Auntie Fester

I swear I did not plan this, but how apropos is it that Part 24 of this saga marks exactly 24 months that I have been CANCER FREEEEEEEEE?

I mean. That’s not what they call it in the biz. They call it “NED” for “no evidence of disease”—because you never know what little buggers are lurking in there, waiting for their moment in the sun (er, the scan?).

But as of this moment, it has been 24 months since I rolled up to the hospital, got shot fulla knock-out drugs, and underwent the double mastectomy that would remove the cancer that remained in my body after the chemo was done.

Now, granted, I didn’t know, at this point two years ago, that the surgeon had gotten clear margins, because the tissue was still being biopsied. Not until my follow-up appointment days after the surgery—where I was disappointed to learn that my stage had been upgraded from the original Stage 2 diagnosis due to the involvement of two lymph nodes—did a medical professional (the nurse who’d delivered the staging upgrade news) actually say, “[Well, the good news is that] you’re cancer-free now!”

I’d been told by Dr. Cool-and-Calm that if I made it to the 2-year mark, the cancer was less likely to return, so for the last couple of years, I’ve had my eye on this prize. While I know that my (Triple-negative) cancer is effin’ AGGRESSIVE, so this milestone is certainly no guarantee, I gotta say, y’all—I wasn’t quite sure I’d reach it, especially after all the flooflah surrounding the ultrasounds and CT scans I’ve had lately.

BUT! I am happy to report that I saw Dr. Cool-and-Calm during the first week in February to discuss the results of the latest CT scan, and I couldn’t have asked for better news. (I mean, barring some straight-up MIRACULOUS shit, like, “We were mistaken; you never actually had cancer AT ALL. Turns out your body is incapable of hosting cancer or any other terminal diseases, so what we thought was cancer were really just migrant undigested chocolate chips. However, because we fucked up the diagnosis and put you through all that shit unnecessarily, please accept this billion-dollar check as a token of our remorse.”)

The lung nodule has remained at roughly 5mm by 10 mm for the past year (when Dr. CaC first mentioned that it hadn’t grown, I thought he was comparing the latest scan with the one taken three months previous; but after thoughtful questioning by Love Tank (who was with me at that appointment in case it brought bad news), he clarified that he was comparing it with ALL the previous scans, which started a year ago). This means it’s probably benign (the Radiation Damage Theory returns), because a malignant tumor would likely have grown. Nevertheless, while the radiology department recommended a two-year follow-up scan, Dr. CaC is ordering a six-month follow-up, because of my history.

Child, I’ll TAKE it. I got no problem with erring on the side of caution.

The interesting thing I learned about the lung nodule is that if it HAD BEEN (or, God forbid, one day TURNS OUT TO BE) malignant, it would/will NOT be considered metastasis of the breast cancer, but rather its own NEW cancer. (Like an angry toddler trying to establish its independence.) Which is kinda good news in a jacked-up way, right? Because if I’m going to have to deal with cancer again, the idea of metastatic cancer is far more daunting to me. If, on the other hand, it’s just an angry toddler that can be put down for a nap before it gets its little chocolate handprints on anything, it seems more manageable.

In other good news, that CA 27-29 blood test Dr. CaC ordered along with my other routine lab work (which had me a little up in my feels, because he’d never ordered that particular blood test before, and a quick dance with Dr. Google gave me to know it’s a test to check for the recurrence of cancer) turned out fine as well: a “normal” level, according to Dr. CaC, is anything under 30 U/mL, and I was at 16 U/mL.

Honestly, what I expected (and dreaded) with regard to that particular appointment, in the weeks leading up to it, was that I would walk out with NO helpful or hopeful information—basically, that I’d walk away with a “We still can’t determine what this is, so let’s check again in three months,” and then spend three MORE months wondering WTF is going on while trying to function normally. And, OK—even THAT would be better than, “Yep, it’s cancer! Still got all those stocking caps and giant earrings? Because you’re gonna wanna dust those bad boys off.” (Actually, the stocking caps are not collecting much dust; I wear them daily to hide how infrequently I wash my hair, which you’d THINK I’d treat a little bit better now that I have it back, but NOPE.) But I didn’t dare hope for what I got, which was the tentatively optimistic probability that the lung toddler has no teeth.

