’t bitch about Mondays, what with all the cool ninja fighting they get to do.
Saturday, September 23, 2006 7:57 AM CDT
WHY EAVESDROPPING NEVER PAYS OFF
So, this gym where I’ve started working out (I figure if I keep mentioning it in this journal, then I’m more likely to continue going, what with the public accountability and all, right?) is primarily a physical therapy/rehab place. Lots of older people, recovering from accidents and illness and surgeries and what not. But they also have a “wellness” program for people who are interested in getting healthier, which is what I’m doing. I had to meet with a personal trainer-type person to discuss my overall goals the first day, and then he designed a workout plan for me. For some reason, he laughed when I said “Abs and Buns of Steel” as my primary goal, so we downgraded to “better overall health and fitness”. Hmmm. Imagine that.
It’s been interesting to me this first week to go in and see some of the other people, and play the guessing game in my head about what’s wrong with them, or if they’re there for “wellness” like I am. The guy riding the reclining bike with both legs in casts? I’m guessing car accident. Stroke victims are obvious. Etc. But I like this place for that very reason --- it’s not a bunch of PYT’s in spandex making me feel bad about myself. Granted, the 80 year olds who can out-lift me and out-walk me on the treadmill, yeah, *that* makes me feel bad about myself, ha! But overall I’m very comfortable there.
I do my warm up on an elliptical, and for the record, I am the most uncoordinated person on the planet and when I fall off and break my neck, don’t be surprised. Yesterday, there was a very fit, good looking guy on the elliptical next to me. He got off and started a circuit on the machines, lifting quite a bit of weight without any apparent problems, so I thought, “Aha! Another wellness person like me.” He was working out in a t-shirt and scrub pants that had happy faces all over them. An older lady with a very LOUD VOICE on the machine next to him struck up a conversation with him, and to take my mind off my flailing limbs on the elliptical, I was eavesdropping:
Older Lady: “I like those pants you have on. Where did you get them?”
Good Looking Guy: “You can buy them at {name of local medical supply store} but I got them when I was a patient at the Burn Center.”
OL: “Oh? You were burned?”
GLG: “Yep, over 50 percent of my body”
OL: “You look really good, I can’t see any scars”
GLG: “Lots of the burns were internal”
OL: “My house burned down last January but we weren’t home. Praise Jesus for you firefighters and the wonderful work you do.”
GLG: “Oh, I wasn’t a fire-fighter”
OL: “Oh, did your own house burn down?”
GLG: “Um, yes. Sort of”
OL: “Were you sleeping? What happened?”
GLG: “Actually, I was making meth.”
She never missed a beat.
OL: “Well that fire and you getting burned was a wake up call from the Lord!”
GLG: “Yes, ma’am, it sure was”
And then, I’m still not quite sure how, she went from praising Jesus to bashing President Bush and praising President Chavez in about 60 seconds, never taking a breath, with no end in sight. GLG was like a deer in the headlights, unable to escape, and all I could think was, “Yes. This is why I must get my iPod working immediately so I can NEVER eavesdrop again.”
And with that, on to Part 2 of this journal entry: the play-list. I want half of my play-list to be upbeat music, probably dance remixes and high energy songs that will be good for working out. I want the other half to be power ballads …. You know, the kind of song that you belt out while singing along to the radio in your car, quite confident that Celine Dion has NOTHING on you, baby!
Perfect example is Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart, which if I could give you just one more peek into last week’s karaoke debacle, was sung by me, NOT as a karaoke song, but by someone else, and I “helped” with the singing from the table, using a beer bottle as a microphone, which is made funnier by the fact that not only do I not drink beer, so it wasn’t MY bottle, but the bottle was given to me by the table next to me, two couples who were obviously in awe of my awesome vocal singing ability and encouraging me in my awesomeness by giving me their bottle to sing into.
No, I don’t drink much. Why do you ask?
So, I’m asking all of you for your song ideas in those two categories: “Good Upbeat Exercise Music”, and “Songs That Everyone Is Guilty of Singing In The Mirror Using a Hairbrush {or, beer bottle} For a Microphone”.
Any suggestions?
PS Don't forget! Monday, Sept 25th, Chili's Restaurants nation-wide are donating 100 percent of their profits to St. Jude's, so please have lunch or dinner at Chili's that day!
Another worthwhile fundraiser is taking place this month at Cold Stone Creamery, as they sell Make-A-Wish wall stars with donations going to local Make A Wish organizations. More specifically, this coming Thursday, Sept 28th, celebrate the 5th Annual World's Largest Ice Cream Social and Support the Make-A-Wish Foundation® with Cold Stone Creamery
Visit your local Cold Stone Creamery and try a very special “Make-A-Wish Creation™” inspired by Cole, a 10 year old Wish Child from Colorado. Cole’s Creation combines chocolate ice cream with fluffy yellow cake, chocolate chips and rainbow sprinkles.
To cap off this special month, please join us for the 5th Annual World’s Largest Ice Cream Social at participating Cold Stone Creamery locations nationwide, a special night to join together and share the simple pleasures of life with a FREE ice cream, family activities and good-natured fun. Search our site for a location near you. On September 28th from 5:00 - 8:00pm, guests will be treated to a serving of Cole’s Creation*. In exchange for the free Creation, customers are encouraged to make donations to benefit the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Thursday, September 21, 2006 10:55 PM CDT
"STAY AT HOME”, MY ASS. AND A LAZY ASS IT IS, APPARENTLY.
Today, in review:
6am: Alarm goes off, take shower, get dressed.
7am: Wake kids. Make breakfasts, help with clothes, help with hair, prepare snacks and lunches for school, continue helping with clothes and hair brushing because God forbid anyone do anything for themselves around here.
8 am: Drive kids to school, visit Book Fair with smallest child since allowance is burning a Junie B. Jones-sized hole in her pocket. Agree to help teacher with spelling project.
8:30 am: Return home. Start a load of laundry, fold a clean load of laundry. Clean bathroom, pick up living room. Put away remainder of fall decorations, pay bills.
10 am: Leave house. Go back to school to give Kendrie the cough medicine I forgot to give her that morning. Make third visit in one week to newly opened Hobby Lobby store to begin shopping for Christmas presents (yes, I am that anal and begin shopping this far in advance.) Visit wellness center for first work out session complete with strength training and cardio (note to self: NO NEED to tell the internet about the geriatric who totally kicked my ass on the treadmills.) Stop by grocery store and pick up all the items our family simply cannot live without yet manage to run out of every three days: dog food, paper towels, and bananas; items which somehow manage to make mad passionate grocery-love and multiply into $94.00 worth of stuff in my cart. Make side trip to bank to wire money to title company in Oklahoma who just informed us today that they cannot accept personal checks, which is what I sent to close on a home Blaine and I are purchasing, and oh by the way we have until the close of business today to get them the money or the contract we spent an hour getting notarized and signed earlier this week will be null and void. Make quick trip to Sonic because all this running around is making me thirsty, naturally, and I can always justify my daily DDP.
1pm: Arrive back home, unload groceries and Christmas presents, put away. Fold another load of laundry. Eat dinner leftovers for lunch. Return two phone calls; pack small cooler with snacks and bottled water for kids.
2:30 pm: Leave to pick kids up from school. Make two more phone calls while waiting for them to be dismissed.
3:15 pm: Take Brayden to ceramics class across town. While driving, dispense drinks and snacks in car. During her class, while she is doing whatever it is creative types do, help Kellen and Kendrie with homework.
4:30 pm: Drive all three kids back across town for baseball practice (Kellen) and soccer practice (Kendrie) stopping for quick dinner on the way.
5:15 pm: Do the “kid-swap” with Blaine, so he can take Kellen to his practice and I can take Kendrie to hers.
6 pm: Sit through hour and a half soccer practice, working on sorting/flashcard/spelling project for Kellen’s teacher the entire time.
