2016 Was a Real Jim Dandy!

I spent a lot of 2016 being a total mutant.  Like laying in my bed for 12 days straight and then finally getting up to lay in my recliner, dubbed Black Beauty.  Obviously this was all cancer related and I wasn't slothing around like I dreamed of doing back in 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013,2014, and 2015 when my kids were babies, toddlers, threenagers, and preschoolers.  Seriously.  I remember getting sick probably back in 2012 when the Triple Threat was 1,2, and 3.  I wished upon a star that I would be diagnosed with pneumonia and get hospitalized so I could rest and have a CNA bring me a tray of mashed potatoes and meatloaf from the hospital cafeteria.  And in my dream the medical professional wore seasonally appropriate scrubs--like Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang Valentine's style, because people that accessorize according to holidays just seem to care a smidgen more--and she or he would bring me a can of 7UP with a straw and fluff my pillows to make me more comfortable.  But that was just a pipe dream.  And I did get pneumonia.  But there was no hospitalization or rest.  Ol' Heysoos was apparently saving up my sick time to carry over to 2016!

So here I am on the last day of 2016 reflecting on what a dandy of a year it has been and what I should write about.  I want to thank everyone that has supported my family this year--but I am so bad at being sentimental and worry that it comes off as fake.  I always feel that way about saying religious things also.  Like talking about praying and God's blessings and all that jazz.  I believe in them and think about them, but always feel like I sound like a phony when I say them.  Weird, because I know that the Lutheran sparkle in me is always shining.  As a side note,  I don't feel odd breaking out the Nicene Creed by heart because that is just impressive. But please, please know that we appreciate all of the cards, gift cards, monetary gifts, race running, t-shirt and bracelet buying, and meal training this year.  We truly could not have made it this far, this smoothly without you all.  Aaaand I have a cry lump in my throat as I type this because it so unbelievable to me that I have just spent nine months battling cancer and that so many people have been so NICE to us.

So cheers to 2016 and on to 2017 tomorrow.  I still have a long treatment road ahead of me.  I still can't go back to work.  Which sometimes makes me feel awkward about going out and doing things.  So here is a peek into a cancer patient's head.  At least this cancer patient's noggin!  Here are the things that make me feel bad that probably shouldn't make me feel bad, but they still do.

1.  Drinking a beer while watching a Buckeye game.  I feel bad because I think that people are staring at me and thinking that I should be drinking a kale and blueberry smoothie.

2.  Taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people are wondering how I can afford to do that.  Because we all know that Sea World is freaking expensive!  But we go because we have free season passes.  Perks of being a teacher and having littles.  It still makes me feel awkward to post pics with Shamu on social media though.

3.  Again, taking my kids to theme parks.  I feel bad because I think that people wonder how I have the energy to do it.  Truth is, I cancer pranced my way into getting fast passes for rides for the kiddos.  Shameless, I know.

4.  Not working.  I know that I look healthy.  I'll give a big round of applause to the 30 pounds cancer put on me for giving me that healthy glow.  Not really.  I'll give my now  morbidly obese middle finger to those 30 pounds. But I hear all the time how someone has a cousin  that worked her way all the way through chemo, radiation, and surgery.  But I couldn't.  I couldn't walk three steps to the bathroom without help.  So I guess that means that I won't make the cancer All-Star Team like cousin Tina.  

5.  Being alive.  I'm no psychologist, but I think this is known as "survivor guilt."  Folks from near and far have done so much for me and my family because I had such a whopper of a breast cancer diagnosis.  But now I am feeling better and feel guilty going out and doing anything because I worry that people think they gave time and money to me for nothing because I look and act just fine and dandy.  What goes through my butch lookin' head is that "these people thought I was going to die and those poor little children of hers will be motherless..."  And then here I am drinking a beer at the Buckeye game!  I probably need a psychologist for feeling bad about not dying....