SO! Here we are, TWO YEARS from the day the cancer got carried out with my boobs, and I feel like I have weathered this storm pretty damn well!

Oh, there have been moments, especially as the dreaded Dr. CaC appointment loomed, when things got a little maudlin. For example, in the many weeks following Christmas—wherein Santa had brought our elder son tickets to see Tyler the Creator in the first week of February—Love Tank and I tried to figure out who was going to accompany the kid to the show. We’d purchased an additional ticket, so he could invite a friend, but we didn’t want to send a couple of kids into downtown Kansas City for a late night without an adult, so we bought a third ticket for a chaperone. But lawd knows neither of OUR old asses wanted to cram into a loud, packed arena fulla people young enough to be our grandchildren (even though MY old ass does kinda dig some of Tyler’s music), so we tried to find a younger, cooler adult to accompany him. When THAT tactic failed (turns out all the younger, cooler adults we know were STILL too old to want to go to a Tyler show), we kinda figured we’d rock-paper-scissors it at some point close to show time to figure out who was going to take this bullet for the team. However, as both the show AND the Dr. CaC appointment loomed, I decided I HAD TO go, because what if I never got the opportunity to take my kid to a concert again? What if I never got to EXPERIENCE a concert again? (Told ya. Maudy McMaudlin.)

And of course there was all the late-night rumination about all the practicalities of the cancer’s potential return: When might chemo start? Would I have to get another port installed, or would I be able to get treatments via IV? Should I volunteer to serve on a committee for a local organization in which I participate, or cool my jets in case that turned out to be more of a commitment than I could handle while undergoing ritual poisoning? Could I make lunch plans with a friend for next month, or was THAT too much of a commitment? Should I shave my head immediately this time, or wait until such point as the haphazard operation of a leaf blower three houses down results in half my tresses taking off in the wind?

Most importantly, how the hell was I going to find a job NOW? It’s bad enough I only have one tit (oh, yeah; Left Eye’s shenanigans got her evicted in a quick late-morning surgery back in January, so I’m currently stuffing half my bra until everything heals up enough for (re-)reconsctruction—which means I fully expect those of you whom I regularly see in person to discreetly check out my rack the next time we’re together), but showing up BALD to an interview (assuming the job doesn’t require a 70s-era, sucker-munching NYC detective or a tanned, muscular mascot for cleaning products)? Fuhgeddabout it.

And most ridiculously (but I make no apologies for it), now that I’ve put months’ worth of effort into knocking 25 pounds off my ass (at this writing, I am officially 2.8 pounds overweight according to BMI calculations, which may be a questionable standard on which to hang one’s hat, but it does provide some sort of ballpark for goal-setting—speaking of which, my goal is to knock off another 10-ish pounds, or to be able to comfortably zip up the patchwork denim skirt that constituted the bottom half of my summer uniform ca. 2001 (the top half consisting of one of three tank tops: the one that said, “Kiss Me,” the one that said “Love Muffin,” or the one that said, “The Allman Brothers Band”) . . . whichever comes first), could I eschew the steroid part of the pre-med cocktail that comes with chemo to avoid packing all that weight back on—or would that kill my appetite so hard that I’d be falling all the way THROUGH the denim skirt within a couple of months?

Can you feel the liiiiiiight insiiiiiiiide, can you feel that fi-yur . . .

Ultimately, though, these questions settled themselves, and—even though I was feeling far less dramatic about my “last chances” by the time the Tyler concert rolled around, I stuck with my decision to be the one to go, and I have zero regrets.

I do, however, have some observations:

1. I could not help feeling some type of way in the middle of a crowd that was easily 70% white, while everyone on stage was Black (show openers were Paris, Texas and Lil Yachty, both of which I’m sure I’m spelling or punctuating incorrectly). Half the country is in favor of ending DEI initiatives, but what TF would their lives be like without (my people’s particular brand of) D?

2. Apparently, they don’t do encores anymore?

My son gave the “bring a friend” ticket to his girlfriend, so I accompanied the two of them, and after Tyler said thank you and goodnight, I stood there hooting and clapping like an idiot while everyone around me started shuffling out. I looked around the arena and EVERYONE was leaving! My kid and his girlfriend were standing there looking at me like, “What’s . . . going on with YOU, weirdo?”

