'Emotional Etsy Rampage' is the Totally Name Of My New Emo Band

The first thing I did after getting the new-and-so-fucking-not-improved news on Friday was go on an Emotional Etsy Rampage, spilling out the contents of my PayPal account (and gnawing at the edges of Instant Bank Account Tranfers) in exchange for things for the new baby. Wall decals! A custom mobile! Upcycled vintage galvanized storage containers! Bibs! A necklace that I've had in my favorites list for a year but never bought and today is the day! That necklace is mine! Suck it, sadness! Suck on shiny things and die!

I stopped only after Noah brought me the Xbox remote and a long, involved (and HIGHLY EMOTIONAL) story about a giant snake level on the Harry Potter Lego game and he couldn't finish the potion and Hermione is stuck in a corner and keeps getting blowed up by the snake and you need to help me, and I was briefly consumed with resentment that really? Really, Noah? This is the biggest challenge in your little life right now? This is the crisis that's reduced you to tears? A video-game snake? MADE OUT OF VIDEO-GAME LEGOS?

Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I Pain-Olympic'ed my own child. It was a really pround moment in my parenting history.

(I helped him. The snake level WAS pretty hard, and I felt much better after beating it. Haaa, stupid Lego snake.)

(And before anyone hassles me about letting a five-year-old play video games: He can only play after he earns a certain number of stickers on his behavior/chore chart. And also, I CANNOT EVEN REALLY PRETEND TO CARE RIGHT NOW.)

Over the weekend I took Noah to karate, then shared a bagel and orange juice with Ezra. I dragged everyone to IKEA. I assembled random shit from IKEA. I hung clothes and onesies and organized diapers and blankets and then tossed everything back into the center of the room to start over because I just didn't like how inaccessible that basket of baby hats was. Ezra spiked a fever for no real reason at all but I prescribed Motrin and cuddles with me, me, meeeee anyway. I comforted Noah when he left his beloved Actual Real-Life Harry Potter Lego figure at his friend's house, because that was, in fact, a pretty rough tragedy for him, no matter what you compare it to.

And then today I spent the morning in a child pyschologist's waiting room, filling out 400 behaviorial checklists while Noah went through day one of the three-day evaluation for ADD. Or whatever it is. Was. Will be. 

It still hasn't sunk in. It. You know. The news. The now, the what's next. I knew -- oh, I KNEW -- we'd reach this point, and for some reason I'd naively thought it would be a relief to put the chemo and the transfusions and the ER visits behind us. I mean, maybe it is. But not really. There's new grief and new mourning and yet he's still here and we're still here and there's karate and swimming lessons and bagels and fevers and evaluations and assessments and onesies to wash and things to hang on the nursery walls. There's life. Whatever it is. Was. And will be. 

Over, Part Two

My mom just called. After multiple blood and platelet transfusions this week, my dad's numbers were the lowest they've ever been. Hemoglobin at 6. Platelets at 10. 

So no more chemo, for real this time. No more transfusions. No more. He's enrolled in hospice. 

The prognosis is two months.

 

 

I'm due in two and a half. 

Selective Hearing

This is the last post in the More Birthdays campaign, sponsored by the American Cancer Society.

I imagine it's pretty obvious by now that I didn't really have a plan or theme for this "series," but just sat down each time and started typing and hoped that I'd stumble upon a point or insight somewhere along the way.

Honestly, most of the time I just crossed my fingers that I wouldn't get an ominous phone call in between the draft stage and the publish button. 

I guess, as usual, the best place to start is with the dry, basic facts:

The doctors told my dad it was time to stop the chemotherapy. He opted...not to take that advice, and got his oncologist to concede that as long as he kept his blood count numbers just above a bargain-basement level, he could probably continue with chemo. 

He heard: There's still hope.

The cancer has spread to his lymph nodes. But not as much as the doctors thought. His spleen is enlarged. But not as enlarged as it could be. 

Again, he heard: Hope.

After multiple cancellations, at least one infection, some antibiotics and I don't even know how many transfusions, he's back at chemo today for the first time in a very long month, right now.

