No Glory

Ain't this the truth.  The mom does ALL of the grunt work and gets none of the glory.  This is totally the case for my mom, Carol.  I am a total lucky duck, because it is like I have my own home health nurse, except I don't have to pay her!  She actually pays to fly down and take care of me for weeks on end!  If you didn't already know, my mom is a retired nurse and at one time was an oncology nurse and herself a breast cancer patient.  So she gets it.  Maybe even a little too much. For instance, one time we went to lunch at Ruby Tuesdays because I had a gift card, a coupon, and I was Kodiak crushing on a steak from my 'roid rage.  (Bags of steroids that make me eat like a Kodiak Bear.)  Anyhoosikins, just as I was handing our waitress the coupon and getting ready to order the salad bar --with the best croutons in the universe-- in addition to my meat platter, ol' CB put the kabosh on that apparently bacteria infested salad plan.  No salad bar for me with my white blood cell count!  I wanted to argue.  I wanted to pull the "I'm 40 years old and can eat what I want" card.  But I knew it was no use.  It's impossible to win a healthcare argument with someone who quotes the Center for Disease Control on a daily basis.  Seriously, when brother Kurt and I were tots, she referred to pooping as a "bowel movement."  To preschoolers.  But what I heard was "bow-moo-men."  So we referred to turds as "bowmoomens."  Till the neighbor kids said "WTF are you talking about?"  Except not the WTF part.  Because our neighbors were the Klines.  And they are very Catholic.  And the Brubakers.  Not nearly as Catholic, but they had a Kool and the Gang record with the song "Celebration" on it and dancing in their living room to it was almost better than watching the "Dukes of Hazzard." And none of those kids knew what a "bowmoomen" was.

So I have grown up with my mother's medical jargon my whole life.  And if you ever had a medical professional for a parent, you never got to skip school.  Because you were "just fine" to go to school. None of this "making a doctor's appointment" business. No fooling them with fake sore throats and heart palpitations.  Because they would do a strep swab or an EKG in your family room.  And then say "you're fine."  Go to school.

The good news is that when your mother is a nurse with a career spanning through four different decades, you get all of your medical needs met.  Even before you know you are going to need them.  For example, my mom told me that she went to get her hair done and Desiree, her stylist, gave her a monetary donation to send my way for all of this cancer razzmatazz.  So instead of giving me the money, she went out and bought me things like Gas X, stool  (bowmoomen) softener, eye drops, Biotene, and nostril spray amongst other stuff.  I didn't know I was going to end up being desperate for these items, but slap my a$$ and call me Sally, I sho' nuff did!  I'm telling you, these things were lifesavers!  And reading teachers don't know anything about chemotherapy messing with your bowmoomens.  Good thing my madre did.  So thanks Desiree and mom for "keeping things moving!"

Nurse moms are really good at serving others.  It's been mostly my dad the past forty some years.  True story, I once was facetiming my parents and caught my mom seasoning my dad's food that she brought to him on a silver platter while he sat in his lazy boy watching airplane shows.  Uhhh, 1955 called and they want June Cleaver back....  But the past few months it has been me getting the silver platter treatment.  She not only serves me food in bed and in my recliner, she follows it up with massages to my arms, legs, and feet with Aquaphor and this really awesome smelling oil spray my friend Kelli bought for me.  And she does it for a really long time and is better than the Vietnamese nail techs at Pretty Nails!  Way better than my kids who make me pay them a quarter for rubbing my feet. They only last about 7 seconds. And they suck at it.  I'm telling you, they would never make it as Vietnamese nail techs.  Neither would my husband.  He rubs my feet when I ask him, but he squeezes them so hard that my metatarsals and phalanges clack together.   My mom however, does it perfect.  She also is the world's best back scratcher.  She even drives all the way through Cape Coral dodging snow birds and canals to pick me up Steak Gorgonzola from Olive Garden when that is the only thing I could possibly stomach eating.

Not only is she taking care of me, she is also helping to take care of the Triple Threat.  If you read my other blog, www.cjklausingfamily.blogspot.com , you know that building a life size replica of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks is an easier task.  She takes them to school, daycare, the park, and Culvers for ice cream.  All the things I couldn't do most of April, May, and June, when I was too sick to get out of bed.  I want to publicly thank my mom for doing tons of work with no glory.  Heck, I don't even have many pictures of her here during those months.  And I LOVE documenting our lives. So here are pictures of when my parents came down and took the kids to the beach.  I need to thank my Dad too.  His post is coming, but lets face it, my dad has gotten a lot of attention lately with his First Federal Bank marketing campaign!  He can wait a smidge.