6.  Not getting all of my Christmas cards sent out.  I had visions of thanking everyone via Christmas card this year.  But I had to go to radiation.  And get injections.  And then I would be so tired that Black Beauty would call my name and I would fall asleep before the Young & the Restless was over. So I still have like 100 cards to send out.  Whaddya think--should I still send them out or would that be tacky?  I LOVE sending cards, so it's not a chore that I hate doing.  I love addressing them with my red Pilot pen and stamping those babies.  I just plum ran out of time.  And now I worry that wonderful people feel bad that they didn't get a card.

There are about a bajillion other things that I worry about that I know I probably should not worry about--but it's time for me to get ready for that Buckeye game.  One would think that I would be ready for 2016 to be over, but a part of me wants to hang on to this sweet year.  Because 2016 made me realize how truly blessed I am with friends and family.  And yes, I still feel awkward writing about how "blessed" I am, but it is nothing but the truth.  Thanks for the memories 2016!

These pics were taken by my dear friend Miranda Lawson.  They were taken before my 2nd chemo treatment in April when I didn't know what was coming.  I kind of feel a little bad for this happy lady...because she didn't know what $%*# storm was coming!

Are You There God? It's Me, Jill

When I was in the 5th grade, our class had Nurse Knepley come in to the St. Paul Lutheran cafeteria to give us girls a talk about "menzstroooayshun."  We were horrified. Especially after a tampon was dunked into a glass of water to show us how it expanded.  We were even more aghast when she told us that the clinic had maxi pads in case any girl needed them.  Pretty sure we were all petrified of ever needing them because we had all read the Judy Blume classic, Are You There God?  It's Me, Margaret.  And the sanitary napkins mentioned in that book involved a belt that had to be connected to aforementioned pad.  No. Thank. You.  I would not be needing any of THOSE maxi pads.  I'm pretty sure none of us felt any better after watching a movie about "growing up" starring Aileen Quinn, the girl who played little orphan Annie in the original movie.  I remember thinking that this puberty business was not for me.  Or Annie either.  I liked her better tap dancing with Daddy Warbucks more than I did her as a junior higher telling me about armpit hair.    

That puberty lesson was round about 1986.  Thirty years later I was sitting in a chemo chair about to get a menopausal injection with a needle the size of a roofing nail thinking almost the same thing.  "This menopause business is not for me!"  And just like in the fifth grade, I was sent home with a pamphlet detailing all of the hormonal changes that were going to wreak havoc on this 40-year-old body.  Except this time I didn't hide the pamphlet in the back of my drawer like I did in my tween years.  I actually threw my menopause packet away, because, hello, we have the internet now!  I don't need to keep those papers to reference when I can reference WebMD!  

So why menopause, why now?  Because my cancer is hormone driven.  I need to have my estrogen supply turned off.  I had to have it turned off immediately so that I can prepare my body for a chemo trial I am going to begin after radiation.  I need to be in full 70-year-old grandma mode for it to work.  My oncologist has never done this before.  He said that there have been great results for this trial that was done in Japan.  But the participants were mostly Triple Negative Cancer patients.  And Japanese.  (Most young women are Triple Negative, I am not.  I have Invasive Ductal Carcinoma ER positive.)  He brought my case to Moffitt Cancer Center to see if this would be a good thing to attempt.  He told me that often times doctors tend to want to "overcure" patients who are young, good looking, and fun.  I of course told him to "keep going"  with the compliments!  But apparently that is why he brought my case to Moffitt.  So the doctors there wouldn't know me, my family story,  or my face and could give an unbiased opinion.  At least that is what he told me!  I am sure he was just trying to make me feel better! 

So that is the plan.  I meet again with my medical oncologist tomorrow and start radiation on Monday November 28th.  Menopause side effects I am dealing with right now are hot flashes-- like trapped in a used Ford Fiesta with no a/c in August in Southwest Florida hot--a smidgen of irritability, getting fatter by the second, and joint pain.  Crazy joint pain.  I have never had achy joints.  But holy cow I feel like the President of the Arthritis Club of the World.  In addition to still trying to recover from my bilateral mastectomy.  That is still rough sledding.  But really, it is nothing compared to the man-cold that my husband is dealing with tonight!

