Back Home Again

I suppose I should have posted before now to let you all know that I was finally able to stop puking and go home.  It’s pretty bad when my dad’s calling and saying, “Hey, how are you doing?  I haven’t seen any new posts.” 

 During the 14 hours post-op that I spent throwing up, I managed to puke everything from my anti-nausea meds (they don’t work so well if you can’t keep ‘em down) to the small amount of water and 7-Up I ingested, to the whopping two saltine crackers I’d eaten, before erupting into my grand finale which involved the aforementioned beverages, and approximately 1 teaspoon worth of cinnamon crunch bagel. Oh yeah, and because I’m such an overachiever I did this while simultaneously shuffling back from the bathroom and pointing mutely to the puke pan. 

 It was great. 

 Nothing says, “See how cool I am” like tossing your cookies (or bagel as the case may be) between your fingers and all over the floor because your Hubster and nurse aren’t quite speedy enough at charades.  They’re over there guessing, “Uh…George Washington crossing the Delaware?….No, no, I’ve got it, you’re Michael Jackson in the Thriller video!” And I’m all: Must. reach. puke. pan. *bleechhrrghh*  

 I eventually managed to stop throwing up, but not until the night shift nurse offered me the option of taking my anti-nausea meds intravenously.  What a concept!  After that, and a change in my pain meds, I was actually able to stop throwing up and go to sleep.  When I woke up the next morning, I was no longer nauseous, and very much ready to go home.

 And, so here I’ve been, because I’m not allowed to drive yet.  You’d think I’d have been writing since it’s one of the few things that fall within my current restrictions, but being an invalid makes me pretty doggone crotchety, and I just haven’t been in the mood. 

 Now, there are parts about this can’t-do-anything-for-myself gig that I don’t mind so much, like not doing laundry or dishes.  On the other hand, there are many more things that are just a pain in the bum. One of the most annoying things to me is that I can’t hold the phone to my ear with my left hand.  At least not without causing my pectoral muscles to completely spazz out.  I know, you’re wondering what the big deal is.  You’re thinking, “So hold it with your right hand.”  Well, this is one of those quirky little Rainman sort of things that I can’t explain—I cannot stand to hold a phone to my right ear.  Don’t ask me why—I told you, I don’t know.  It’s like the telecommunications equivalent of wrong side up saltines, I guess. 

But, I’m able to do a little more each day, despite the fact that I’ve shunned all of the narcotics Dr Grasee prescribed in favor of extra strength tylenol.  You may think I’m crazy, but all those pain meds make me nauseous, and there ain’t no way I’m goin’ back to that summer camp, Skippy.

No Clever Title–No Witty Post

Just a post to let you know I’m out of surgery.  I have been for a while, but so far I’ve been too sick to blog.  It’s pretty bad when you puke your anti-nausea meds.  Repeatedly.  It makes me sick to read, and to type.  In fact I just stopped in between sentences to throw up again.  But, I’m so stinkin’ bored, that I’m writing this anyway.  Vomiting just isn’t very entertaining for me. 

Anywho, thanks for all the prayers and encouragement.  Keep them coming.

Holy Scare-Hair, Batman!

Went to see Dr Birhiray yesterday—that’s pronounced Beer-Hurray, in case this is your first visit here.  The appointment was pretty uneventful, except that I had Hubster take a new picture of me and Dr B, since in the old one I’m bald.  Unfortunately, I forgot the camera, so Hubster used his cell phone to take the picture, and doesn’t know how to get it off of there.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to post it sometime in the near future.

It also occurred to me the other day that I haven’t uploaded a picture of myself recently.  After several months of attempting to straighten my hair, it’s finally gotten to the point that I think I can walk around with it curly without looking too scary.  Or maybe it’s just that my slothful nature got the best of me and I couldn’t handle having a hairdo that was so doggone involved for crying out loud.  And besides, I’ve always thought it would be fun to have an afro, so why not? 

At any rate, my ‘do these days is kind of a cross between Mickey Dolenz from The Monkees, and Richard Simmons.  Like, you know, old school Richard Simmons, not middle aged Richard Simmons with the ‘fro over thing.  (Though he’s got a mighty impressive fork, dontcha think?) 