7:45 pm: Drive Brayden and Kendrie home from soccer practice, stopping at Burger King because Brayden has to use the restroom and swears she simply CANNOT make it home first.
8 pm: See teacher from their elementary school pull up in parking lot. Listen to numerous pleas and whining to go over and say hello to teacher. Wait a moment, notice teacher is not getting out of car. Tell children NO, that you are tired and you just want to go home.
8:03 pm: Overhear, with your little ear, your youngest child say in a petulant voice: “Yeah you’re tired, because you’re lazy and you don’t ever do anything.”
8:05 pm: Wonder how much reconstructive work I will need, after the way my head swiveled around and my eyes bugged out and the top of my head exploded like Mt. St. Helens.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006 9:32 PM CDT
OUTSIDE MY COMFORT ZONE
Sorry for the delay in updates; my mom has been here visiting and she and I have been very busy eating, running errands, eating, shopping, eating ... did I mention eating? My computer time was cut a bit short since it's difficult to type when you are double-fisting gingerbread man cookies .....
Anyway, on with the update:
Various and assorted ways in which I have stepped out of my comfort zone this past week, none of which will change the world, but might hopefully expand my tiny little corner of it:
1) At the suggestion of Heidi S in the guestbook, and because September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, I tweaked the previous journal entry, about Kendrie playing in her first soccer game, and submitted it to our local newspaper. It would be great if they would run an article (or two or three dozen) about families walking this path through the world of pediatric cancer, and bring attention to childhood cancer and survivorship issues. It made me feel a little presumptuous to send an unsolicited article to the attention of the editor, but I’d certainly be willing to promote the cause of awareness here in middle Georgia, even if things like that make me nervous. Of course, it’s been 48 hours and I haven’t received a response, but at least I know I tried. Perhaps I should send another e-mail, or even make a follow-up call ….. Mayday! Mayday! Leaning Waaayyy outside the comfort zone!
2) Also outside my comfort zone with regards to cancer, I have agreed to consider serving as a breakout speaker for a local cancer coalition conference. Not as a “cancer mom”, but as a “cancer spouse”. I have to get more details, and notice I haven’t **technically** said I would agree to speak --- I said I would agree to CONSIDER speaking. Huge difference!!! But since any form of public speaking more pronounced than placing my order into the clown’s mouth at McDonalds gives me hives, even agreeing to think about it was pretty daring for me.
3) Pimping for Chili’s. Actually, this isn’t outside my comfort zone, because promoting worthwhile causes is easy to do:
“Chili's to donate all profits from Sept. 25 to St. Jude
You can make a meal count on September 25 by dining at your local Chili's Grill & Bar. On that day, Chili's will donate 100 percent of profits to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.
This special day is part of Chili's "Create A Pepper to Fight Childhood Cancer" campaign occurring throughout September, which is also National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. During the entire month, Chili's is asking its guests to donate $1 or more for the opportunity to color a pinup of Chili's signature pepper; pinups will be displayed in restaurants for the duration of the campaign.
In addition, supporters can visit Create A Pepper to purchase Create A Pepper T-shirts that can be customized with permanent marker to fit their individual style.
Also new this year are Create A Pepper Gift Cards, which offer a means of giving to those you love while giving back. Chili’s will donate $1 to St. Jude for every $25 purchased in Create A Pepper Gift Cards, which can be customized with permanent marker or crayon.
The funds raised help ensure that the life-saving research and care provided by St. Jude can continue. For more than 40 years, St. Jude has been dedicated to finding cures and saving children with cancer ad other childhood catastrophic diseases. Its research breakthroughs have helped push overall childhood cancer survival rates from less than 20 percent in 1962 to more than 70 percent today. No family ever pays for treatments not covered by insurance, and families without insurance are never asked to pay.
So get your co-workers or your family together on September 25 for lunch or dinner at a Chili's near you. The meal you share can give kids with cancer a fighting chance.”
We’ll be eating dinner at the Chili’s in Macon that evening, and would love for any local families to join us (Denise? What do you say?) Last year’s dinner is a bittersweet memory for me. We ate with Haley and her parents and talked and visited like any normal people would. We watched our kids, sitting and playing in another booth (because all parents look forward to the day when their kids are old enough to eat OVER THERE in their own booth!) Then, Haley passed away shortly after, on the list for a liver transplant. How is that possible? We had just had dinner with them and were stunned to hear the news. Cheryl, we are thinking about your family as the anniversary of Haley’s death is coming up and send lots of comforting thoughts your way. (Cheryl, by the way, the name of the song is “Happy Girl” by Martina McBride.)
4) I joined a gym. Well, not really a gym, but a wellness center at a physical therapy/rehab place. Which is actually pretty funny, when you consider that the vast majority of the people exercising there are either in their 70’s, or recovering from car accidents or back or knee surgery. Neck braces, ankle braces, canes ... etc. The only magazine I saw in the waiting room was a monthly issue of AARP and I was feeling smug about how much better shape I will be in than any of those people, until I noticed the gray-haired grandma in the knee splint was bench pressing twice the amount I was. Not so cocky now, am I???
5) The final and most profound way I stepped out of my comfort zone this past week involved a karaoke machine and a bottomless pitcher of Amaretto and honestly? Should probably not be shared with the internet.
PS. Ya'll!!!! We're closing in on a cool one million in the guestbook; how awesome is that??? Unless you consider the amount of times my mom visits the site, and the embarrassingly large number of typos and grammatical errors I have to go back and correct. Then, not so impressive. But if you find yourself as the one-millionth hit, let me know! The only rule is: NO REFRESHING just to get it! :)
Sunday, September 17, 2006 2:27 PM CDT
FULL CIRCLE
Three years ago, in the fall of 2003, Brayden was playing her first season of fall soccer. She was so cute, only six years old, and Blaine and I loved going to her games. She was never very aggressive (or even very talented!) but she had fun running around, getting a little fresh air and exercise, and most importantly, getting a juice box and a snack at the end of the game, and really, what else do you need in life?
Also in the fall of 2003, Kendrie started complaining that her arms and legs hurt. I remember thinking she was being lazy, or manipulative. I remember getting frustrated at her requests to be carried everywhere, or crying in her car seat that her legs were continuously falling asleep. I remember wishing that the virus her pediatrician had diagnosed her with would hurry up and run its course already so she’d quit whining. I remember saying to her, “There is nothing wrong with your legs! You are four years old now and you are too big and heavy for me to carry you all the time!” (insert big, exasperated sigh)
I clearly remember, in the fall of 2003, taking her to one of Brayden’s soccer games and her asking to be carried from the car to the field. Blaine and Kellen didn’t go with us that day, and I remember being annoyed because I had to carry the chairs and the water bottles and my keys and my camera, also, and schlepping her from the parking lot to the playing field was the LAST thing I wanted to do! I remember there was a huge dirt mound from a construction project next to the field, where Kellen and Kendrie always wanted to play during the games. Being ages just-turned-four and five, they didn’t have the attention span to patiently sit through a one-hour game. I didn't care if they got dirty, but if Brayden was playing soccer over *here* and the two of them were playing King of the Hill over *there* I couldn’t concentrate on and enjoy the game as much.
That particular Saturday, Kendrie never got out of her chair. In fact, she fell asleep at the game. I remember feeling partly grateful, because if she was napping, it would be a whole lot easier for me to enjoy Brayden's game. I remember feeling a little ashamed of my selfishness; that I was *glad* she was tired enough for a nap. And I remember thinking it was odd she would take a nap anyway … she quit napping at 18 months. But hey, I had an adorable 1st grader playing soccer and lots of picture-taking to be done, so why look a gift horse in the mouth?