So we left, too.

Mind you, I have no complaints; it was late, every single one of my internal organs felt as if it had been jarred slightly askew by all the Richter-wrecking bass, and that motherfucker worked HARD for two solid hours. He walked away owing me absolutely nothing. But I gotta say, I was surprised when the show ended and everyone just . . . left.

Weird.

3. One thing that has absolutely NOT changed about concerts: drunk AF college girls who make best friends with EVERYONE around them. There were multiple “I love yous” exchanged on the way out.

Overall, though, it was an amazing show! When it got to be kinda late, and Love Tank (having checked the tracker on the kid’s phone) realized we were STILL THERE, he started texting me apologies and IOUs. A smarter woman would have whipped on her martyr panties with a quickness, but my dumb ass confessed that I was actually having a good time! Even though I didn’t know most of the songs, live music makes me happy, and the timing of this particular show turned it into an opportunity to fling my arms up into the air, unclench some things, and shed some serious fucks. It helped me find my way back to some Black-ass joy.

Nonetheless, I was happy to make it home at last, and now I can check that off my list of “Things to do at least once . . . but most likely ONLY once”—especially the part where on the SAME DAY as the Tyler concert, Love Tank and I ALSO hosted a birthday party for our younger dude!

HAP-py birth-dayy tooo yah . . . HAP-py birth-dayy tooo yah . . .

Unlike his brother (who once invited 39 children to a birthday party—somewhat luckily, there was a heavy, whirling snow that day, and only 20-some kids actually made it . . . but I digress), our littler dude has always been pretty low-key in terms of birthday parties. He’s selective about his friends, and typically his invite list doesn’t come near the number of guests the party venue allows (case in point: he had a bowling birthday party a couple of years ago, and the party package came with two lanes; he invited so few kids that he only needed one lane, so Dude the Elder and his girlfriend at the time got the second lane all to themselves).

So imagine our surprise when he initially came up with a birthday plan that involved inviting FIFTEEN KIDS to OUR HOUSE. He had a multi-page plan WRITTEN UP, with no detail left unconsidered: he had various activity stations planned throughout the house; he had accommodations planned for those who wished to play OUTside (ahem—in February, in the Midwest), and for those who might want to escape the madding crowd and hang out in his room; he had a party food list that included all his favorite snacks, plus special offerings of lettuce and almonds for a classmate with multiple food restrictions. (I mean. LETTUCE and ALMONDS, y’all—with a square drawn around those two items, and the child’s name next to them. MY HEART.)

He. Was. READY.

We. Were. NOT.

Not for THAT kinda party, anyway. We tried to explain that our house really couldn’t accommodate 15 kids, and he wasn’t happy about that, but he ultimately rallied from that setback and came up with another birthday party idea: the cat cafe.

You know—one of those places where you can go, sit in a room, and cuddle/pet/play/roll around with free-roaming cats that are up for adoption, with the idea being to find a fur-ever friend (but for us, the idea is merely to periodically satiate whatever cat jones our kids may have going on, because WE ARE NOT GETTING A CAT).

At first, Love Tank and I discouraged that idea; the cat cafe does host birthday parties, but the place (understandably) smells like a litter box, and we were both kinda grossed out by the idea of cat-fur-adorned cupcakes. The kid, however, seemed pretty damn set on the idea, so we compromised: if he limited his guest list to five people—whereby we’d have the capacity (using both of our cars) to transport the kids to our house for snacks and cake after an hour of kitty lovin’—then we’d do the cat cafe.

In the end, he invited EIGHT kids (he’s very persuasive, plus each time he thought of ONE MORE PERSON he wanted to invite, it was a kid we LOVED—and frankly, if you know OUR kid, you understand why we were thrilled he even LIKES that many people), but we were able to recruit another parent (who loves cats, and so stayed at the cafe to pet them, rather than just dropping her kid off and running to freedom, which most parents understandably did) to help us with party guest transport to our house when the feline fun was done.