Freezing up my injection site at the Cay West office where I had my chemo.  The needle had these pellets in them that send your body reeling into menopause.  But at least I don't need to use those maxi pads with the belts!

My Drive-By Double Mastectomy

I am not a medical professional.  But I lived with one for 18 years.  My mom is a retired RN, and my sister-in-law has her doctorate in Physical Therapy.  Also, my cousin Jana is a Physician.  None of this is pertinent to the story.  I just thought it would give me some medical street cred and class me up a bit.  Because what I am writing about is mostly about medicine and medical trends.  And this post also has a whole lot to do with insurance.  And a heaping spoonful to do with politics.  And of course, everything to do with money.  In my opinion.  And just to be clear, I am not an expert on any of these topics.  But I have become a bit of an expert on being a patient.  The purpose of this post is to urge breast cancer patients to think twice in regards to same day outpatient surgery.

Those of you that know my writing know that I stay as far away as possible from confrontational or negative topics.  Because I like being happy!  And I love laughing!   But I am almost a month out from my "drive-by" mastectomy and it is time for me to write it all down before my pain killers kill my memory as well.

Here is my breast cancer story in a (buckeye) nut shell.  I was diagnosed on my 40th birthday with Invasive Ductal Carcinoma that was hormone positive.  It was bad.  7 cm tumor and it had spread to my lymph nodes.  I completed 20 weeks of chemo and the next plan of action was a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, followed by radiation, hysterectomy, and removal of the ovaries.  My oncologist has now added more chemo (in pill form--a trial) after radiation.  So basically, I didn't just have a "dash" of cancer.  I had the whole enchilada!

I have to give a shout out to my medical team thus far.  Many, many people wanted me to go to Moffitt, the renowned cancer center in Tampa.  But I had a preschooler, kindergartener, and 1st grader all at home that needed their mama.  So I didn't want to have to drive 2 hours north for chemo and doctor's appointments.  Plus, I have the most common kind of breast cancer out there.  So it wasn't like I was a medical mystery that my doctors couldn't figure out.  I loved them all!  Especially my easy on the eyes oncologist!  I was happy with my decision to stay and get my treatment at home.

Delighted with my care up until surgery time.  I received my surgery instructions in the mail and noticed that my surgery was in an out patient surgery center.  Right away I was alarmed.  I need to note that a few months earlier I "woke up" and felt everything in the middle of my port surgery.  Crazy pain and they knocked me out right away.  However, when I woke up after the surgery was complete, I couldn't breathe.  They took X-rays and sent me home not breathing fully.  But that's another story for another day.  My point is that I had a smidge of anxiety having another out patient surgery.  I always calmed myself down by thinking "Girl, you had three C-sections in two and a half years and you recovered great!"  I recovered "great" in a hospital setting where I had a pain pump to get the agony under control and nurses around to help me when I continually vomited from the anesthesia.

So I voiced my concerns to my surgeons.  They were sympathetic and understanding.  Scheduling was blamed for doing the procedure outpatient.  They couldn't schedule me in a hospital.  So a nurse called me and we talked on the phone for over an hour.  I told her I didn't want to end  up like Joan Rivers, dead in a surgery center.  She assured me that mastectomies were done there everyday and I was going to be just fine.  If I wasn't ready to go home, they would transport me to a hospital for an over night stay.  I asked how long they would give me to recover before they sent me home, and she said "Probably an hour."  I was astounded and said, "That's all?!"  She then said "Maybe two hours."  The nurse said that I would be surprised at how fast I would recuperate.  Unfortunately I believed her.