I wish I could hear hope too. I really do. In fact, I wish I could hear anything other than the little voice in my head nattering on about oh great, he'll have another bad reaction and another fever and another trip to the ER and another transfusion that's like tossing a wine cork at a collapsing dam and none of this is doing anything anyway but my God, he's so stubborn.

I don't like that voice. That voice makes me feel like a bad person, a bad daughter.

I wish I could hear hope.

But I'm glad my father hears it.

I hope everybody hears it too.

Countdown

The American Cancer Society asked me to write an additional post for the More Birthdays campaign. (I was supposed to write one more, next month, and that was it.) I suppose I can assume this means they've been happy with the response so far and you guys have been clicking over and retweeting and like-buttoning or whatever the hell it is you youngsters do these days with your Internets and smartyphones and...and...

What was I talking about? I got distracted by some deep thoughts about prunes.

Oh! Right. Another post for ACS. Another look at a topic that should inspire at least a dozen entries from me on any given day, eleven of which are all but guaranteed to make a significant portion of the Internet cry. Or at least, lie about crying in my comments section. Don't think I don't know you do that. (And don't think that I don't love you for it.)

But oh. I'm tired of it. It hurts like a bruise, and some days just thinking about it feels the same a swift kick from pointy shoes.

My dad...well. Things are about the same. He still believes he'll be able to continue chemo, somehow. And that the chemo will work. Meanwhile, I've learned more about what late-stage leukemia does to the human body than I ever, EVER wanted to know. 

When he first got the cancer diagnosis, back in September, the prognosis was three to six months. We're currently five months into that range, and I hate -- hatehatehate -- the fact that things seem to be moving along, like morbid clockwork, right on their horrible schedule.

So instead, I've started shopping.

I've bought onesies and rompers. Everything in bright, summery colors and patterns. Impossibly tiny cloth diapers and sun hats. Teething toys, pacifiers and an infant bathtub. Swaddling blankets and lightweight nursing covers. My Amazon cart is littered with stuff "saved for later" that I know we don't need, but I will probably buy anyway. Because it's small and cute and it makes me smile.

I've entered his name into sample birth announcement templates, just because seeing it all typed out and real makes me ridiculously happy. Those are saved for later, of course. We'll need his photo and birthdate/weight specifics. And we'll have those soon...in about three and a half months. 

I've stopped wondering if that's soon enough. I've stopped doing the gap math, the subtraction. I've stopped fretting over the potential lack of overlap, the idea that he won't be here when the baby is born, even though it was never promised to us, beyond just HOPE and MAYBE and YOU NEVER KNOW. 

There may be loss -- a specific, profound loss. But there will definitely be life, and another birthday.

I'm excited for sure. And also: Hopeful. Maybe. And you never know. 

"Birthdays Are For Kids" by Sarah Rowland, courtesy of MoreBirthdays.com

 

 

Over, Part One

Yesterday, the doctors told my dad it's time. It's time to stop. No more chemo. It's not working. 

At first, he misunderstood, thinking they just meant his current chemo drug. Then, I guess, he argued. What about a port? Another protocol? Something stronger, harder, newer? There has to be something else.

No. There is no "something else" they can do. 

For the cancer, that is. That, for all intents and purposes, has already won. But there's always something they can do to your body, some procedure, some test to gauge or stem the related fallout without really touching the cause or buying more time. More transfusions, blood work, CT scans, MRIs, chest X-rays, all stuff they continue to order because that's what their patient is choosing -- to go down swinging from a hospital bed instead of accepting hospice care, and I know, I KNOW. 

For the love of God, I know. Trust me, this would not be my choice. But...this isn't my choice to make. It's his. I don't know whether it's determination or denial, because it's simply not up for discussion.

No hospice talk, no canceling the invasive tests to find out what we already know talk, no special-diet whole-foods raw-kale-enzyme talk, no alternative hippie-dippie wheat grass herbal supplement talk and I can't say that I even blame him on a couple of those topics, because it gets awfully tiring having to listen to someone who "cured" someone else's stage four cancer with nothing but vegetable juicing and fish oil because it's all a conspiracy, maaaan, and my mouth is like, mmmhmm wow that's so interesting and my brain is like, no you fucking didn't, shut up.  