 Think Whitney Houston, from about 1986, before Bobby Brown slapped the curl out of her hair-except white, and with no talent. 

That’s the look I’ve got going. 

 

 

Hubster keeps saying things like, “Your hair’s kinda crazy.”  (He doesn’t adjust very quickly to change, you know.)  And I’m all like, “Yeah, I just made it that way—I like it!”  But, otherwise, I’ve gotten lots of compliments on it.  I think it’s just too large and in charge to ignore, and really, what kind of jerk is going to be hatin’ on a cancer girl’s 1 year post-chemo hair growth?  So, pretty much anything anybody says is going to be positive.

My curly hair and I will be reporting for surgery tomorrow morning at 6:30 AM.  Ugh.  6:30.  Without the benefit of coffee.  That’s just wrong.  I certainly hope Dr Grasee is a morning person.  I’m sure not—I can’t even complete a sentence first thing in the morning, let alone perform surgery.  Add that to my top ten list of reasons I’m not a doctor.  Right alongside the fact that I’m the absolute least sympathetic person you know.  Really.  Most of my appointments would consist of me telling my patients to suck it up.  “What?  Your arm hurts?  Well, it’s not bleeding, so suck it up.”

Fortunately for me, my doctors are all way nicer than I am.

Name that Name

So, I’m shopping at Penney’s the other day and over the intercom a voice says, “Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk….Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk.” 

 Seriously?  Somebody named their daughter Lacey Baum?  Because, you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe Molly was working at JCP these days.  If I ever hear Phil McCracken, or Bea O’Problem paged, I’m going to be really suspicious.

 But apparently this is a real person, because it’s not the first time I’ve heard this poor girl paged at Penney’s.  The first time I heard it, I ended up doubled over, snorting and laughing as I propped myself up against a rack of baby clothes.  I have to say, though that I am impressed that ol’ Lacey Baum is gainfully employed.  You know, a name like that might be some sort of self-fulfilling prophesy sort of deal.  It’s not too hard to envision ol’ Lacey, 40 years old, sittin’ on her parents’ couch, eatin’ cornies, watchin’ Springer, and becoming irate when her mom asks her if she’s looked for a job yet.  You can almost hear her snarl, “No, Mom, I’m a LACEY BAUM, remember?!” 

 Still, I’m thinking maybe the reason I hear her paged every time I’m in the store these days is because, indeed, you have to holler at least twice to get her to do anything.  She’s all like, “Hel-lo, I’m on break over here—yeah, that’s right the Lacey Baum is on break–again.”

 Really, people, let’s think this through before we hang some horrible curse of a name on our kids, k?  Maybe that needs to be something that’s discussed in those pre-natal classes.  Or maybe it’s something that should be included in baby name books.  Forget the meaning of the name—let’s point out that it rhymes with some bodily function, or sounds like something obscene. 

The future Harry Butts of the world will thank us for it.

7/23/08, continuned.

Friday morning is overcast and cool.  I’m at the dairy.  Mary’s elderly father passed away late Tuesday night.  The funeral is set for Sunday—same as The Kid’s.  It’s a small community.  The Kid’s dad is Alan’s cousin.  Grief presses in on two fronts.

Melancholy hangs over the place like the low-slung gray clouds.  As I work, words begin to churn in my mind.  I will write them down, later, but I’m unsure whether or not I should post them here.  I will write them down, or else they’ll continue to bang around in my head like shoes in a dryer.

****

Saturday is The Kid’s visitation.  I call Hubster’s Sis in the morning to ask if there’s a funeral dinner on Sunday I can make some food for.  She says there’s not, but that The Kid’s folks are having close friends and family over after the funeral, so I could make something for that.  It seems to me like such a small thing—making some baked beans and blueberry kuchen.  So small that it almost feels lame.  Like offering one of those teeny tiny band-aids for a severed limb. But it’s what I can do. 

****

We roll into the funeral home at about 4:40.  The visitation had begun at 4:00 and there’s a line snaking all the way out, down the side of the building, then switching back the opposite way down the sidewalk.  It’s 88 degrees.  The sun is beating down, and the asphalt is radiating heat up.  Hubster and I join the line.  It will take a little over an hour just to get to the door. 