Surgery day.  I'm calm and ready to go.  I generally don't get too worked up about things.  I'm not a cryer.  Actually, I'm kind of like a robot and am a champ at holding in emotions.  My husband and I drive to the surgery center.  I get a little irritated at him because he decides to stop at the gas station to get coffee and now we might be late!  We walk into the center, sign in, and wait with all of the geriatrics there to have bunions removed.  15 minutes later they call my name and tell me I'm in the wrong spot.  Of course.  We walk half a mile around the building to the correct spot.  The first thing they do is collect money.  Lots of it.  That I wasn't supposed to pay because I hit my deductible months ago.  But who cares about feeding my kids, right?  I'll get that money back three years from now.

After they steal my grocery money for three months, they start prepping me for surgery.  The LPN prepping was a doll.  Asking questions about my kids and attentively listened to me ramble on about them.  The anesthesiologist came in and told me she was going to do everything she could to make sure I wasn't sick, in pain, etc.  She even told me that my friend Michelle's anesthesiologist brother called her and told her to take extra good care of me.  My surgeon came in, talked to me, and made me very comfortable.  Everyone was great.  The surgery went great.  I have the best surgeons out there.

The problems started after I came out of my anesthesia fog.  Obviously I was in pain.  I still had an IV in so they pumped me full of pain meds.  My brain was not all there and working properly.  What I do know was that I got a bad apple recovery nurse.  She wouldn't respond to me when I told her I wasn't ready to go home.  She just told me to drink some water and eat a cracker.  I kept falling asleep with my cracker in my hand and partially chewed cracker in my mouth.  Next thing I know she told me that I was leaving.  I told her I wasn't ready.  She told me I was fine and would feel better once I got in my own bed.  She made me get out of bed to go to the bathroom.  I couldn't walk and was starting to feel sick.  In the bathroom I started crying a little and apologized to the nurse and told her "Sorry, I'm not usually like this!"  She did not respond and did not make me feel better in any way.  After the bathroom they put me in my pajamas that I brought.  My pain was really starting to increase and I was getting sicker.  My recovery nurse put a big ace bandage around my chest.  She put it on backwards and another nurse had to correct her.  Again I told her I wasn't ready to go.  She told me I was fine.  Or something like that.  It was obvious she was a new nurse, wanted to go home, and this was just a job for her.  But let me make it clear.  I love nurses and they work harder than anyone.  It is a job I definitely could not do.  My family is chock full of nurses and I have dozens of nurse friends that love their jobs and it is definitely their calling in life.  My luck, I just got a recovery nurse that was having a bad day.

I was barfing in a bag when I was forced into my car.  Just when rush hour was starting.  I was crying, in pain, vomiting, and had to put a seat belt on.  I know they leaned my seat back.  I remember the painful starting and stopping of street lights.  I remember excruciating turns on the 25 minute ride back home.

Once I got home the searing, stabbing pains started.  Take my breath away, most horrific pain I have ever felt in my life.  And it didn't stop.  Then I started vomiting again.  All over my bed and myself.  Now I had to change my clothes and my sheets.  Not a big deal.  Except it is when you have just had body parts amputated and expanders put in under your chest muscles 3 hours earlier.  Indescribable pain all night long.  I remember crying and not being able to make a sound it hurt so bad.  I was terrified my kids would see me like that and kept asking my husband if they were all right. At least I think I did.  I remember thinking it.  Thank goodness for my mom and husband.  My mom is a nurse and knows what she is doing.  My husband did what she told him.

I kept asking for pain relief.  The only thing that was prescribed to me was a low dose Vicodin.  It did zero for my pain.  At one paint, maybe it was 2 in the morning, or maybe it was just 8 pm, my husband, Clay, wanted to take me to the ER it was that bad.  I refused because I couldn't bear getting in a car or moving.  I also didn't want to wait with a bunch of folks that stopped in because they had a cold.  Or needed to get some Oxies.

Bottom line was it was a horrific experience.  I'm pretty sure it would have been less painful to be chased down and ax- murdered by Chucky, Jason, and Freddy Krueger.  This all could have been avoided if I could have spent the night in a hospital to get my pain and vomiting under control.  Even just one night. 