All parents of kids with cancer look back after the fact to the days and weeks before diagnosis, when the warning signs, that seemed so random at the time, come into focus and we have an “AHA!” moment where it all suddenly makes sense. We wonder if we could have done anything to prevent it (NO); if anything we did or didn’t do caused it (NO AT LEAST I DON’T THINK SO); if we should have somehow realized what was happening more quickly, or if knowing would have changed anything (AGAIN, NO); and we berate ourselves for not immediately seeing what was unfolding before our eyes (HEY AT SOME POINT YOU’VE GOT TO CUT YOURSELF SOME SLACK).
That day, my warning sign that something was wrong was a normally exuberant four-year old, who would rather sleep in a chair at her older sister’s soccer game than play in the dirt and pester me for grape soda and hot dogs. I put an umbrella over her so her face wouldn’t get sunburned and turned my attention back to the game. But the image of her in that chair, curled up and sleeping, with my red umbrella opened up over her, will stay burned in my mind forever. I no longer feel guilty because I didn’t see it for what it was --- a little girl whose bone marrow was filling with leukemia cells and whose normal cell production had slowed so drastically she would be critically anemic within a few days. I don’t beat myself up about it anymore, but I won’t forget it.
Yesterday, my mental storage cache had to make room for NEW images, images which make me much happier, and which fill me with joy and happiness and pride, instead of guilt and stress. Yesterday, instead of being the sick little girl asleep in the chair, Kendrie was the kid ON THE FIELD!! Playing on the same field, in the same league, in the same uniform. *SHE* got the juice box and snack at the end of the game ….. and yes, the other two still preferred wandering off to play in the dirt. But as I watched her run around (ps. running in the grass, laughing with her team-mates, enjoying the fresh air and exercise ---- coughing and hacking up A LUNG!!! … we are SO off to the pediatrician this week to see if she has allergies!) I couldn’t help but think about the fact she has come full circle. She is healthy; happy; strong.
And my fervent prayer is that she is never the kid, sleeping in the chair with an umbrella over her face again. 
Because check out the difference three years makes --- Kendrie during induction, puffy, aching, fatigued, bloated from steroids, ravenous:
And the svelte Kendrie of today:
Because I have no idea if the waves will stay, and suspect they will be gone with the first hair cut, but I plan to enjoy them as long as I can:
And because sometimes, despite two and a half years of chemo, you run so fast you are a blur, and even *those* photos are beautiful to your mother:
Friday, September 15, 2006 3:16 PM CDT
HAPPY GIRL ON A FLASHBACK FRIDAY
To the millions and millions of people … ok, thousands of people ….. well, maybe hundreds ….. OK to the HALF DOZEN people who have commented that Kendrie looks just like her dad, I offer the following photographic proof that she is indeed the fruit of my loins (in case my twelve hours of labor wasn't proof enough):
Kristie and Kendrie. Both photos taken at age 3. Hmmmm, notice I am eating cake? Not much has changed in the past 37 years. Notice also the complete incongruity of my mother's faith in me and my eating skills: I am eating my birthday cake off a crystal serving plate, but forced to sit on cartoons from the newspaper so I won't spill cake crumbs all over the carpet.
Kendrie today:
Who do you think she looks like now? I don’t know for sure, but I **DO** know she is one happy girl. So take THAT, big fat poopy head cancer.
Kristie
PS. Amy in the guestbook: No, I'm not six feet tall, although I wish I were so my height would (then) be appropriate for my weight, unlike the disproportionate mess I am now. The tiny pixie-fairy standing next to me is Nicholas's mom, Susan ... my short neighbor and friend ... and possible potential mother-in-law! Er, wait ... she would be *Kendrie's* MIL ... what the heck would she be to me???
Tracy in the guestbook: Thanks for the nice comment, but the sign hid the bulk of my ass and thighs. Too bad "Eating" isn't an Olympic sport ... that gold medal would have my name written all over it.
Thursday, September 14, 2006 11:31 AM CDT
LOVE IS ….
Thanks very much to so many of you who have taken the time to write in the guestbook the past few days with your well wishes and good thoughts for Blaine. He tried reading the notes on the hotel computer but wasn’t able to get through them all …. A pretty nice problem to have. :) He’ll read every one when he gets back home and I know he appreciates them as much as I do, so again, thanks.
I *did* send him, just for the record, with a list of questions for the oncologist. Unfortunately, they were all relevant for either scenario #1: “Yippee the cancer is gone now what do we do?” or scenario #2: “Oh dear its not gone now what do we do?”. Like Chandler’s mom Kim said, Blaine and I were both expecting a declaration of NED “No Evidence of Disease” and when they tossed out the word dormant, I think it took him a bit by surprise as well. And then the doctor started talking in that Charlie Brown-Teacher voice, “Wah, wahh, wahh” and all the questions I had written down flew right out of his brain.
He is meeting with the oral surgeon today to discuss plans for reconstruction, which he is really excited about. Kind of like the way you get excited to have a huge boil lanced off your butt ---- you know it’s going to hurt like hell while you’re doing it, but in the long run, you and your tush will feel much better. While he’s at the clinic, he is going to ask for the oncologist’s e-mail address so I can write him with my laundry list of questions. You *knew* I couldn’t just let it go, right?
And that, officially, is two and a half journal entries dedicated to Blaine and his cancer. Plenty of time, I believe, in between journal entries about me, myself, and I. Because as anyone who follows this journal can tell you ---- IT’S. ALL. ABOUT. ME. My mother should have named me Mimi.
So, with that out of the way, let’s go back to the second half of my birthday entry, which I didn’t get to write about when it was happening.
When you turn 40, Love is:
Love is pretending to believe your wife when she tells you she could really, truly, HONESTLY start working out if only she had an iPod to listen to some jamming tunes while exercising.
Even more importantly, love is not pointing out the fact that the iPod is still sitting in it’s original packaging a week later, and your chubby wife hasn’t downloaded a single song or as much as walked to the mailbox. Luckily, Blaine is polite enough not to mention these things.
Love is having a great group of girlfriends who not only invite you to lunch on your birthday, but even pick up the tab and bring you really cool presents. Hmmm. Wonder if they'd believe me if I claimed to be turning 40 again next year?????
Love is having neighborhood friends who think it will be funny to position 40 pink flamingos on your front yard, along with a “Lordy, lordy” sign. Actually, I must confess, it *was* pretty funny. :)
Love is coming to visit from OKC and bringing two dozen delicious gingerbread men from your daughter’s favorite bakery on Rt. 66 in downtown Bethany, OK …. Cookies that your daughter makes you bring every time you visit, because she loves them so, so, so, so, so, so much, even though thanks to the new airline travel restrictions about food and water on the plane it meant you had to totally check your luggage so you could get the stupid cookies to Atlanta and then fight the crowd at baggage claim all for two dozen stupid cookies.
But evidence of the biggest, most all-encompassing love of all:
Photographic proof that I shared the cookies with my children, and didn’t even complain when they left a bunch of crumbly arms and legs, and one half of one gingerbread head, in the bag. THAT, my friends, is love.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006 9:57 PM CDT
AND THEN THERE WAS OPTION NUMBER 3.
Which I didn’t even realize was a possibility: No change.
I don’t know which is worse …. Bad news; no news; or confusing news. Well, yes, bad news would have been the worst and thankfully we didn’t get that. At least, I don’t think so. But I’m not really sure. All you tumor-veterans out there will have to explain this stupid process to me, so I can understand what today’s results mean. Because Lord knows my husband is incapable of asking the doctor the questions that **I** need him to ask. And since we were too cheap to pay for the airfare for me to go with him, after the Air Force turned down my request to accompany him on *their* dime …. I was unable to interrogate the doctor myself, so I needed for Blaine to understand my questions telepathically and relay them to the oncologist, which he failed to do. Nineteen years of marriage and the guy still can’t read my mind.
Apparently the day started off badly when they were unable to do the MRI with contrast like they wanted, because Blaine has the veins of a 7-yr old butterfly princess and no-one could get an IV going, even though “They poked me at least ten damn times and none of them worked!” So he only got one of the scans for which he was scheduled.