Standing there we see many people we know and many more we do not.  The Kid’s entire rugby team is in line a ways ahead of us.  They’ve come from the college 3 hours away, and they carry a ball that all of them have signed.  Ahead of us a few feet is the guy cut The Kid’s name out on the laser.  As we wait, we hear a group of complete strangers talking about that cross. 

Once inside the building, we will wait another 2 hours to pay our respects. 

****

The funeral home is filled with pictures of The Kid and mementos from all the things he’s ever done.  Hubster spots a picture of The Kid at probably 4 years old, sitting in a race car.  “That’s the car our racing club built my freshman year,” he says “I was probably there when that picture was taken.”  There are pictures from various little league teams, school projects, and a trophy inscribed “Spelling Bee Champion-1^st Grade.”  There is the remote control plane that The Kid and his dad flew.  And the BMX bike that he’d recently started racing. 

A table holds love letters from The Kid to his girlfriend.  Happy pictures of them fill more than one poster-sized display.  Now she stands with his parents and tries to maintain her composure as they greet the hundreds of people that are filing through the funeral home.

****

Hubster’s Sis has taken pictures of the cross where Older Nephew placed it along the road.  Apparently lots of people have seen it.  Some of them tell Hubster how beautiful they think it is.   “It just needed to be done,” he says.  I can see how uncomfortable that makes him.  That cross is his teeny tiny band-aid offering—and not even his because it wasn’t his idea, and a lot of people had a hand in its construction. 

But most of all it makes him uncomfortable because he wishes there had never been a need.

7/23/08

The Kid loves to ride his motorcycle.  He’s 20 years old, but to Hubster and I he’s a kid—the best friend of our nephews, and son of Hubster’s old friend.  Hubster has known The Kid since he was 4 or 5 years old.  The nephews are close in age, and The Kid has hung out with them for years.  Some of the nephews’ friends are roughnecks.  Some are Eddie Haskell types.  The Kid isn’t either one.  He’s a sweet soul with a quick smile and a kind heart. On this day, he meets the oldest nephew for breakfast.  Afterwards, the nephew will go to the armory where he’s doing his annual training with the Guard.  The Kid will go for a ride.

****

Hubster has taken the day off work to do some things around home.  At some point, his sister calls.  Mini Me answers, leans out the kitchen door, and hollers to me as I’m talking to Hubster, “Mom, it’s Aunt Sis, she wants to talk to you.”  I take the phone, and Sis says “I tried to get a hold of you earlier, and I tried to call Hubster at work but he wasn’t there.”  I tell her he took the day off, and ask what’s up.  She says that The Kid was killed in a motorcycle accident this morning.  She doesn’t know any more than that.  I walk back out to the garage, and Hubster starts to resume the conversation.  I cut him off and tell him the news.  We just stare at each other for a long time.

****

The Older Nephew just turned 21.  This year, he’s been to basic training and back.  Older Nephew likes to project a tough image.  Compared to the family ideal, he sees himself as a bit of a thug.  He’s more honorable than he thinks, and I admire that more than he knows.  He’s tough on the outside, but his insides are soft.  Older Nephew would protect those he loves with his very life if he had to.  He’s a good man. 

I know his heart is broken.

Hubster calls to ask how Older Nephew is doing, and he tells Hubster he’s doing fine.  Hubster says, “I know better.”

****

The Kid is an only child.  Though I don’t know them well, my heart aches for his parents.  I have an only child, too.

****

Older Nephew is filling his time doing things.  He tracks down The Kid’s bike, only to find that it won’t be released to anyone but family. 

The next day, he calls Hubster at work.  Older Nephew works there, too, but has been off for Guard duty, and now for this.  He wants a cross made from steel to place at the scene of the accident, with The Kid’s name laser cut and welded to it.  Hubster says he’ll make it happen.  One of the guys lays out drawings of the letters to send to the laser. He doesn’t know the family, but this is one of those things you just do.