Levi and Grandma Carol

Caroline and the Alligator I bought to ensure good behavior 

My famous Dad and part of his First Federal super model shoot 

And She Shall Be Called Kodiak

I just finished round number ten of chemo.  I like to call Taxol "baby chemo," because it is a walk in the park compared to the Adriamycin/Cytoxin.  The A/C would knock me out for a good 12 days.  Like being pregnant with a horrendous hangover plus the flu and the bubonic plague. Taxol just makes me really, really tired, but keeps me up all night with hot flashes, gives me neuropathy in my arms and legs, and makes me eat.  I'm talking eat like a sixteen-year-old football player during two-a-days.  Actually it is probably the bags of steroids that make me inhale food.  Whatever the case, I am none too pleased about it.  I have put on 15 pounds and am within four pounds of my giving birth weight.  It's like I swallowed two big bowling balls.  The first time I went in for chemo, the nurse looked right at me before she hooked me up and said, "Listen honey, just so you know, you aren't going to get skinny on this."  I should have believed her, but I didn't.  Because I wasn't eating a whole heckuva lot when I was sick.  But good Lord, you should see me now.

Two words.  Long Horn.  I am obsessed with eating the "Flo's Filet" off the Long Horn menu. I fail miserably at the cancer patient's vegan diet.  Because all I want to eat is steak.  I am a T.Rex with protein.  I seriously just googled "what is the largest meat eating animal" at midnight tonight because that is what I feel like.  The answer was a tie.  Between the Polar Bear and the Brown Bear.  Also known as the Kodiak.  So there you have it.  Kodiak Klausing.

So I think about being a fatso morning, noon, and night.  And I know it is dumb.  And I understand it is such a girl thing.  And I have WAY more serious things to be worried about.  Like dying.  But even though there is a real possibility of me croaking from this, I don't worry about it.  Because I could just as easily get hit by one of those shady meat trucks that sell steaks outta the back of them tomorrow.  So I exercise.  I wear my fitbit and track my steps.  And then I want to eat a cookie.  So I grow that double chin and eat a cookie like a mother....

If This Doesn't Just Tug at Your Heartstrings....

This is a picture my six-year-old Levi drew for me.  That is a picture of a blanket my college roomie, Erin, sent to me.  I use it when I am on the lazy boy recovering from chemo.  The message says "Mommey (sic) I hope you feel better."

Levi is not one to sit down and draw pictures.  He leaves that for his sisters.  His idea of doing an art project consists of pissing of his sisters while they are doing art projects.  But break my heart, He spent several seconds drawing me a picture of my blanket while I was wallering in the Lazy Boy attempting to recover from a drug known as the "red death."  People are always asking me how the kids are doing.   And I guess the boy is doing pretty good, because Levi still  follows me in the bathroom and asks important questions like "Does the tooth fairy bring baseballs AND money sometimes?  Because I know that some tooth fairies bring baseballs."  As you can tell, this was an urgent question.  Urgent enough that it could not wait  the 30 seconds it was going to take me to pee in peace.  Quick sidebar. Levi recently pulled out a not quite very wiggly bottom tooth when our friend, Javier, bet him 20 bucks that he wouldn't do it.  He did it. With a trail of O positive trailing down his chin.  Also, they were in Hooters.  Because where else should you take a six year old boy to eat and dig out a tooth?

But like they say, kids are resilient.  Sometimes you just gotta be tough.  Like on the Kindergarten Celebration of Learning Day.  It was on a Wednesday, so I changed my chemo time to make sure I could be in attendance.  When I talked to Levi's teacher, she laughingly informed me that Levi told her and the class that I didn't have any hair because I had bugs.  Like lice.  So I had to get rid of my hair, because "No one wants bugs crawling around on their head."  He confused what Clay told him, "Mommy has a sick bug that is going to make her hair come out" with lice.  Totally legit confusion.

So my baby boy had to be tough when it was time for me to leave.  Some other kids got to go home with their parents, but I had to go get chemo, so I couldn't take him with me.  I tried to explain that normally I would have been working, and he would have had to stay in school anyways.  But those big brown eyes welled up with tears and it took all I had not to fall apart.  The good news is that my kiddos are going to be too young to remember much of this.  It will just be me that remembers how Levi would lay down in bed with me when I was really sick and watch "Blaze and the Monster Machines."  