He had a meeting with the oncologist several hours later, and thanks to the time zone difference, it took me until after dinner tonight to get the results from him. But the oncologist had looked at the pictures, and that was his official, executive, authorized, I-went-to-medical-school diagnosis: No change.
What does that mean?????
This is the phone conversation we had. Verbatim. I swear, you will wonder how we’ve stayed married for so long.
Blaine: “So how was your day today?”
Kristie: “Knock off the chitchat and tell me what they said”
Blaine: “About the scans?” --- My hand to God, he said that. No, about the price of rice in China …. Yes you bonehead, about the scans.
Kristie: “Yes, about the scans”
Blaine: “The tumors are exactly like they were before, no change”
Kristie: “What do you mean no change? They’re supposed to be gone”
Blaine: “They’re not”
Kristie: “Well then they’re supposed to be smaller”
Blaine: “They’re not”
Kristie: “So the radiation didn’t work?”
Blaine: “I think it worked. The tumors haven’t grown.”
Kristie: “But what does that mean?”
Blaine: “It means they’re not any bigger.”
Kristie: “Yes, I’m aware of what the word ‘grown’ implies. So does that mean you still have cancer?”
Blaine: “I think it means the radiation made the cancer cells dormant”
Kristie: “So what does that mean?”
Blaine: “Dormant means it’s not growing”
Kristie: (really gritting my teeth about now) “Yes, I own a dictionary. I know the meaning of the word dormant. What does it mean with regards to your cancer? The tumors in YOUR head???”
Blaine: “I’m not sure”
Kristie: “So did the doctor say it will stay dormant?”
Blaine: “I don’t know”
Kristie: “Will it start growing again at some point?”
Blaine: “I hope not”
Kristie: “Did the doctor say this was good?”
Blaine: “Not really”
Kristie: “Did the doctor say this was bad?”
Blaine: “Not really”
Kristie: “So what happens now?”
Blaine: “I don’t know”
Kristie: “Are you going to be able to get that one test done again?”
Blaine: “The doctor didn’t mention it.”
Kristie: “Did you ask? Would it make a difference in the results?”
Blaine: “Um, no. I don't think so. I don't know.”
Kristie: “What did he say about your pain?”
Blaine: “He doesn’t know.”
Kristie: "Does he think it will get better anytime soon?"
Blaine: "He's not sure"
Kristie: “Well, what did he recommend you DO about it?”
Blaine: “See a neurosurgeon”
Kristie: “A neurosurgeon? Why a neurosurgeon? What could a neurosurgeon do?”
Blaine: “A neurosurgeon has something to do with nerves”
Kristie: “OH MY GOD I TOOK MEDICAL TERMINOLOGY IN COLLEGE I KNOW WHAT NEUROSURGEON MEANS WILL YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT CAN THEY DO TO HELP YOU??!?!?!?!?!”
Etc. Etc. Etc. Seriously, it’s a good thing we were on our cells because if I’d had a phone cord handy, I’d have strangled him with it.
Bottom line is this (I think): The tumors aren’t any bigger, which is good. But they’re still there. I don’t know the risk posed by dormant tumors. How often do they stay dormant? Can they stay dormant forever? Since they’re not smaller, they don’t plan to operate. Unless they grow larger, I don’t think we do anything. The oncologist wants to see Blaine in four months for repeat scans. And he gave him the go-ahead to meet with the oral surgeon on Thursday to discuss continuing the reconstruction work.
So overall, I guess its good news.
Isn’t it? Is it? Why did four weeks of radiation not eradicate the tumors? Or even shrink them? Is a dormant tumor no more threatening than any other non-malignant tumor? Are they just like fatty tumors now, in his head? Are there still cancer cells there? What might trigger them to become active again? Will the tumor shrink on its own? Why the hell do I mis-type tumor as tumour every single time I type the damn word?!?!?!?!?!
I’m sorry if I’m coming across as frustrated. I’m grateful they’ve not grown. Really. I am. But I had every intention of sitting here tonight, updating you with the fabulous news that they were GONE. I had already picked out the celebratory song I was going to put up on the site. Instead, we’re back to Seal’s “Crazy” because that’s my permanent state of mind these days.
His head is not the one I’m worried about anymore. It’s mine. It’s going to explode. Although since my brain is so tiny and confused, it probably won’t make that big of a mess.
Kristie
Monday, September 11, 2006 10:50 PM CDT
THE TRUTH ABOUT CATS AND DOGS.
AND TURTLES AND FROGS.
AND THE BIG FAT LUMP OF CANCER IN BLAINE’S HEAD. WHICH DOESN’T RHYME WITH ANYTHING.
Excerpt from our 2005 Annual Family Christmas Letter:
“Blaine and I finally traveled to Seattle for his major reconstructive surgery (two YEARS after he was originally diagnosed) UP; Blaine contracted a staph infection after the surgery and had to have six weeks of self-administered IV antibiotics, and two additional surgeries to clean up his leg, DOWN. The Seattle surgery wasn’t a complete success, DOWN; so he traveled to Augusta for corrective surgery this fall, UP. *That* surgery wasn’t successful, either, DOWN; but his doctors reassure us they can fix everything in the spring (Perhaps back out to Seattle we will go --- we’re still hoping for an UP ending to this whole saga!)
And with regard to his ongoing, never-ending reconstructive process, well, seriously, I figure it should culminate with the doctors finishing everything, and him finally getting a full set of teeth, about the age of 92, just in time for them to yank them out and give him dentures. Funny how “getting rid of his cancer” wound up being the easiest, least-stressful part of this whole process.”
And with teeth like a piranha, **that** final sentence came around to bite us firmly on the butt when we found out, just six weeks later, that the cancer was back.
The doctors hoped to remove it surgically this past spring, but there were two tumors; one diffused throughout his cheek, and one extremely close to his carotid artery; neither of which could be operated on. So they sent him back to Seattle for four weeks of a relatively new type of treatment, neutron beam radiation.
I remember back in high school, my sister Kelly had one of those personal-size suntan lamps you could use at home. A girlfriend of mine borrowed it and held it too close to her neck for too long and burned the ever-loving crap out of herself. Seriously, it’s a miracle she’s not scarred for life.
Blaine’s face and neck looked just like that when he came home from Seattle this past May. And if the OUTSIDE of his head looked like a lobster that had been left in boiling water too long, with the intensity of a thousand burning suns and a magnifying glass pointed right at him, I could only imagine how the INSIDE of his mouth, throat, sinuses, and neck must have felt. Raw hamburger meat, anyone?
His salivary glands were zapped and he can no longer produce saliva. Sucks if you’re trying to whistle. Or wet your lips. Or eat. Or swallow. Or sleep. Or breathe. He suffered at least a 10 percent permanent hearing loss. We’re hopeful that when he gets new tubes in his ears (what is he, four years old?) that he’ll be able to hear a little better. And then they’ll re-test him to see if it’s actually more than 10 percent, which I think it is, that or he’s perfected the art of ignoring me and pretending he just can’t hear what I’m saying, especially if I want to discuss anything earth-shattering like whether or not my new black dress makes my thighs look big or if he thinks Kate Hudson really left Chris Robinson for Owen Wilson. You know, important things like that. Any kind of spice or seasoning in his food or drinks had him reeling in pain. He pretty much lived on oatmeal and non-seasoned mashed potatoes for months. No coffee or soda, which was basically hell on earth in his opinion. His teeth are falling apart, a common after-effect of the radiation, but especially maddening to someone whose only goal in life the past three years has been to ACQUIRE teeth. The bald spot on the back of his head still hasn’t grown any hair. Ad nauseaum.
It’s been four months. We were told it takes four months for the full effects, and the success or failure, of the radiation to be known. I remember when he came home …. I thought four months sounded like a long time away. I thought things would be better by then. Things *are* better. They are still not great.