We live in a small community. I often joke that Hubster is related to half the county, and that’s really not too far from the truth.  Those that aren’t related probably still know each other.  The guy running the laser rode with The Kid sometimes.  He’s pretty shook up.  Others know The Kid’s dad.  Some are guys who work with Older Nephew.  They squeeze it into their work day, pushing it through ahead of regular work.

Older Nephew is able to pick up the cross in the afternoon.  He’s pleased.  The cross is made from stainless steel.  He thought he’d have to paint it. 

Later, he takes it to get the approval of The Kid’s parents before placing it along the side of the road.

(To be continued, I think)

Bathing Suits

Last Thursday I went up to see Dr Grasee for my pre-op appointment.  It was really pretty uneventful, and there were no changes in the plan so we’re still on for Thursday, August 14^th for the expander placement surgery.  August 14^th also happens to be my one year chemoversary, so it’s like I’m celebrating my chemoversary by getting a new boob—or at least the start of one.  And, when I told Susie the date, she said, “That’s Norm’s birthday—-you’re getting a boob for Norm’s birthday! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

I cannot wait.  Being a uniboober is just such a pain sometimes, most especially during swimsuit season.  I thought the mastectomy camisoles & bras were dowdy, but hey, at least they’re under other clothes.  Not so with the ginormous, blue flower print, high necked, baggy, garments that scream, “Hi, my name’s Opal and my favorite pastimes are shuffleboard, canasta, and wearing clip-on sunglasses.” 

I hadn’t even been to the pool until last week, and since I’d hadn’t invested in one of those beauties, I had to resort to pinning The Foob into my tankini top.  Rest assured, he was not happy.  Especially when he found out that not only were we NOT going to the Riviera, but that he would be pinned into a regular swim suit.  “Zee Foob must have zee special suit for zee swimming,” he said in his snotty, fake French accent.  “Well then,” I replied, “The Foob needs to get himzelf a J-O-B, because those things are nearly as expensive as they are ugly.”  And so, I didn’t get a special foob-approved suit, planning to just make due.  After all, summer is winding down, and next year I won’t be lopsided.

Then we decided to try to squeeze in a trip to Holiday World before my surgery.  I love Holiday World, and my favorite part is the water park.  It has really big water slides, and in my mind’s eye I could envision a day of shooting down the various tubes and funnels before landing with a high speed splash in the pool at the bottom.  Unfortunately, I could also envision going to lost and found to see if anyone had turned in a foob because mine shot off somewhere between the top and bottom of the Zinga.

So, I decided maybe I needed to break down and get a real mastectomy suit.  All I really need is a top, but of course Opal doesn’t like those new-fangled tankinis, so most of the options are one piece.  I know some of you probably think I’m exaggerating when I say these things are ugly, so I thought we’d have a little fashion show. 

First, we have the classic skirted bottom suit.  The neck comes up to your chin, and it comes in blue, blue or blue, coordinating nicely with the target audience’s hair.  This lovely suit can be yours for ONLY $80.  Shuffleboard anyone?

Next, we have a suit that I’m pretty sure was constructed from recycled clogger clothes.  It comes with foob pockets, but has enough ruffles that you could go completely foobless, or take your Chihuahua to the water park, and no one would even notice.  Suggested retail price is $95, but the everyday low price at buttuglybooblessbathingsuits.com is ONLY $80. How DO they keep their prices so low?

Lastly, we have a sassy one-piece-masquerading-as-a-two-piece.  Note the high waisted, girdle-like bottom, and the top with its hot tucked-in look that all the kids are wearing these days.  The description says that this model even affords you the pleasure of wearing your own bra.  I don’t know how many times I’ve been swimming and thought, “Gee, I wish I were wearing my bra under my swimsuit!”  It comes in “moonlight garden sapphire and black” print, for ONLY $80. 

Do you know how many iced caramellas I could get for $80?  A whole stinkin’ lot, that’s how many.  Good grief!  I won’t pay $80 for a suit I LIKE, let alone one of those things.  The good news is that Lands’ End does offer a decent selection of mastectomy suits that don’t make a person look like a polka-dot, ruffle infested, girdle-wearin’ freak.  They also sell mix and match pieces, which is nice since I really only need the top.  They’re not as expensive as those other ones, but I could still buy an awful lot of coffee for the price.