If my dad wants to eat nothing but processed artificial franken-comfort-foods topped with an entire container Cool Whip, I'm not going to argue with him about that. I'm not arguing with him about his choice to refuse hospice and continue medical interventions, either. It's not agreeing, but if the point of everything is to make our remaining time together as good as possible, well. Okay. We can find plenty of other things to talk about, and we do.

I did make him some turkey meatballs with organic sauce and whole-grain pasta that he really liked, at least. 

It'd be easier -- especially on my mom, who is so tired of hospitals and tests and doctors and just wants him to come home and stay there with her, so badly -- if he'd accept hospice and all that goes with it, but then...damn, "easier?" Did I really just type that word? Really? 

Because either way, I'm going to lose my dad. And it hurts so very, very fucking much. 

Mommy, Read Me A Story About Death & Destruction

We're headed back to Pennsylvania AGAIN this weekend, travel exhaustion and desperate homebody desires to sit on the couch be damned.

Grandma's memorial service in on Sunday. We're taking the boys, since it's really not a "funeral" -- no viewing or casket or urn, just a family-and-friends gathering at her nursing home. My mother-in-law thinks their presence will be a welcome distraction for everybody, especially Grandma's remaining friends, who do always adore visiting grandchildren, no matter who they "belong" to.

(Of course, my mother-in-law also thought it was totally appropriate to take the boys to visit Grandma last week, when we were in New York, and she was officially on her deathbed -- a decision that, after Jason saw Grandma on Saturday, he was little upset about. Yes, it's a natural part of life and all but HE was so rattled and shaken by how sick and already dead she looked, and would have preferred our two- and five-year-old children being spared that particular sight. Or at the very least, being consulted ahead of time would have been nice.)

(Free babysitting! No such thing. There's always a price tag. Like say, your babysitters jumping the gun on the whole death discussion with your preschooler, and coming at it from a completely different point of view and religious philosophy than your own. Fantastic.) 

The kids know PopPop is sick. They know he's been sick for a long time now, and goes to the hospital a lot, but haven't really asked any questions about, say, whether he'll get better. Or what will happen if he doesn't.

And no, I haven't yet offered any answers to unasked questions. Because I am a big fat chicken.

Noah knows all the words related to death, like "dead" and "killed" and "BLASTED TO DEATH WITH MY LASER GUN PEW PEW PEW," but the concept exists only in the movie-and-video-game sense. Not real. Animated. Disney-Pixar montage-y. With plenty of respawn points when your health gets too low. 

Obviously, with this weekend looming ahead, it's time for us to sack up and have a talk with Noah. I don't think Great-Grandma's death will be a particularly affecting one for him (her dementia has been pretty profound for most of his life), but I know he needs a heads up about the hows and whys of the service and the sight of grieving adults.

So last night, we went to the bookstore. 

When Dinosaurs Die was recommended in the comments section 'round these parts at least a dozen times, after various entries about my dad's illness, and I swear I attempted to order it through Amazon at least two dozen times. But then I broke down and canceled the transaction at the last second, because I just wasn't ready for it myself. 

This time I was able to convince my brain that I was buying it because of Great-Grandma and only Great-Grandma. I know. I probably should have walked over to the Grown-Up Book Section for a Grown-Up Book About Grown-Up Coping Skills, but...eh. I have a Kindle. I'll look for something to download on there. Tomorrow. Next week. 

Anyway, SHOCKER OF SHOCKS, you guys were right. This was by far the best option on the shelf. It covers everything, but is laid out in a way that allows a parent of a younger child to decide just how much to read per page. I don't plan to read every word to Noah at five, but I probably would to Noah at say, eight or nine. Definitely one with a nice shelf life, so to speak. IF YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE. BOTH WITH "SHELF" and "LIFE" HA HA HA BOOK PUNS AND DEATH JOKES ARE UNCOMFORTABLE okay I'm done now.

(The afterlife discussion, if you're in the market for a book like this yourself [I'm sorry] and consider that a big wild card in the decision-making, is presented as: "No one knows for sure, but there are a lot of different ideas, and it's normal to have lots of questions." And then it encourages those questions to be directed at you, the parent, or a religious leader. Exactly the tone I personally was looking for.)