But the fun didn't stop there.  Morning rolled around and a home health nurse showed up to take my blood pressure.  That's all.  My mom emptied my drains and checked bandages and all that gross stuff that I can't imagine doing without losing my cookies.  Meanwhile I am still in debilitating pain.  And now they tell me I have to get in the car AGAIN to have my plastic surgeon check me.  I lost it and refused to go. I cried.  I physically could not imagine getting in a car and driving 25 minutes to the doctor.  Side note.  I live in Florida.  There are lots of snowbirds here who cannot drive.  There is a multitude of slamming of the breaks while driving in SW Florida because a Crown Victoria cut you off.  So it was going to be a painful ride.  And I knew it.  Somehow they got me into my '05 Ford Expedish.  I don't really remember the ride I was in so much pain.  I know I could barely move and had to be held up as I walked into the office.  I must have looked like a monster because the faces in the front office were shocked.  They put me right into a room.  Where I almost started barfing.  Then sat down on the table and said I was going to pass out.  And I did.  I don't remember anything else about that visit.  All I know is that I was prescribed stronger pain pills.  But now I had to drive home.  I would rather dig my eyeballs out with rusty spoons than have to get in a car and drive again.  But I survived.  

This is a really long post.  And if you've made it this far, THANK YOU!  The message I want to get across is, think twice about being talked into a same-day outpatient mastectomy.  Especially if you are young.  My surgeon said that her younger patients seem to have more pain than the older ones.  It seemed like everyone thought I would do great because I was so young and healthy.  It was not the case.  I regret not having this done in a hospital setting and am scared to have any more surgeries done there.  I am sure that some women have done great with this sort of surgery, and it is a big trend in mastectomy surgeries to go home the same day.  I just want my story out there.  This outpatient "drive-by" surgery is not alway rainbows and kitty cats.  Sometimes it's torture.

Me going into surgery.  Before I knew what I was going to have to go through.  My brother jokingly put this on facebook.  "This surgery is soon to be a distant mammary!  Breast joke ever!"  I said that attempting to keep my spirits up!

De-Klaused

I am no longer a hipster dude.  Why?  Because my beard has disappeared.  Thanks to the miracle workings of fine friend and aesthetician Mary Kern, my face is as soft as the red ripened skin of a beefsteak tomato. (Like how I did that? An Honorary Tomato Queen should never forget that if it weren't for V8 and tomato soup she would be a nothing.  So tomato references are a must!)

You may be wondering how I ended up as the bearded lady.  Apparently it is because of the chemo shutting down my ovaries or something like that.  All I know is that I woke up one day a couple weeks ago with white fur mutton chops on the sides of my face.  The chops then made their way down to my chinny chin chin.  I was officially Santa Klausing.  And make up only enhanced its furriness.

My face carpet came on very suddenly, and I wasn't sure if it would fall out again.  Because Taxol apparently can make your hair grow in and then fall out again a while later.  So I wasn't about to pay a gajillion dollars to get my face threaded.  Also because I am terrified of the pain that was inflicted upon me the last time I had my eyebrows and 'stache threaded.   The Middle Eastern woman performing the task continually yelled at me to "Stop crying!  You OKAY!  Stop crying!  You have very hairy face!!  NO WAX!"  So I just thanked my lucky charms that my fur face was blonde and continued on living the dream.

And obviously by "living the dream" I meant going to Ohio and the Henry County Fair for a milkshake and pork on stick.  I figured I would fit right in with the Hank County carnies.

 But then my lifelong friend Rachel stopped over and got a gander at my face.  She hadn't seen me in a while as she lives in NW Ohio and I live pretty darn close to Cuba.  I can't remember, but she might have actually felt my face.  And then told me I needed to have Mary dermaplane my face velvet off. Stat.

Of course, I'm no "Real Housewife of Cape Coral," so I had no clue what dermaplaning was about.  But I agreed to it.  And Rachel and Mary had me scheduled for an in home dermaplaning session within minutes.  I had obviously scared the bejeeezus out of my dear friend Roach with my testosto-riffic new look.