Overall, the party did not turn out to be as abjectly exhausting as I had anticipated. Our boy got a little overwhelmed by having that many friends at our house (at one point he quietly disappeared upstairs to his room), but the “adoption event” we staged at the house—where each kid got to choose one of the plush cat pillows I bulk-ordered as take-home SWAG—resulted in a 100% adoption rate (we had surplus cats, so those kids who had siblings at home took extras to share) . . .

It did get a LITTLE chaotic (everyone begged to be the first to choose his/her cat (I ended up having them draw numbers), and one kid was woefully disappointed that his first-choice cat got “adopted” before it was his turn), but I would do it ALL again, if only because it gave me the opportunity to totally Rick-roll a bunch of kids with the adoption certificates they got:

Did any of them even notice? No.

Do I believe any of them even knows who Rick Astley is? Also no.

But did I even do it for them? Absolutely not.

Really, none of the shit I do in the name of entertaining children is for the children in question (even when they’re my own children). It’s pretty much all about me.

At any rate, we survived the day, and I got about an hour to cram in a nap once all the kids went home, before we headed out the Tyler concert.

Surprisingly, though I was certain I’d be dead all day the next day (which was Boy the Younger’s actual birthday), the exhaustion didn’t hit me until late in the afternoon, when Love Tank and I accompanied the birthday boy to Target (which is one of his favorite places on earth—at one point, he had actually suggested having his birthday party THERE) to spend some of his birthday money. As we followed him back and forth throughout the toy and game aisles, my legs started feeling all wobbly and spaghetti-like—so after we left (the boy having dropped 60 bucks on a Target truck Transformer), I was THRILLED to fulfill his birthday request to pick up dinner from McDonald’s, and to set up a bed tray so the two of us could eat dinner upstairs in my bed and avoid the Super Bowl, which was the feature attraction downstairs.

All told, it was a banner birthday weekend—but I’d be lying if I said I’m not still recovering.

Perhaps that’s why this weekend’s 2-year milestone celebration has been pretty low-key; Love Tank and I had planned a celebratory stroll through our favorite art museum, but ended up hanging out at home, where I made a chocolate cake for the occasion. (I had planned a fancy flourless number, but the recipe felt a little persnickety and I didn’t want to risk jacking it up, so I just made regular cake in two round cake pans (symbolic, no?), whipped up a ganache glaze, dumped it over both cakes, and sent Boy the Elder next door to give one of the cakes to our neighbors (who’ve been recipients of our baked goods for nearly 20 years now, and it’s not the first time I’ve given them a tit-reminiscent dessert). Turns out he ding dong ditched the cake, so they may not have a clue where it even came from, let alone what we’re celebrating. But I digress.)

After a dinner consisting of a quick and easy pasta dish, we all ate cake and watched Goonies.

This morning, I woke up two hours later than usual, and sick (with a cold), and scrambled to figure out meal plans for the next few days and crank out a grocery list to get us hunker-ready for the bullshit weather coming this week (which will likely result in a school cancellation or two). Once the foraging and gathering of foodstuffs was done, I retreated to the bed for the rest of the day, to wallow in simultaneous self-pity (my nose doesn’t work—BOOOOOO) and gratitude (I got 99 problems, and cancer—for the moment—ain’t one of ’em), and above all, LOVE for all you motherfuckers who read these things all the way to the end.

So now’s about the time when I make my last post of the year — typically something to do with the completion of some part of my treatment. Last December, I’d just acquired new boobs, and the December before that, I was nearing the end of chemo, and starting to dream of one day having eyebrows again.

This year, I have the eyebrows (and the shoulder-length hair to go with!), and I’m long done with chemo — but the tits are giving me grief.

Well. One of them, anyway. But to avoid freaking anyone out:

IT IS NOT “OH-SHIT-THE-CANCER-IS BACK” GRIEF.

She’s just being obnoxious.

Y’all may recall my most recent update, which included the news that my stupid radiated boob (henceforth known as Left Eye) kicked up an infection right around the time of the Presidential election (as if things weren’t red/hot enough).

Well.

The infection cleared up nicely after a couple of rounds of antibiotics, so I leaned into the holidays and was gliding merrily to the end of 2024 (my glide aided tremendously by the ability to start drinking again after those antibiotics) . . .

. . . when one day (a day or two before Christmas), I noticed that Left Eye was looking at me in the mirror.