I picked up Lifetimes, too, just because I liked it. It's not as detailed as the dinosaur book, but is really limited to just explaining the fact that everything has a beginning and an end, and the middle part is living. It's very nature-focused (trees live hundreds of years, butterflies live only a few weeks) before it extends the concept to humans and our lifetimes, but certainly not hippy-new-age or anything. There's absolutely no discussion of the afterlife or even what happens to your body once you die, but it's a nice, matter-of-fact way to explain that death is simply part of how things are. 

Plus, a lot of the books about death were just painfully LONG. Thirty-plus pages. A hundred-plus words per page. This one is more your traditional picture-storybook length. Judge my kids' attention spans and my bedtime-story patience level all you want, but GAAAAAAHHHHH GET ON WITH IT, SUESS, IT'S 8 PM AND MAH SHOWS ARE ABOUT TO START, LET'S GET THESE MONKEYS TO BED ALREADY.

Ahem.

It was around this point that I picked up another book -- I don't remember the title, but it seemed like a kind of abstract take on the afterlife, describing heaven without being overtly religious, or even explicitly calling it heaven. I thought it might be a good option to have on hand if Noah brought up some of the stuff my in-laws talked to him about last week, but by the time I got to the fifth page I suddenly realized I was reading a book designed to help sick children come to terms with their OWN DEATH.

*strangled gurgled crying sound*

So! I decided it was officially Time To Back The Hell Away From The "Growing Up/Tough Issues" Shelf, Oh My God. 

Noah and Ezra were playing with trains, but I convinced them to join me on a bench and let me read them a story. 

I did not read either of the books I'd just picked out. I read this one instead:

We read it again last night before bed, and we laughed and laughed and laughed, because oh, that Pigeon. Will he EVER learn?

Tonight, we'll read one of the other books. Or maybe both. 

And then probably the Pigeon one again. 

Both Sides of It

Jason's grandma died yesterday. It was...not unexpected. It was also peaceful, and one of those instances where crappy platitudes about it "being her time" and "for the best, really" are actually, entirely true. She was very old and very sick -- dementia had long since robbed her of most of the memories of her life and the chance to forge a relationship with Noah and Ezra, her great-grandchildren, whom she was simply unable to recognize in any meaningful, connected way.

But. Still. 

I met her over 14 years ago. At that point, the dementia was simply the occasional moment of confusion or befuddlement, but on some visits it was clear that she was already mixing up our relationship, treating me like her grandchild and Jason like the interloping boyfriend. We'd sit together and hold hands and she'd tell me stories. She gave us both furious hugs and kisses when it was time for us to leave, making us promise we'd visit again soon, which of course we assured her we would. Of course!

I never had a grandmother like that. But then suddenly, I did. 

Jason got to visit with her one last time on Saturday, though she was already mostly gone, asleep in a peaceful morphine haze to block her pain while nature took its final course. I stayed behind with the boys, wanting to shield them from...well, I don't know. Life. Death. A final memory of her being "like that," as I try to remember beyond the last time I saw her, which was an awful thing to see, because she was in so much pain and our very presence seemed to unnerve and frighten her. I sensed it was probably our last visit, or very close to it, but I still gingerly kissed her cheek and said I'd see her again soon.

Yes, it was her time. And for the best, really. 

But. Oh, I will miss her. I will miss my Grandma. 

***

I saw my dad on Friday. We had a wonderfully long, easy talk together. He still laughs at my jokes and makes me laugh in return. I told him the baby's name and we decided that his middle name sounds pretty much perfect with it, so there you go. Noah and Ezra climbed in bed with him and posed for a series of truly terrible photos, since Noah kept kicking his legs up in front of his face while Ezra preferred to sit with his butt facing the camera. 

Before we left, Ezra begged him to do his PopPop trick -- this funny popping sound he can make with his cheek and pinkie finger, a trick that delighted me as a child and something that I've yet to see exactly replicated by anyone else I've met. Ezra laughed and demanded more, again, c'mon! and tried to mimic the finger-pop but couldn't quite manage it. 

It was just like any other visit with Nana and PopPop, except that PopPop doesn't get out of bed anymore. Eh, they don't care. That's where all the kitty cats hide, after all, and the big mirrored closet doors in the master bedroom make an awesome stage for preschooler dramatic performances, you know.