Anniversary

This past weekend, Hubster and I celebrated our anniversary.  Now the funny thing about this is that we almost missed it.  Indeed, we’d both forgotten about it when a card arrived in Saturday’s mail from Hubster’s aunt wishing us a happy anniversary.  When he told me we’d gotten an anniversary reminder in the mail I had to think, “What IS today’s date, anyway?  The 12^th…oh hey, it’s tomorrow!”  Of course the next question was, “So, what are we going to do?” 

Over the years, Hubster and I have done a variety of things to celebrate our anniversary.  Some things were glamorous, or romantic, like going to a bed and breakfast or Symphony on the Prairie, and some things not so much.  Like, say, the year we spent our anniversary butchering chickens.  This year, we were blessed with a beautiful, sparkling day, so we decided that the first thing we’d do after church was take the canoe out and go fishing.  With Mini Me off to my friend Angie’s house for the night, it was just the two of us.  Now you may not think of fishing as a great anniversary activity, but to this canoe girl, being out on the water was like deep fried, chocolate covered heaven on a stick. 

Later, we got cleaned up and went into the Haute, planning to take in a movie.  We almost never actually go to the movies, primarily because it’s stinkin’ expensive and there usually isn’t anything we want to see bad enough to take out a second mortgage.  True to form, once we got in town we decided that there wasn’t really anything playing that was worth the investment.  So, we did something even better: went to Steak & Shake for dinner.  Mmmm….cheese fries.  After all, why go to a movie that’s over in a couple of hours, when I can add cheese fries to my thighs and keep them with me for years to come? 

Then, as we were tooling through town I said, “Hey, let’s go to Fairbanks Park.”  So we went and walked along the river, swung on the swings, and enjoyed the evening.  As I was swinging side-by-side with Hubster, I thought, “Gee, I hope we don’t break the swing set.”   Then I thought, “You know, this is one of the best anniversaries we’ve had.”

Now of course, part of that is because of the cheese fries, but it’s mostly because after all these years, I’m still madly in love with him. And after spending my summer vacation doing chemo last year, I’ve come to appreciate normal a whole lot more.  Sure, I still like the fancy anniversary-type stuff, but man, after last summer, I’m just so doggone glad I can actually TASTE the cheese fries!   

I am crazy blessed.

Corncorncorncorn Part 2

You know, perhaps I was wrong about corn being boring, after all.  The Corncorncorn post has generated an amazing amount of traffic.  Apparently corn is more interesting than I first thought.  Or perhaps it’s just irresistible to all those folks who googled “Pete’s Pride Pork Fritters” which, much to my amusement, is the most common search engine term that brings folks here. 

Okay, so about cornin’.  As I’m sure is common throughout the country, in Indiana late October is the time of year when younger kids go trick-or-treating, and older kids run amok and pull pranks on the neighbors.  You’ve got your universal pranks, like soaping windows and toilet papering trees, or even the sinister egging.  But here in corn country, you have something else:  Cornin’. 

Now the uninitiated may think of sweet corn, or maybe even hominy when they hear of cornin’.  But we’re not talking about those things.  We’re talking about field corn.  The type that’s left on the stalk until fully mature and dry, and then used as feed for livestock.  The kernels are big and hard—Like candy corn’s roughneck cousin who just got out on parole.  Removing this stuff from the cob after having stolen it from the neighbor’s field involves thumbs and blisters.  Piled in ice cream buckets, it’s agricultural ammo for the night’s events.

First you need to choose a target.  If you choose a house, there needs to be someone home. Unoccupied houses are not acceptable because the possibility of getting in trouble is what makes cornin’ fun.   It’s best if you can find a house with a big picture window, and a curmudgeon with no sense of humor sitting right on the other side of the glass watching Jeopardy.  Sneaking in close not only makes for better contact, but also enhances the adrenaline rush.  Then on the count of three you and your friends—because NOBODY corns alone—jump up and throw the biggest handful of corn you can manage as hard as you can at that picture window.  Let me tell ya, that stuff is LOUD.  At this point you have two options, although you should have decided before you threw the corn, either to run or try to hide.  Either way, your curmudgeon will likely come out and yell threats and obscenities at you.  Mission accomplished.