When he first came home he couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a stretch due to pain. Now he’s up to three or four hours in a row … but that’s all the sleep he gets at night. He’s exhausted. When he first came home, he would nap during the day because he was getting so little sleep at night. Then he started working half-days. Now he’s up to not-quite-full days. But at least he’s able to work. He still can’t have anything spicier than salt in his food, and he’s lost almost fifteen pounds, but he avoided a feeding tube, and best of all, he can drink coffee once again. He hasn’t had a beer in almost two years. Not that he was ever a big drinker, but it’s a little insulting to someone who named his dogs Fosters and Lager, that it’s painful to drink a beer.
Surprisingly, he is not bitter. I have never heard him ask, “Why me?” His faith is stronger than it has ever been. But he is discouraged. And tired. It has affected his self-esteem, his self-image, his psyche. It completely and totally de-railed his military career. It has affected his relationships with friends. With family. With me. Sometimes in a good way; sometimes not.
I admit to feeling frustrated. And a bit cheated. Ever since Kellen was born, one thing Blaine had looked forward to doing, as a previous baseball player himself, was coaching Kellen’s baseball teams. We couldn’t wait for t-ball; those adorable little kids with bats bigger than they are, hitting the ball and then running the bases backwards, or missing the balls in the outfield because they are too busy digging in the dirt. Blaine didn’t get to coach Kellen’s first year of t-ball in 2003; he had just been diagnosed with cancer and was recovering from his major resection surgery. Blaine didn’t get to coach Kellen’s second year of t-ball in 2004; Kendrie had been diagnosed and we didn’t feel he should commit to the responsibilities of being a coach with her still in the thick of harsh treatment. Blaine didn’t get to coach Kellen’s first year of coach-pitch in 2005; he was in Seattle having his free-flap procedure done, and all the lousy stuff that went along with that. Blaine didn’t get to coach Kellen’s second year of coach-pitch in 2006, he had just found out his cancer had returned and he was preparing for another surgery to have it removed, and then preparing for radiation when the surgery wasn’t successful.
Tonight, as I sat through Kellen’s first game of kid-pitch fall ball, I checked my watch to see if Blaine’s plane had landed yet in Seattle. He is returning for his four-month scans …. This week we find out if it worked. Once again, Blaine is not coaching.
Three and a half years since his original diagnosis. Remind me to tell you the story sometime of how he told me he had cancer. Funny, actually. But three and a half years …. I know people who don’t keep cars, houses, or jobs that long. It’s longer than some marriages last. He hasn't caught a break yet.
Best case scenario is the radiation got rid of all the cancer …. Then he can continue with the reconstruction work that was derailed when the cancer came back. It will be another big surgery in Seattle to fix the holes in this head (I know, that sounds so insensitive, but how else do I explain it?) and then give him some teeth. But maybe, just maybe, he could consider himself on the road to recovery at that point. Second best case scenario is that if the cancer isn’t all gone, it is at least shrunk enough that what is left can be removed surgically. Then the reconstruction would be pushed back -- again.
He just wants to finish. He wants to be done. Cancer-free. With a normal (or as close to normal as they can get) oral cavity. With teeth. With no holes in the roof of his mouth, so when he eats, food won’t come out his nose. One night he blew his nose and a piece of metal came out of it. If I hadn’t been so busy laughing I would have been totally grossed out. He would like to eat normal food. Drink a beer. Have teeth so he can feel comfortable smiling. Have normal speech patterns again. Sleep through the night. Get off the painkillers.
Coach his son’s baseball team.
Please pray for clear scan results tomorrow.
Sunday, September 10, 2006 10:22 PM CDT
BUT I DON’T *FEEL* LIKE A HERO. AND I’M CERTAINLY NOT QUIET.
I was fortunate to attend the 2nd Annual Quiet Heroes Luncheon in Atlanta yesterday, honoring the mothers (and some fathers, too) of children with cancer, and serving as a fundraiser for two worthwhile organizations, CURE Childhood Cancer and CureSearch. And much like I looked around earlier this week at other 40-yr olds, and thought, “Well, sure, THAT person is a grown up, but I’m not” I found myself looking around the room yesterday at the luncheon, gazing at the other pediatric cancer moms I’ve gotten to know these past three years, thinking to myself, “Well, sure, they are heroes, but I’m not!”
I had a wonderful time, re-connecting with women I hadn’t seen in a while, visiting with and meeting some of the dozens and dozens of volunteers who worked so hard to make this event possible, enjoying a wonderful lunch, silent auction, and listening to speakers that I enjoyed thoroughly. My mom is here visiting, so I was able to take her as my guest, and it was a lovely girls’ day out. Getting dressed up, fancy desserts, and waiters who pour your salad dressing from a silver gravy bowl with a cloth napkin draped over their arm ….. sure beats taking my kids for a Happy Meal at McDonalds!
The Quiet Heroes tribute is the brainchild of Chris Glavine, wife of professional baseball player Tom Glavine, and Kristin Connor, executive director of CURE Childhood Cancer --- more importantly, Kristin is a personal friend of mine. MOST importantly, she is mom to Brandon, a neuroblastoma survivor, and his brother Ryan.
I could go on and on about how inspiring this luncheon is for cancer moms, and how connected I feel to the other women who come from all over the state --and the country -- for this event. In addition, it raised over $100,000 for pediatric cancer research last year, and sold out again this year, hopefully raising even more. I know Kristin would say it’s not about the money, but I’m sure every mom there, in addition to appreciating the work and effort that went into the event, also appreciates anything that will further the cause of finding and funding a cure. So a big thank you to the hundreds of people and businesses who donated silent auction items, and sponsored the event. Most of all, thank you to Chris and Kristin for all their hard work.
The keynote speaker for the day was Allison Clarke, Executive Director and Founder of Flashes of Hope, and mom to Quinn, a rhabdomyosarcoma survivor. Flashes of Hope is an amazing organization and I hope Allison and all her directors, photographers, makeup artists, and volunteers know how very grateful we are for their work. The photo-quad of pictures of Kendrie and I on this site was taken by Flashes of Hope at Scottish Rite. They have photo shoots in cancer clinics all over the country and you can visit their website to see if they’re coming to your clinic anytime soon. You can also visit their website to learn more about this fabulous organization and how you can help by making a donation (all photos are provided to families free of charge). I guarantee if you have pictures taken of you and your child, or even just your child, you will have a fun time, and will receive beautiful keepsakes to treasure always. I’m still simply glad that on the day Flashes of Hope was at **our** clinic, I had actually gotten up that morning and “dressed” before going out. I’ve shown up at the clinic in sweat pants, with no make up and my hair in a pony tail, more times than I can count!
But hands down, the best part of the day was spending time with the moms I’ve gotten to know. It’s odd, that I could feel such a connection to women that I only see once or twice a year. These are ladies that I would never have met otherwise, and we don’t live near enough to one another to visit on a regular basis, yet when I talk about them, it’s always, “My friend this” and “My friend that”. I truly consider these women friends and care about what happens to their kids, just like I know they care about Kendrie. It’s a warped, demented little sorority, but I’m so grateful to be a part of it.
I’ll leave you with a few photos from the luncheon, and links to the numerous other Caringbridge sites you can visit. Many of these kids are still on treatment; some are finished, and sadly, a few have passed away. And it goes without saying -- all of these moms are heroes in my eyes.