It was nothing painful, inflamed, oozy, or generally gross — but the incision scar from the mastectomy (and subsequent reconstructive surgery), which had previously run straight across each boob in a single line, was now, on the left side, morphing into more of a football shape (or like a previously closed eye JUUUUUST beginning to open). And in the center of the “opening” (which, again, was not leaking or anything), the skin was lighter in color, and featured some blotchy, bluish, bruisy-looking discoloration.

I yanked Love Tank into our bedroom and flashed him to make sure I wasn’t imagining things (which, now that I think about it, is probably not how he thought that moment would turn out). He confirmed that I wasn’t, and suggested calling the doctor.

So a couple of days later, once the Christmas flooflah died down a bit, I put in a call to my plastic surgeon. He wasn’t in the office, but I spoke with his nurse, and sent her a photo of the morphing mammary, which she said she’d send to him and let me know what he thought. She called back an hour or so later, and said that he wants to see me this coming Friday (January 3). The theory is that the swelling that came along with the cellulitis (aka the infection) put extra pressure on the incision scar. So he MAYYYYYYYYYYYY want to get me into surgery the week AFTER next, to replace that implant with a smaller one and relieve some of the pressure.

Nothing is for certain at this point; all depends on what happens when I see him in person. So I’m trying not to get all het up just yet (I mean, for one thing, if he feels like this can wait a week, I’m guessing I’m not in any grave danger of popping that bad boy) — but I do have questions:

• If he determines that the implant does need to come out to alleviate pressure on the incision scar, are there other options I could consider besides a smaller implant? When I was first deciding what to do about my boobs after the mastectomy, I considered DIEP flap reconstruction; I ultimately decided against it (because it involved a more difficult recovery; they take fat from elsewhere in your body to stuff your new tits, so you get cut open in more places), but would it still be on the table, or am I on the “Implants or Bust” road now?
• If he puts a smaller implant in Left Eye, what happens to the other boob? Will I just rock two different-sized implants (when my right boob is already bigger than Left Eye with the matching implants I have, simply because the skin on that side is more supple and has stretched to accommodate the implant, whereas the radiated skin on Left Eye is clenching that implant so tightly it looks like I’m smuggling a tortoise on the left)?
• If he DOES replace BOTH implants with smaller ones, will the right one (which stretched to accommodate a bigger implant) start looking like a sock with a tennis ball in it? Or will he take up some slack in the skin on that side?
• Will I have to have those awful drains again?

The good news is that (I’m assuming) this would be an outpatient surgery, like the original reconstruction (and UNlike the mastectomy, which involved an overnight hospital stay), and — aside from the drains — the original reconstruction was pretty easy in terms of recovery. Not to mention that I STILL don’t have a job, which (although it makes the idea of medical bills a bit more daunting) means I won’t spend my recovery dreading an overwhelming email inbox once I’m all better.

At any rate, I won’t know anything for a few more days, so I’m just going to continue rolling through the rest of this year and putting this bitch in my rearview, because it sucked BUTTS.

This [was] the end . . . beautiful friend . . .

Before it slips entirely away, however, I figure now is a good time to finish the Nadine story, because — HOLY COW — I am coming up on the ONE-YEAR mark of when that whole thing started. (January 8 was the day we walked into the ER to commence what would be the last month of her life.)

So, where was I?

Ah, yes; so after ten days in the hospital following the fall that broke her hip, my mom was moved into a lovely hospice facility a blessedly short distance from my house, so that I was able to spend my days there (God bless remote work), and then easily head home to sleep at night.

After a few days, my sister arrived in town from Michigan, and we set up a new routine: we spent mornings digging through, sorting, and packing up Nadine’s apartment with the help of our cousin’s spectacular wife Lynda, who drove up from an hour away to help us (which was no small feat given that that old bird kept a tidy-LOOKING apartment, but once we got in there, it turned out that every hidden cranny — cupboards, cabinets, closets, drawers, and behind/under furniture — was CRAMMED CHOCK FULL OF STUFF; ol’ girl had squirreled away enough flotsam in her one-bedroom apartment to easily fill the Playboy mansion), and then spent the afternoons and evenings in the hospice facility with Nadine before heading to our respective beds (mine in my house, my sister’s in my mom’s apartment) to sleep.