Jason thought he seemed really tired and pale. I thought he seemed just fine. I mean, considering.

***

Today, he's in the hospital again. Fever, ridiculously low platelet counts, lungs full of fluid. When he coughs, his throat bleeds. The blood and plasma transfusions no longer seem to be helping, but they're trying again. He spent the entire night in the emergency room, because the hospital was completely full. I'm waiting for a morning update to hear if he's been admitted or not, or whether he'll go home again...or not. 

This is not the chemo, the doctor said, because they usually blame the chemo, or a reaction to some other drug or procedure. This is the leukemia.

***

He's surprised us so many times before, of course, that I'm starting to expect good news now. Or...good-ish news. Not-terrible news. Just watch, he'll go home today, I bet, and will stubbornly insist on going back for more chemo in a week or two, because that's the plan, and the way it is. I'm starting to expect that the three-to-six months time frame we were given four months ago won't apply to us, somehow, just because. Those crappy mourning platitudes from the first part of this post don't fit, at all, and in fact make me feel kind of stabby and stomach-punchy at the very thought of someone saying them to me. 

Before I left on Friday I kissed him and said I'd see him again soon.

It still feels true. For now, I still believe it, every time. 

***

That was supposed to be the last sentence, right there, but my phone just lit up with a text message from my mom:

They're sending him home. 

See? I knew it. I was right. This time, I was still right. Okay. Okay. 

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

Last week, the oncologist told my dad that it was officially time to stop the chemo. It still wasn't working. There was no reason to believe it would ever start working, now that he'd somehow soldiered on through three months of it, only to have the leukemia progress virtually unimpeded in the meantime.

My dad said, "Okay, now what do we try?"  

Tomorrow, "we" try a different chemo with a different drug. A drug my mom won't even tell me the name of, because she doesn't want me to Google it.

Today, I had an entirely different post saved in draft that I planned to publish. Today was always supposed to my the next entry in the series for the American Cancer Society More Birthdays campaign, and last week I decided to take a crack at getting that post written and out of the way ahead of time. "Last week," as in: "probably the day before that oncologist appointment, yeah, good timing, self." 

It wasn't a bad draft, or poorly timed or completely irrelevant -- I mean, when you're writing about your father dying of cancer, there are only so many shades of emotion or variations on not-exactly-good-news you can go with. But I deleted it anyway.

(And then I stared at the page for awhile wondering if I should undo that real quick, since I'm sick with some horrible flu or cold or flu-cold hybrid thing and so is Jason and Ezra is just getting over it but Noah's still running a fever and therefore my capacity for writing new content is pretty significantly diminished right now, Tylenol dipshit popsicle lightbulb.)

I deleted it because it wasn't about tomorrow. Which is all that's looming large right now. Everyone is scared. My mom just hopes the chemo won't do too much damage, and that they'll avoid an ER visit, and I'm skiddish of the same thing, because I don't know how many ER trips and hospital admissions my dad has left before he just won't get sent home, period.

No, the entry was about our visit with my dad over New Year's weekend -- a good visit, and one with a lot of conversation and jokes and I helped him download the new Tom Clancy book onto his Kindle and we talked about the new baby and how handsome Noah is and how Ezra is just as "cute as a button" and then Ezra blew him kisses as thanks for the compliment. 

One day those memories will be it, I know. And I'll probably wish I devoted pages of space to writing every single one of them down in more detail. 

But today, we still have tomorrow. Whatever it might be. The fact is our particular, specific tomorrow might not be that great. But dammit, we still have a tomorrow to write about in the first place. 

Deep breaths. More tomorrows. More birthdays. 

Generations

As much as I would LOVE to write an incredibly detailed post about our weekend of non-stop stomach-flu illness (and as much as I'm sure y'all would LOVE to read about it), the fact is I previously committed today's posting spot to the American Cancer Society. They asked me to participate, once again, in their More Birthdays campaign, and contribute a monthly-ish post to help raise awareness of their research and programs and website. 

Today's post, according to my official editorial calendar (translation: an email from a few weeks ago that I have miraculously NOT LOST) is supposed to be an introductory sort of thing -- explaining why I chose to participate in the campaign in the first place.