Front Row, L-R: Julie H; Mary Grace’s mom DD; Gwen’s mom, Tabitha; Gracie’s mom Lynn
Back Row, L-R: Jill’s mom Joyce; Jay’s mom Cindy; yours truly
Keegan’s mom Audra; Chandler’s mom Kim
I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve drawn a total blank on her name ….. Madie’s mom Regina. (and yes, I even tried zooming in on that nametag to figure it out!!) :)
Joshua’s mom Julie; Mary Grace’s mom DD, and Michael Landry, who attended on behalf of Macy’s. Mr. Landry (Geez, I hope I’ve got his name right …. I am such a sieve when it comes to remembering names) was an event sponsor last year and attended the luncheon where he heard Liz Scott, of Alex’s Lemonade Stands, speak about her daughter so eloquently and beautifully. He was so inspired by her story, simultaneously heart-warming and heart-breaking, that he went back to Macy’s and spear-headed a campaign to get all the Macy’s stores in his district (I think they said 61 stores) to hold lemonade stands in conjunction with Alex’s Lemonade Stands. He came to this years luncheon to present Mrs. Scott with a check from those lemonade stand sales for $45,000! It’s amazing what can be done when one person decides to make a difference and takes the initiative!! Thank you Mr. Landry, and Macy’s!! And thank you, Mrs. Scott, for Alex's legacy.
To whoever guessed in the guestbook that this photo, with it’s “Designed For Life” slogan behind us, was my new group of aerobics friends ….. ha! That made me laugh, because Heaven knows I wouldn’t be smiling if I was heading to aerobics. Instead, it’s a group of us that got together after the luncheon to visit the new IKEA store in Atlanta, then go out to dinner. We had a fun time, extending our day together, and hope to make this an annual tradition, just like the Quiet Heroes event itself. And kudos to my local friend Amy F, who had the most correct guesses in the guestbook --- four out of six!
L - R: JoBeth H, faithful Caringbridge supporter; Jill’s mom Joyce; Chandler’s mom Kim; Mary Grace’s mom DD; Catie’s mom Jenny; me … again ….; Gracie’s mom Lynn.
Saturday, September 9, 2006 10:15 PM CDT
Well, there are a few things in life I try to avoid more than bare feet. Drama. Conflict. Midget bowling. You get the point.
Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to post supportive and positive messages in the guestbook. I appreciate the votes of confidence ..... but, I think it's time for the whole subject to be done.
So, I leave you tonight with an image of what I did today, and a promise to journal about it tomorrow when I'm not hopped up on Quaker snack cakes and Diet DP.
Bonus points to anyone who can tell me who each of these women are, and what CB sites they are linked to:
Friday, September 8, 2006 12:07 AM CDT
UPDATE FRIDAY NIGHT:
1) What a moron --- I skipped right over Thought #4 -- ha! I turned 40 and forgot how to count! :)
2) I completely did NOT mean to imply Kendrie was having any problems when I mentioned "relapse signs" in the journal entry below. It's just her next clinic visit will be her one-year off-treatment mark (wahoo, wahoo, it's your birthday ... er, no, that was a couple of days ago, but you get my point) and her oncologist and I were just talking about relapse at this point in THEORY. I'm sorry if I worried anyone.
3) Um, well, hmmmm. Do I have a 3? No, apparently not. So, good night. Oh, wait, yes I do. Thanks to all of you for the nice notes; what a pleasant way for me to end my week. And I agree with everyone who said Gentle Reminder was actually fairly tame in his/her criticism (and for that I am glad) and that I hope *they* are having a better day today. :)
*************************************
To "Gentle Reminder" in my guestbook:
So many thoughts on how to respond; so little time.
Thought #1: If you are correct, and I offended anyone with the contents of my “Birthday Bitching” post, I’m truly sorry. I have to assume you don’t read this site regularly, or you would know that my self-deprecating sense of what (I hope) passes for humor is the norm here …. but it is never intentionally hurtful or insensitive or disrespectful. I would be crushed to think I had insulted the families of Haley, Jay, Cameron, Marcus, Clare, or anyone else I “know” through Caringbridge and consider a friend. If I did, I’m genuinely, truly sorry.
Thought #2: You bring up a valid point …. Caringbridge is a service provided for families in need. Another reason I assume you don’t read my journal regularly is that if you did, you would know that I’ve mentioned several times in the past month or so leaving Caringbridge and moving my journal to a more traditional “blogger” platform. However, although I don’t mention it much, my family is still in “need” thanks to Blaine and his stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid times infinity head and neck cancer (see Thought #3) and so I’ve decided to stay here a while longer. And, while I don’t want to give anything away prematurely, I’m collaborating on a writing project with someone that I hope will be beneficial to the CB community and eventually allow me to give back some of the kindness that has been shown to me and my family.
Thought #3: Cancer sucks. I could tell you about the half hour I spent with Kendrie and her ONCOLOGIST yesterday, talking about LATE TERM EFFECTS of her CHEMOTHERAPY regimen, and RELAPSE SIGNS of LEUKEMIA but that’s not too cheerful. I had an entire journal entry ready to go about Blaine, and how he’s feeling, and what is happening for him next week, because people have been kind enough to ask in the guestbook. I could write about how he hasn’t slept through a single night in the past four months due to the extreme burning and pain from the radiation. How he wakes up at midnight, or 2am, or 4am, and has to sit on the side of the bed for ten minutes before he can even get up and walk, and then he spends hours sitting on the sofa all night waiting for his pain meds to work so he can go back to sleep. Or about the frustration he feels about not being able to go outside and play with his kids because the heat and humidity wreck his sinuses and he’s so fatigued and exhausted and depressed all the time. But then I wonder if griping about the crappy parts of our life would be better or worse than poking fun at the good parts of our life, which thankfully, the latter outnumbers the former. Crappy = bad. Funny = good. At least to an insensitive person like me. And then I think about how you can’t please all the people all the time. And then I think about why do I care what you think, anyway?
Thought #5: {{{{{ internet raspberry to you }}}}}
Thought #6: You’re not the boss of me.
Thought #7: The beauty of Caringbridge is that it’s a VOLUNTARY community, meaning I VOLUNTEER to write about my life and you can VOLUNTEER not to read it.
Thought #8: Wow, that was really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really immature of me to say. But it made me feel better. And that’s all that matters here in Kristie-ville. Me, feeling better, about myself. Well, I’ve got to go. I’m a very busy person, you know, with lots of things to do. Like knock some blind, crippled people over, or flatten the tires on some wheelchairs. (Oh, shoot. Now I’m being all disrespectful again.)
Although, in all seriousness, see Thought #1.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006 5:34 AM CDT
Well, can you guess what day it is? Can you? Do you need a hint? Do you maybe need FORTY of them????
On a side note, thanks to those of you who reminded me that I *can* purchase the Jon Almett CD online, directly from his website. I tried to find it at iTunes and when it wasn’t there, I panicked a bit. Because I didn’t remember the very website I had recommended to others, so many times. Nope, not a clue.
They say the mind is the first thing to go.
The body is running a close second.
I have an appointment for my “annual” exam next week and decided since I’m getting so old and decrepit turning 40, I would go ahead and meet with my new, extremely-good-looking-according-to-Blaine physician for a whole physical, head to toe. I can’t even remember the last time I had a physical. Ten years??? So I grabbed a post it sticky-note and started jotting down things I wanted to ask him about. I’ve now graduated to a full-length sheet of notebook paper.
I am flat-dab falling apart.
The funeral music is appropriate, no?
So I will go next week and bombard the doctor with a laundry list of things that are wrong with me. Because that’s what old people do. We complain about our health a lot. And gripe about the cost of everything. And wonder what the hell is wrong with young people these days. And knit. And tell anyone who'll listen that "this crap isn't music!" And start lots of sentences with, "Well, back in MY day ..........." And reminisce about the past. And tell my kids about having to walk to and from school, uphill both ways, in the snow, in my bare feet because we couldn’t afford shoes. Then, and only then, when I’m done doing all that, I’ll make Blaine take me to dinner at Luby’s at 3pm.
Speaking of Blaine, when I woke up this morning, I said to him, “Let the mocking begin. You are married to an old lady.” He replied, “Don’t feel bad, honey, 40’s not old.” At the look on my face, he said earnestly, “Really! It’s not so bad.” “Oh really?” I said, “You got cancer when you were 40”. “No,” he responded, “I got cancer when I was 38. When I turned 40 I got bifocals, high blood pressure medication, and had hernia surgery.”