My Chemo BFF

So, I have already kinda sorta mentioned that I am the youngest, hottest, most stylish sweet thang in the chemo joint.  I might have totally told a lie .  On certain Wednesdays I am the hippest chick stuck to a chemo pole. But every other Wednesday the crown of cuteness goes to my chemo b. fry, Grace.  She hunkered down next to me in the blood and bodily-fluid resistant mint green recliners on my very first chemo treatment.  And she put on her fox socks, and I knew right then that I was no match for her in terms of youthfulness, looks, and style.  She definitely was the cutest  and youngest patient in that cancer carniceria.  I could tell  just by looking at her.  Also because patients have to state their birthdays infinity plus one times.  I had three years on her. Dang it!

Now remember, I just found out about my cancer and had just made it Facebook official.  I was racking up the "likes" and my attention whore-ometer had just measured a 9.9 on the Richter scale.  I was a category 5 attention whooo-re and was sickly relishing every bit of sympathy that came my way. And now it was obvious that I had cancer competition.  I mean, my first fifteen minutes there and I was already winning the sympathy vote from the senior citizens with my heartbreaking story.  "Advanced stage breast cancer, three little kids, school teacher, yada yada yada."  Anyhoo, I can't quite remember, because I was doped up on my first chemo cocktail, but I think it was my friend Amber who struck up a conversation with Grace.  I was probably being a snot because of the rivalry between us.  The rivalry that I cooked up in my mind the first five minutes we were seated next to each other.  The rivalry poor Grace did not know she was engaged in with a complete stranger.  I am so thankful Amber was nicer than me and started chatting, because Grace is such a precious gem!!

From the first conversation we had, I knew that Grace was going to be my chemo BFF.  And I told her that she was going to be my BFF.  Thank God she didn't fight me on that one, because I would have really been bored and without snacks for the past couple months.  But back to our rivalry that Grace did not know existed.  I started out our first conversation the way every mother starts out a conversation, by asking if she had any kids.  Mind you, I was expecting an answer like "Yes, I have a 7 year-old named Harper,"  or "No, I am child-free" because Grace looked way too put together to have a baby or a gaggle of kids.  She was also very cool.  So I figured she would have an only child with a trendy, hipster name like Harper.  And her only child had to be around the age of 7, because anything younger than that is a lot more work and again, this girl appeared to have her $h*& together, so no way could she have toddlers.  I was seriously gearing up to tell my favorite shocking mother story--how I birthed three single kids in 2.5 years after she was done telling me all about "Harper." But then she dropped a bombshell.  She said that she had FOUR babies age 5 and under!!  Say whaaaaaaaaaaa???!!!!!  She just totally one upped me in a category I didn't think I could possibly be one upped.  It's like we were in the Miss America pageant, and she had already demolished me in the evening gown and swimwear categories, but I was going to redeem myself in the talent competition by juggling three flaming swords.  And then Grace came strutting in in her sequined gown with FOUR flaming swords AND singing Yankee Doodle Dandy at the same time!  Thunder stolen.  Game over.  She won.  But I no longer cared about losing because OMG, she had cancer AND four babies and I just can't even.....

To make it even more obvious that we were destined to be besties, I found out that she was a teacher and we had a common principal.  So here we are, cancer patients, mothers, teachers, Cheetoh and chocolate lovers.  A match made in oncology heaven. Obviously we (I) dropped our rivalry and  know that God put us together in the same spot at the same time for a reason.  To be friends.  To support each other during a really rough time.  To have girl time talk for hours while poison is dripping into our veins.  Grace has the perfect name for her.  She is extremely gracious, kind, humble, patient, and calm.  She knows just the right words to say or write to make me feel better.  And she was always checking on me!  She makes me want to be a better person.  More like her.  And now I know that I sound like I have written marriage vows to her.  But tomorrow is her last session!  And I am really going to miss her!  And she gets to ring the bell!  (You get to ring the bell when you are all done with treatment.  It's kind of emotional for everyone. )  So congratulations Grace!  I look forward to Moms Night Out without the chemo pole!

Amber, the nice one.