During that time, the hospice workers did a great job of keeping us updated on her progression. At that point, she was still lucid, talking, and eating/drinking (chocolate chip cookies from Panera and strawberry shakes from Freddie’s were her most frequent dinner request, but she did manage some soup on occasion), but the trained eyes of the hospice staff naturally picked up on things we were not as likely to notice, like changes in her vitals, etc.

One afternoon, when my sister and I arrived at the facility after a morning mired in our old report cards and the like, the kind woman who greeted us at the front desk recognized us and said, “She’s been seeing her mother today.” She reported to us that, according to my mother, HER mother (Mildred) had been sitting in the corner of her room for most of the morning.

Most of my mother’s children never met Mildred; she died of cancer in the 1950s, so only the eldest of the four of us — my sister Jancy, who was born in 1953, and died in 2005 — had any memory of her. But my mom kept a photo of her prominently displayed in all of her homes, and talked about her frequently and reverently. So it’s no surprise that she’d be chosen as my mom’s afterlife ambassador.

When we walked into the room, my mom looked at us and asked, “Am I going to get a kiss from my mother?” Neither of us knew quite how to answer that (especially in light of the impression we’d been given all our lives that Ms. Mildred was A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH, and who were WE to go making decisions for a spitfire like her about whom she was going to kiss?), so we said, “WE’LL kiss you!” and planted pecks on her forehead, which seemed to satisfy her.

Since I was already aware that seeing deceased loved ones can be a sign of imminent death in hospice patients (particularly the elderly ones), I immediately started texting people (Love Tank, Lynda, and my aunt and uncle in Texas) to inform them of this development.

The day after my sister left to go back to Michigan, my mom’s sister and her husband drove up from Texas to say goodbye. (Luckily, my sister, Lynda, and I had been able to tame the mountain of flotsam that had threatened to bury us alive in that apartment a few days earlier into neatly stacked boxes along the perimeter of the living room and in the closets so that my aunt and uncle could make use of the apartment during their visit as well, and my aunt tackled clearing out the kitchen cabinets during their stay, which was a significant bonus.) The evening they arrived, my mom — who was no longer eating solid foods by then, but was still drinking and taking a sip of soup here and there — talked to them, expressing surprise and happiness to see them.

By the next day, however, she’d taken to sleeping roughly 92% of the time — while I, my aunt, and my uncle hung out in her room and talked to each other. At some point during their visit, she got to the point where she was not really eating OR drinking anymore, but she would occasionally accept mouth swabs dipped in water. (My aunt asked the nurse if we should try dipping the mouth swabs in soup or broth to give her a bit of nourishment, but the nurse said that hospice patients reach a point where their bodily functions are shutting down to such a degree that eating (i.e., creating work for their digestive system as its battery is draining) does more harm than good.)

Although Love Tank was holding down the fort at home, he stopped by to visit relatively frequently, and when he wasn’t there, I kept him updated by phone and text — primarily so that he could keep our elder son (who was Nadine’s absolute favorite person ON THE PLANET; she loved our other son like crazy, and loved the hell out of ME, but my older boy was HER PERSON, no bones about it) in the loop. He explained to Boy the Elder that there was no RIGHT way to handle all of this, but that if he wanted to visit Grandma again (he’d visited her in both hospitals, and during her early days in hospice), (a) time to do so was running short, and (b) he shouldn’t expect the Grandma he was used to (she always said she couldn’t hold a candle to her mother, but Mildred’s sass and fire didn’t fall far from the tree), because she was no longer eating, drinking, talking, or even waking up — but that he could still talk to HER if he wanted to.

In a turn of events that once again left me agape at the Universe’s deft poker skills, he did end up visiting her . . . on a day when he normally wouldn’t have . . . and the timing turned out to be perfect.

Love Tank and I had planned to spend a chunk of that day taking care of a bunch of legal/administrative stuff, so we’d both taken the day off, and we were just about to dig into all the things we needed to handle . . .

. . . when we got a text from Boy the Elder, saying he’d thrown up at school. After some questioning, we were able to determine that he’d taken his medication (which has to be taken WITH FOOD) on an empty stomach, because he’d been running late to school, and by the time he GOT to school, things were not looking so good. Once he threw up, he said, he felt OK — just hungry — but rules is rules, and if you puke at school, yo’ ass has to go HOME.