It's a good thing I trust Miss Mary.  Because dermaplaning is this...taking a scalpel to your face and scraping off all hair and dead skin.  Pretty sure I was her dream client because I'm sure she could really get a sense of satisfaction by seeing the progress of her work.  All I know is that I looked off to the side as my face was being reborn and saw a snowball of fur.  Like a big snowball.  Seriously, like the base of a big a$$ snowman.  But my face!  My face was as smooth as a grape!  A grape tomato! And what a relaxing experience.  Like I was at the Ritz Carlton!

So a great big honkin' thank you to Mary Kern for making me female again!  Now all you have to do is come down to Florida every month to make sure Jill stays Jill and doesn't morph into Bill!  

At the Henry County Fair.  Shortly after this, my phone died and I couldn't get any close up shots of my de-fuzzed face.  

Roid Rage

I get lotso compliments on my positive attitude regarding my recent cancer situation.  And sometimes it makes me feel a little Milli Vanilli-ish.  As in I kind of feel like a fraud, because I am not always feeling like rainbows and sunshine.  But I'm also vibing Mils Vanils, because well, I'm a helluva good dancer.  Just like the Grammy-giving-back- lip- synching sensations.  Seriously.  You should have seen me in my heyday at Ohio State bars like the Jailhouse and Not Al's and Out R Inn.  It's a shame cell phones and social media weren't around to capture those moments...(Thank you sweet baby Hey-soos!)

But I digress.  I must release the nagging Catholic within me and confess.  I am filled with some sort of newly brewed rage.  I am going to go ahead and blame the steroids that are being pumped into me--because steroids are my go-to for blaming anything that is wrong in my life.  I've put on 16 pounds since my cancer diagnosis--it's the steroids' fault.  Can't sleep at night--steroids.  Muscle spasms and night sweats?  Roids.  I'm terrible at cornhole.  You know whose fault that is...the beers.  Which by the way I have not been able to enjoy since my 40th birthday.  Another thing that makes me mad.

Mad.  Ticked.  Irritated. Apoplectic.  Fit to be tied.  Roid Rager.  All words that can be used to describe me on days that end in Y.  Not all day, my cheesed off thoughts happen in bursts.  Usually when someone does something really annoying.  Like walking too loud on the tile floor.  Or asking me if I want a sandwich.  Or putting lettuce on aforementioned sandwich.  Or when I run out of floss.  Obviously this is some seriously serious stuff.  And the people closest to me take the brunt of my acrimonious attitude.  I do my best to suppress it, but sometimes it comes bubbling out.  Usually in the form of silence.  Because I don't like yelling or fighting.  And sometimes it takes the form of watery eyes, because I am so upset over something that is so stupid, and I know it's stupid, and then I get mad at myself for being so stupid!

The bottom line is that the combination of steroids and hormones have put my brain out of whack.  And I hate it.  I mean if I am going to be mad, I should be mad about having to go through all of this cancer malarkey, not because I stepped on a toothpaste cap in the bathroom.  But alas, that is what is happening.  So my apologies in advance if I give you the stink eye for taking up too much room in the Target Dollar Spot with your cart.  Just know that I am 'roid raging and that deep down I want to throat punch you for spending too much time in front of the mini dry erasers that teachers love.

Oh, and the number one thing that makes me spiral out of control is when folks put their pictures into collages.  Seriously.  Stop using that god forsaken app.  I can't blow the pictures up when I am looking at them on Facebook.  So irritating because I can't see ANY of the pictures well.  Just.  Stop.

Ohio State 1994-1995.  Tracy, Rachel.Cyndi, Erin, me, Leslie.  Probably pregaming for dancing at Not Al's or Sloopy's.  And my jean vest is now back in style.

Me a week ago.  Raging because they were out of butterscotches.  But not because I have tubes coming out of my chest.  Priorities.  

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....