OK. Good. That makes me feel a lot better.
Well, I should go now, and fix myself some Cream of Wheat for breakfast. And complain about my rheumatism to someone. And have you seen how much a pound of hamburger meat costs nowadays????
Ack. There’s no hope.
Monday, September 4, 2006 8:35 PM CDT
BIRTHDAY LETTERS
Every year on our childrens' birthdays, Blaine and I each write them a letter. Sometimes I forget and two or three months will go by, then I write the letter and have to fudge the date and *pretend* I wrote it on their birthday. Regardless, these yearly letters go into scrapbooks I keep for the kids, for them to read when they are adults, or for me to pull out and embarrass them with when they begin dating, along with the naked baby pictures and potty-training stories. But I digress.
I also write an occasional letter to my kids on momentous events ….. first day of kindergarten, first bike ride, when Kendrie finished chemo, etc. Today, as I wrote down “type Kendrie’s birthday letter” on my to-do list (notice I didn’t actually write the letter, but instead wrote a reminder on my list, so I can have the joy of crossing it OFF my list once it’s done?) I remembered the very first letter I ever wrote to Kendrie. Since I seem to be having a seven-year flashback week, I thought I would let you read a copy, as well. I think it goes a long way towards explaining my mental health. Or lack thereof:
September, 1999
Dear Brayden, Kellen, and Kendrie,
I wanted to take a quick moment to jot down a note to the three of you, relating the story of how our first day home alone went, after Kendrie was born, and on your dad’s first day back to work. Alone. Just the four of us. Me and a newborn, 1 yr old, and a 2 yr old. {You pretty much know this is going to be a disaster, even before I get started, don't you?}
When Kendrie was born, Grandma and Grandpa M. were here to help out and stay with Brayden and Kellen while I was in the hospital. Then, after they went back to OKC, your dad went back to work. This past Monday was our first day with just the four of us, and although at the time I didn’t think the events of the day were very funny, any more than a rodeo clown being trampled is funny, in hindsight it most likely will be. Maybe. So I thought I would write it down before I forget everything -- like I could EVER forget a day that went that badly, ha!
It started out ok, just a little stressful as I tried to balance getting you dressed, fed and keeping you entertained while Kendrie was breastfeeding every hour or so. Or more often than that. New babies are pretty dang needy, I was remembering. She was only a few days old, so of course nursing was still frequent. Things went all right throughout the morning, although both of you were a bit whiny. I’m sure it’s a big change to suddenly have my attention split three ways and to be fair, at the beginning, Kendrie is getting more than her share.
You quickly realized that once I sit down to nurse I’m pretty much stuck in the chair, and that’s when you both started standing on the furniture, coffee table, fighting over toys, pushing, and in general doing all sorts of things you don’t normally do. My vision of me, sitting in a rocking chair by the window, with a gentle breeze blowing the white eyelet curtains lightly around me, beautiful babe at the breast, nursing tenderly and lovingly, Braham’s Lullaby chiming softly in the background, while you two played happily and quietly at my side …. Um, yeah. THAT wasn’t happening. But I took it in stride, and by the time lunch was over and I put you down for naps, I would have qualified the morning as “reasonably successful, just busy”.
Then, it all broke loose. Brayden, you REFUSED to take a nap, and kept calling me to come in your bedroom. I finally went in to discover you had taken off your pants and diaper, put on a new pair of pants, and peed all over your bed. In that order. So I stripped the sheets and told you if you wanted to wear panties that was fine, but you had to tell me when it was time to go potty. You assured me you would. Shortly after, Kellen woke up from his nap, and everyone was pretty crabby (me included!) but then I got Kendrie down for a nap so I decided to spend a few quick moments on the phone. Total rookie parent miscalculation. Brayden, you insisted you had to go to the bathroom, but went ballistic when I tried to go in to help you, screaming at me to close the door, you could do it yourself!!! So in frustration I said Fine! Let me know if you need any help! And I shut the door. Rookie parent mistake #2.
Ten minutes later I went in the bathroom to see if you’d gone. Not only had you **not** gone, you had found two brand new tubes of mint blue toothpaste and used them to finger-paint the entire bathroom, including the sink, toilet, rugs, towels, bathtub, and your own face and hair. Plus you had taken off your clothes and peed on the floor.
Not knowing how to get mint blue toothpaste off everything, I threw all the rugs and towels in the washer, then threw you in the tub for a quick bath. Kellen, you decided you didn’t want to be left out, and wanted to take a bath, too, and started banging on the door and yelling to be let in the bathroom. Not wanting to wake up Kendrie and begin another never-ending cycle of nursing, I let you in and stripped you down, not bothering to check your diaper before taking it off and dropping it on the floor. Naturally, there was poop in it and I now had another mess to clean up off the bathroom floor. {Good heavens, WHAT had you eaten???}
Fearing you would step in it and get poop all over everything, I told you to stand still while I went to get the wipes. I ran out of the room, and in the excitement, you peed on the side of the tub. I finally got both of you in the tub, got all the toothpaste, pee and poop cleaned up, and then got the two of you cleaned up as well. I kept the bath quick (keep in mind Kendrie is still sleeping, but I don’t know how long that window of opportunity will remain open, before The-Child-Who-Must-Nurse-Every-Five-Minutes wakes back up and demands to be fed.)
When it was time to get out of the tub, neither of you wanted to, but I dragged you kicking and screaming out of the tub. I diapered Kellen quickly, knowing your tendency to “let loose” if you run around naked. But then Brayden ran naked into the living and peed, yet again, on the carpet. At this point I decided my day couldn’t get any worse, and what was one more load of laundry? Only then did I see the humor in the whole situation and wish I had grabbed my camera to record the action.
But, despite our shaky beginnings, things are improving and I still love each of you more than life itself. No matter how much of a mess we make, you are my three favorite kids in the whole world, and I wouldn’t trade staying home with you for anything --- but let’s try to be a little neater in the future, ok? Because I'm starting to feel a little like a trampled rodeo clown.
Love, Mom
Brayden, Kellen, and Kendrie -- Sept 1999 (No, despite how it appears, Kellen wasn't fixing to smack her ... he was just scratching his head, wondering, I suppose, just *what* this little person who has so disrupted his life is doing here, and when exactly is she going back where she came from???) :)
Sunday, September 3, 2006 11:23 PM CDT
EIGHT STEPS TO A QUASI-SUCCESSFUL BIRTHDAY:
1. Take birthday child to restaurant of her choice, which is Steak & Shake this year. Make all three children pose for cheesy photos, until birthday girl is totally distracted by arrival of "hottie" at next table.
2. Continue making kids pose for photos, threatening to withhold cake and ice cream if they don't cooperate.
3. Feel relief that you found a box of candles in the cupboard, since you remembered the cake, icing and sprinkles, but forgot the candles. Laugh when you remember conversation you had with birthday girl's brother earlier in the week:
Kellen: What kind of cake is Kendrie getting?
Kristie: Chocolate with chocolate frosting. That's what she picked.
Kellen: But what kind? Spiderman? Superman? What kind?
Kristie: No kind. I'm making it myself. Plain chocolate cake.
Kellen: But WHAT SHAPE is it going to be in???
Kristie: The shape of my 13x9 pan, you doofus.
4. Feel resigned when the birthday child effectively ends family time by insisting she eat her birthday cake in the living room so she can watch her new dvd of "Cheaper by the Dozen 2" at the same time.
5. Feel happiness as you admire the joy on the face of birthday girl as she poses with new bicycle that she loves more than anything on this earth. Truly, you couldn't have picked a better, more perfect gift.
6. Feel some concern when you realize you have maybe, just possibly bought the wrong size bike .... considering birthday girl can't touch the ground or stop herself without falling over or running into the back of Blaine's truck.
7. Feel relief that you've married a relatively handy man who can remove reflector off back of bike and lower the seat another two inches.