My Wednesday View

You all know how I hate to brag...but I am the hottest, youngest, babe in this chemo joint.  I know this because I am the only person in the room that doesn't drive a Mercury Crown Victoria.  Also because patients have to state their birthdays to the nurses every other second.  I am the only one born in the 1970s.  Everyone else was born on the Banks of Plum Creek with Laura Ingalls Wilder.  But after five rounds of chemo and nine weeks of feeling like I am 103 years old, I have started to embrace the geriatric quirks of my chemo mates.  Like sucking on hard butterscotch candies and root beer barrels.  Mostly because I can taste the nasty saline flush in the back of my throat whenever the nurses mess with my port.  But partly because I now really just like butterscotches and their butterscotchy yellow wrappers.  (And I know you are all reminiscing back and thinking of where your grandparents kept their stash of butterscotches and barrels and those red cinnamon candies.  My Grandma Hess kept hers in a glass jar with an air tight seal on top of the TV that most likely was playing Hee Haw.  Or Lawrence Welk.) My cancer joint has a big honking jar of them right up front at the nurses station.  I grab about 12 of those suckers before I start my hours long session.  And then I get some more when I shuffle to the bathroom with my chemo pole.  It is during these bathroom walks that I get a chance to swap cancer stories with the others.  You know how old people love talking about their ailments and medications.  Well now I get to join them.  And I get to show off.  Usually I feel like I don't dress very cool.  But at Florida Cancer Specialists I am on fleek with the clothing trends.  That's because all of the other ladies are wearing gingham button down shirts with little sail boats and palm trees embroidered on them.  With Capri pants, natch.  I ordered myself Stitch Fix for my 40th birthday and have some new stylish threads.  But I am starting to bust out of them.  Unfortunately, my kind of chemo doesn't make me skinny.  OF COURSE NOT!  And I have gained over 10 lbs because of steroids and eating like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  A Tyrannosaurus Rex with a hankering for butterscotches.    

Love this blanket Tami Tassler!  I had to wrestle it away from Caroline last week!

Buzzed

I went from butch to bald in one hot second.  Actually it took precisely 19 days after my first chemo treatment and WHAMMO, my hair came out.  Just like my hottie oncologist said it would.  It felt dead about a week after my first "red devil" chemo, and I could hear it "crunch."  I imagine it felt like what Christina Aguilera's bleach blonde hair weave must feel like.

My hair coming out was probably the most emotionally taxing issue I have dealt with thus far.  But not because I was going to be bald.  I couldn't care less about that because well, derby hats are adorable.  It was because I couldn't control it, and it was falling out so fast it was completely freaking me out and I wanted it gone.  Pronto.

I wanted to attend field day for Kate and Levi, my first grader and kindergartener.  That was a perk of having cancer, when I wasn't wasting away from the chemo, I was able to go to their school functions because I wasn't at work.  I knew my hair was starting to fall out pretty quickly, because my pillow was covered in my locks.  This girl just wasn't prepared for when it came out in the shower.  That was the horrifying part.  My arms looked like wookie arms.  Coated in my own highlighted tresses.  And it wouldn't come off!  It stuck to me like birthday cake and donut holes stick to my a$$.

I wrapped my head in a towel.  (Habit.  I still do this and I am completely bald.)  I proceeded to put  on my face and get ready for field day.  Then I took the towel off my head.  And I felt like throwing up a little in my mouth.  My receding hairline had receded all the way to the middle of my head. And there were bald spots everywhere.  And every time I touched my head, giant clumps would fall out.  Of course I couldn't stop touching my head and it was a big vicious circle, so I put on my stylish mom Merona dress from Target, a big hat, and hoped for no wind at field day.

Clay told me that he would just buzz my head.  He seriously thinks that because his sister is a hairstylist and that he could probably operate a Flowbee, it automatically makes him a professional.  However, I have seen his handy work.  And he is no Vidal Sassoon.  So I made him take me to Le Bijou salon in our neighborhood.  I just didn't want more hair all over the house AND a butchered and bloody bald noggin.  So my friend, Leslie, graciously buzzed my head.  For free.

But first we ate Burger King.  Because I have instituted a great plan of eating horrible fast foods and then associating it with bad things.  It has works like a charm.  Because any thought of a a burger makes me want to hurl.

But back to the buzzing.  It was so liberating.  I was a little teary during my Burger King meal because any sudden move and I would have hair everywhere.  So getting it off felt AWESOME.  Or ASSOME as my 1st grader spells it.  And when she cut my bangs I looked exactly like Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.