Which, to put it eloquently, would be something along the lines of: Well, DU-U-UH. 

Last night, Jason's phone rang at exactly 2:32 a.m. I was deep in the middle of a stress dream involving being late for high school (after being awkwardly felt up and then promptly dumped by Michael Cera, that JERK) when I heard it ringing. It stopped soon after I fully woke up, but of course I lay there staring at the ceiling for awhile, panicking.

Was that The Call? 

My dad had another blood transfusion on Friday, meaning there was probably just enough time for his numbers to crater again. Or just enough time for another infection to set in. Was my phone on silent? Buried in the couch cushions? Had my mom -- or someone else -- called Jason after failing to get in touch with me? Would our home phone start ringing at any second, the clear sign that there was News, Bad News? 

I waited. I realized my phone was on my nightstand -- on silent, yes, but the screen thankfully did NOT register a slew of missed calls from my mother's cell phone. Our home phone never rang. 

It turned out it was just a wrong number, stupidly dialed in the middle of the stupid night. Jason never even heard it. 

***

When the leukemia diagnosis came in September, we didn't know how much time he had left. We still don't. When I was asked for four months of topic ideas for the American Cancer Society series -- I'll be writing once a month until March -- I couldn't give them that. I just...don't know what's going to happen, or when.

But.

He was here when I found out I was pregnant. 

He was here for Noah's fifth birthday, and Ezra's second.

He was here for his 35th wedding anniversary in October.

He was here for his 81st birthday last month, and for my mom's birthday last week. (She would probably kill me if I told you her age, but I think my dad would be okay if I divulge the secret that he married a much younger woman.) 

I am pretty sure he'll be here for Christmas, and my birthday on the 27th.

After that, it's baby steps until they get to spend another Valentine's Day together, another grandson's birthday. Easter, spring. 

And then, my due date.

It could happen. I want it to happen. 

So. That's why I chose to participate in the "More Birthdays" initiative by the Amercian Cancer Society.

We Called Them Rinse & Spit Cups, Even Though We Never Did Either Of Those Things

This photo is for my sister, who is currently pacing a hospital waiting room while her daughter, my niece, undergoes emergency gallbladder surgery. You know, for kicks.

Yeah. It's kind of an inside joke. Which would ideally involve each and every one of those cups filled with shots of contraband Pinot Grigio. On Christmas morning. While huddled in the guest room under the guise of last-minute present wrapping. Which may or may not have actually happened. 

Anyway.

Between that and another week full of chemo treatments and bargain-basement platelet counts, I'm in a giddy sort of limbo where I don't feel particularly funny, nor do I feel capable of being all maudlin and introspective. I'm just sort of spent. Maybe I just need a drink. Or a hug. Or some kind of chocolate-y boozy drink that could be the equivalent of a hug. 

Come to think of it, those mini-sized Dixie cups seem like the perfect serving size for a pregnant woman to safely consume alcohol in moderation. Plus look! At the packaging! The cups have ARMS. I feel comforted already.

Meanwhile...

1) I am recapping Top Chef All-Stars this season at Mamapop. Unfortunately, several of my personal Top Chef All-Time Most Disliked Douchebags are back again. Fortunately, my hatred gives me strength. Delicious, bacon-foam-flavored strength.

2) New column up at The Stir, in which I pretty much guarantee myself an immediate whack in the face as the Quirky Behavior Pendulum swings back in the other direction and takes me out in the process. 

3) There's enough new advice columns up at AlphaMom to prevent you from making any stupid life choices, particularly ones involving being productive at work on a Friday afternoon. Heavens, no.

4) We have a winner in the Windows 7 phone giveaway thingie, and it's...Mrs. Q of Nuclear Momb! With apologies to those of you who tirelessly commented on that post each and every single day possible, Mrs. Q won with a single, solitary comment that she left without even realizing there was a giveaway involved in the first place. This tells me that during the next electrical storm, we should all either stand directly next to her...or as far away as possible. Definitely one of those two things. 

5) Once I accomplish a fifth thing, I will type it here. In the meantime, I'm going to eat the shit out of something unhealthy and high in butter content. Golf claps for me and thing number five!