Or, you can choose to corn cars.  This works best in dark areas where you have a ditch or a hill to corn from.   The victim will likely stop and once again you’ll need to choose whether to run or hide.  However, if you choose to run, it’s not a good idea to run down the road, especially if you’ve just corned Hubster who WILL chase you down the road with the car.  Also, it can be advantageous to corn in areas with lots of trees, which will decrease the likelihood that you’ll be chased cross country by that 4 wheel drive pickup with the redneck sticker and the rebel flag.

Of course, creative corners will also come up with variations on the theme.  One year someone threw corn in the open window of my dad’s Plymouth Duster.  We cleaned it out, but later when the car got rained in—apparently Dad left the window open on a regular basis—a few kernels which had remained hidden in the groovy shag carpet sprouted and we had little corn stalks in the back seat.  Or there was the time when someone dumped buckets or corn on our front porch.  So much that we had to shovel it out.  No one ever fessed up to it, but they should have because it was mighty impressive. 

I haven’t actually been corned in a really long time.  Maybe kids aren’t doing it anymore, or maybe they’re home cornin’ on the Wii instead.

Corncorncorncorncorn

When I was a kid, I’d often go to spend time with my grandma and grandpa, who lived about 25 miles away.  Their house was out in the middle of nowhere, so getting there was one long stretch of watching the passing scenery from the back seat of their Chrysler Cordoba.  Of course, this is Indiana, so for much of the year, the scenery consisted primarily of corn fields.  I remember watching the corn go by and saying “Corncorncorncorncorncorncorncorncorncorncorncorncorn” all the while, pausing only for the occasional house or woods or bean field.  The fact that my grandparents didn’t beat the tar out of me after the first half mile’s worth of corncorncorn is a testament to their saintly character.  God knows I’d have lost it after the first 15 seconds and been like, “If I hear corncorncorn come out of your mouth one more time, we’re going to stop this car and cut a corn switch for your behind!”

But, of course, my grandparents were better people than I am—most everybody is, really—and so they never said a word, and I didn’t realize how truly annoying that would be until I became a parent.  What I did discover, however, is that if you say a word enough times in a row like that, it loses its meaning. Try it next time you’re driving past some corn.  Pretty soon, it’s like your brain just gives up—which, come to think of it, may have been what was really going on with my grandparents.

I thought about corncorncorn, because Garlic Sis works for the Indiana State Museum, and yesterday she was telling me that they’re planning a future exhibit all about corn.  I started laughing.  “Are you serious?  Really, that sounds like the most boring thing ever.  I mean, this is Indiana.  I feel saturated with corn knowledge just from living here.”  Garlic Sis, who is the voice of authentic Hoosier culture at the ISM, agreed, and said she’d tried to explain this to the hoity museum types, but that they just didn’t get it.  I said, “Let me guess…they’ll include things like ethanol production and corn being used to make biodegradable packaging.”  “Yeah, they were talking about those things,” Garlic Sis replied with a chuckle.  “That’s what I figured, ” says I, “we already know about that stuff.” 

But that was no great shock.  Hoity museum types are nothing if not predictably condescending.  However, what did come as a shock, was their complete lack of knowledge about a traditional Hoosier cultural event called cornin’.  She suggested to one person at the ISM that they include cornin’ in the exhibit.  “What?  I don’t know what that is.”  Garlic Sis was like, “What do you mean you don’t know what it is?!”  She tried a couple of other folks, even adding the proper G sound onto the end of the word—cornING—Garlic Sis is fluent in both Hoosier and Hoity Museum Speak, you know—and only found one who knew what she was talking about. 

Garlic Sis began to wonder if it was strictly a west-central Indiana phenomenon.  She called and related the story to me.  After I finished ridiculing her for saying cornING, I said, “It’s those city folk you work with.  Of course they don’t know what cornin’ is.”  We decided that I should ask all you guys to put your 2 cents in.  Do you know what cornin’ is?