8. Feel extreme guilt when you discover even the extra two inches isn't enough, and you have to face the disappointment from birthday girl that the greatest bike on earth is going to have to go back to the store.
Photo Not Available:
Spend last hour of the evening at Toys 'R Us, letting birthday girl ride every bike up and down the aisle until she finds one that is even MORE perfect than the one before. Thank heavens -- that was a near disaster, averted.
Saturday, September 2, 2006 9:41 PM CDT
Update: Sunday, Sept 3
A reminder that even a rite of passage as normal as a birthday celebration should never be taken for granted ..... Cameron passed away last night. He will no longer celebrate his birthdays here on Earth with his family, but will remain forever 14 in Heaven. My most heart-felt, deeply-saddened condolences to Cam's family.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KENDRIE!!
I’ll update on her birthday extravaganza (that’s about the biggest exaggeration on the planet) complete with photos tomorrow, but for today I’ll leave you with a few brief glimpses into my day:
HAPPIEST MOMENT OF MY DAY: When our family was eating at Steak & Shake tonight for dinner (hey, it’s where the birthday girl chose) and a family with two teenage boys walked in. Kendrie took one look and announced, “Oh, he is a HOTTIE!” Blaine looked at me and telepathically, we communicated the same message to one another: Thank goodness, she likes boys.
SECOND MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT OF MY DAY: Every moment after that we were at dinner, because Kendrie kept staring at that boy (“But mom, I’m not staring, I’m just watching him with my eyes”) and announcing how hot he was, and did he have a cell phone so she could call him, etc. I’m sure the boy was very confused about his potential 7-yr old stalker.
SINGLE MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT OF MY DAY: When I got up at the restaurant to check on Brayden, making the comment to Blaine that “She sure has been in the bathroom a long time” and got half way across on the restaurant when Kendrie yelled at me, “She might be POOPING! Sometimes it takes me a long time, too!”
On second thought, that should be Kendrie’s most embarrassing moment. And then she wondered why that teenage boy didn’t seem too impressed with her calf-eyes and mooning over him all night.
Poor Nicholas. Overthrown for an older man.
Friday, September 1, 2006 2:50 PM CDT
FLASHBACK FRIDAY
“Summer of ‘99”
Seven years ago today, I looked like this:
Big. Fat. Pregnant. (And yes, that strapping young lad on the horse is Kellen.)
Expecting our third child; a baby we *thought* would was a girl but the ultrasound tech wasn’t 100 percent sure ….. so we had the boy’s name “Brooks” as a back-up, just in case “Kendrie” grew male parts at the last second. Didn’t happen, and hasn’t happened yet, much to her disappointment.
We had taken the kids to a Labor Day festival and they wanted to ride ponies. Being only age one and two themselves, Blaine and I didn’t trust Kellen and Brayden not to take headers right off the ponies … so we walked along with them. Since I was almost two weeks overdue (Ha! I guess Kendrie’s been over-staying her welcome in my bed for longer than I even realized!) I hoped waddling, er, walking around might help.
I guess it did, because less than twelve hours later, I woke up in bed, thinking, “Eeewwwww! I just wet the bed!” only to realize my water had broken.
Later that next day, after two hours of pushing, the doctor finally grabbed the salad tongs and our third littlest blessing made her arrival. 8 lb 10 oz. Red faced, bald, alien-ish, beautiful.
We love you, Kendrie Dawn, and can’t wait to celebrate your birthday with you tomorrow!
PS. I had the most awesome song ready to play on this site …. “Summer of ‘99”, a parody of "Summer of ’69" off of the Camp Sunshine CD we got at Family camp a few years back. All of a sudden today, I couldn’t find the cd anyplace. Anywhere. So naturally, I blamed my kids.
Turns out, do you know where it was?? In my cd player. That I sold. AT MY GARAGE SALE A FEW WEEKS AGO!!! I’m so annoyed with myself!! It’s not a cd that can be bought at a store or online anywhere ---- it was made especially by Jon Allmett for Camp Sunshine; I’m just sick about losing it! If any of our fellow Camp Sunshine families have it, and could burn me a copy, I would happily buy the cd and pay for postage and shipping and shoot, I’ll even pay you for your time and effort or buy you dinner or send a thank you gift --- I’m desperate! (Well, anything but give you a foot massage. That, I will not do.)
PSS. Do you know what is unfortunate in that picture up there, even more unfortunate than my ginormous belly and outdated bangs? The fact that I not only still have that maternity shirt, but WORE IT during this last pregnancy! Obviously, I need to shop more.
Thursday, August 31, 2006 12:59 AM CDT
THE GREAT NO-TV EXPERIMENT
I decided, at the end of last school year, that I was tired of fighting the fight with the kids about the TV on school nights. Occasionally they would come home from school and do their homework right away; other days (most days) they would come home, make a beeline for the tv, grab a snack, or go outside to play, and before I knew quite what had happened, it was 7pm, homework hadn’t been done, baths needed to be taken, rooms cleaned, and we were running out of time. Which meant I would start rushing the kids, and nagging them to hurry up, and they would respond by thanking me kindly for my loving guidance digging in their heels and moving even slower, until I would be screaming like the shrew that I am, that it was past bedtime and WHY WAS NO ONE READY FOR BED????? It had become a stupid battle that was not enjoyable and very stupid and stressful. Did I mention stupid? So I decided, that being the fabulous parent I am, it was time I did something about it.
I informed everyone that when school started this fall, we would begin a new routine, also. One that was comprised of coming home, eating a quick snack, and doing all homework immediately. Because I am a fabulous parent, and this will be good for my children. Then, once all homework and studying was completed, then and *only* then, could the kids go outside to play, or play in the house. But under no condition was the TV coming on Monday through Thursday. Because fabulous parents have wonderful systems like this, that work well. And I am nothing if not fabulous. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
Also, we live in the Eastern Time Zone, which means that infernal Disney station begins a movie every night thirty minutes before the kids’ bedtime, and I was sick and tired of listening to them moan and complain when I would turn the TV off in the middle of the movie each evening. No More!!! No More of them complaining, and No More of me having to listen to it! Because I am too fabulous to deserve their whining!
You know what? It’s actually gone very well. A few token gripes, but overall, they don’t seem to have suffered any permanent damage. (Obviously, because I’m fabulous.) It’s a huge relief to look at the clock at 4 or 4:30 and know everyone already has their homework done for the evening and the rest of the night is “free time”. The kids are reading more, because their complaints of “I’m bored!” are met with “Then read a book!” (Or, “Clean the toilet!” and surprisingly, they always choose a book!)
So I was totally patting myself on the back for my fabulousness.
Then, yesterday, it was raining. And the last time I let them play outside in the rain, all I got for it was an extra load of laundry and a wet van interior. Therefore, I decreed, in my fabulousness, that the one exception to the no-tv-rule is the days it is raining. Then, they are allowed to turn on the TV after everyone has finished their homework. And even though my fabulous decree about no-tv has gone well, and I didn’t think they were really missing it, look at the positions they held pretty much without moving the rest of the day:
Hmmmm. Feeling a little TV deprived lately?
And then when I served dinner at 6:31 pm, and turned off the tv, and Kendrie started yelling at me because I had the audacity to turn off “The Suite Life of Zack and Cody” (never mind it was a repeat episode that she’s already seen a dozen times) and screaming that she didn’t want to eat dinner with the family, and how mean I am because she NEVER gets to watch TV anymore ~~~~~~
I knew the next fabulous thing I do will be sell the damn thing on ebay.
Problem solved.
PS. I realize it’s very easy for me to be smug about the NO-TV rule with my kids because *I* don’t watch any TV. So I don’t think they’re missing much. However, if anyone tried to curtail my computer time ….. I would have to rip their arm off and beat them about the head with it.
So, you tell me: Fabulous? Or total hypocrite???? :)
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