Kate and Levi of course thought my bald head was hilarious, and Caroline hated it.  And voiced the fact that she hated it.  And continues to voice the fact that she hates it every.single.morning.

Sidenote.  It has now been about 5 weeks since I have gone cue ball, and I went to Levi's kindergarten celebration yesterday.  His teacher pulled me aside and told me that Levi told her I am sick and that I had a sick bug and that it is lice.  That is why I am bald.  Because nobody wants bugs in their hair!  She obviously knew what was going on with me, but thought it was hilarious when Levi was talking about my "head lice and hair bugs!"  So ASSOME.  The entire kindergarten thinks Levi's mom has lice.

Chopped

I had about a week to relish my long locks after my cancer diagnosis.  I literally had just spent the hundred bucks getting my hair highlighted two weeks prior.  And that almost didn't happen, because my beloved little five- year- old Princess Caroline had hijacked my checking account/debit card when she  decided to crack the parental controls code and buy 13 Barbie movies on her Kindle at 12.99 a pop.  Barbie Goes to Charm School, Barbie and the Island Princess, Barbie Rock and Royals, the list goes on.  Luckily my beautician is cool and takes Discover Card.  Caroline is still working off her spending spree.

So I had just brightened up my hair with some sun kissed blonde bleach, and my mom had just bought me a brand spanking new Chi hair straightener for my 40th birthday present.  Because I would never spend that kind of money on myself.  It wasn't cheap.  Even with a coupon and my birthday discount at Ulta.  And then mere days later I was told all of my hair would soon be gone. Figures. Go ahead and put that in your Alanis Morisette "Ironic" song pipe and smoke it.    Then take another toke.

I had a little less than a week to get an MRI, EKG, meet with a surgeon, oncologist, my students, principal, and keep on mothering.  Basically I had time to get my hair cut off on Monday afternoon.  And my beautiful hair stylist Nikki's salon wasn't open that day.  So she had me come over to her kitchen.  My sister-in-law Tia came with me and took pics. They drank wine and I couldn't.  Of course.  because I was getting my port put in the next morning.  And apparently you're not supposed to get drunk hours before surgery.

Luckily I wasn't really freaking out.  I was still in robot mode emotionally since my diagnosis.  Whatever.  I had looked butch before.  Especially from 1983-1986.  Social services should have been called on my mother for allowing such heinous haircuts.  I looked transgender before transgender was cool.  Target would have been the only public bathroom I would have been allowed to tinkle in.  I actually had big plans of recreating my rat tail and mullet hairstyles, but alas, I didn't want to interrupt my stylist's snipping.

1984ish.  Soon the mullet was cut off and I was left with a rat tail.

Monday April 11, 2016.  One week after diagnosis.  

I had big plans of being a martyr and coming full circle and donating my own locks of love.  Because my hair was long.  So I asked to donate it....and the response from Nikki was something like "Aww hell no.  This hair is way too processed and bleached!" But stated in a much nicer way.  So into the garbage it went.  Let me tell you that cutting off that much hair takes time.  And I kept telling her to keep going shorter.  I am soooooo glad I did.  I hope none of you EVER find yourself in this position, but if you do, CUT.IT.OFF.  It's horrifying when it starts coming out, and I can't imagine it being long and coming out.

Two hours later I had a pixie cut.  It didn't last long, and my brother Kurt put a side by side pic of me and Robin Wright Penn together comparing us.  He thought I should have known who her character was from House of Cards or Game of Cards or something like that.  But I have 3 kids and haven't watched TV in 7 years.  Many more people told me I looked like Kate from Jon and Kate Plus 8.  I wanted to throat punch them.  Lucky for Javier, Jamison, and Kim M., I held back!  They should probably get a gold medal for bravery though!

My sweet stylist Nikki was so nice to have me over to her home on her day off to do this.  She didn't even charge me--and that was more than just a snip of the split ends.  She is going to have some good juju coming her way!

I made by big haircut debut at the baseball field immediately after it was chopped.  The kids and Clay were already up there.  The first blessing I spotted was Caroline.  Her reaction was priceless.  She saw me, stared at me, figured out it was finally me, and said..."What the what! I like your hair long Mom!"  Kate was super sweet and told me I was still pretty, and Levi laughed.  Even Clay didn't recognize me at first.  But the best were the facial expressions of other moms at the ball park.  Most people did not know about my cancer diagnosis yet, so when I showed up looking like Kate Gosselin, they were a little taken aback.  But tried to pretend they loved my new do.