Only his coming home was going to throw a bit of a wrench into our plans. So we decided, once we picked him up, that this would be a good time for him to go visit Grandma, while we took care of bidness. We dropped him at the hospice — reiterating our warning about the unfamiliar version of Grandma he should expect — and left for a couple of hours.

(Upon rereading this, it occurs to me that this all sounds a lot like Love Tank and I were trying to get our love THANG on at home, and that’s the reason we didn’t want the boy around, but that is NOT the case; what we WERE trying to do was avoid him possibly being privy to some of the (NON-fun) “adult” stuff we had to deal with, because he was already kind of a hot mess.)

When we arrived back at the hospice, our boy was looking at us like, “WTF were y’all ON about?” because contrary to our portrayal of her condition, Grandma was AWAKE! And CHATTY! And FEISTY! And not only DRINKING water, but holding the cup ON HER OWN (and chastising my son for trying to help her).

Because OF COURSE SHE WAS. Anything for THAT BOY.

(The nurse later told me the most touching story: at some point during my son’s visit, she’d come into the room to turn my mom from one side to the other . . .

. . . but my mom — whom she was (at that point) surprised to find awake and staring intensely at my son, who’d fallen asleep on the room’s guest sofa — flatly (and forcefully) REFUSED to be turned to her other side, because then she wouldn’t be able to see him. So the nurse obeyed her wishes and left her to gaze at her boy.

I will love that story for the rest of my life. But I digress.)

After awhile, Love Tank took our boy home, and I stayed on until my bedtime — but once my son had left, my mom went back to sleep, and I never saw her eyes again.

A day and a half later, she was gone.

Break on thru to the other side . . .

It happened in the early morning.

As had become my custom over the previous MONTH, I’d placed my phone RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD in my bed, so as not to miss any middle-of-the-night calls about my mother.

When I woke up at around 5, I saw that I had MISSED A CALL from the hospice at around 3 a.m.

I immediately called back, fearing the worst — but the nurse said my mom was doing OK. The reason for the 3 a.m. call was because my mom’s breathing pattern had changed, and they thought she was close . . .

. . . but then her breathing regulated again, and all was (to the extent possible) “normal” again.

I told her I would head up there immediately, anyway, and didn’t even take the time to change clothes. I hurriedly brushed my teeth, popped my rubber rain boots over my PJ pants, told Love Tank, and headed over to the hospice (which, I remind you, was about 7 minutes away on a normal day, but when you’re speeding and there’s no traffic because it’s the ass-crack of dawn, then I’d say it’s more like 5 minutes).

Because of the early hour, the hospice doors were locked, and I had to buzz to be let in.

So I buzzed.

And waited.

And buzzed.

And waited.

And cussed aloud (I believe I said something like, “This is NOT THE TIME to keep a mothefucker WAITING!”)

Finally, the nurse who’d called me in the middle of the night approached the doors and buzzed me in . . . then she stood holding the door for me, and said, in that voice reserved for death and other bad news (you know, that “melancholy cushion” tone): “Come on in.”

That was pretty much all she had to say, although I suppose at some point shortly thereafter she actually said words to the effect that my mom had died.

I think what happened was that either they went in to check on her around the time I called back and discovered that she had passed — or she legit passed away while I was speed-racing through the darkened streets to get there. In either case, (a) I will ALWAYS HATE that I wasn’t there with her when she died (HOW DID I MISS THAT CALL?) — although people who know her well speculate that it happened exactly the way SHE wanted it; and (b) by the time they let me into the building, they’d cleaned her up, put her in a fresh nightgown, combed her hair, and — this part made me laugh aloud (grief is weird) — put a fresh flower into her clasped hands.

Eventually, my aunt and uncle hit the road back to Texas (which had been their plan that day, anyway), and Love Tank started making calls: the funeral home, my mom’s apartment building, etc.

At some point after school was out, we told my kids that Grandma had died, but I have literally NO MEMORY of that moment whatsoever.

Takin’ care of business . . .

And then the Business End began. Love Tank and I spent the next day choosing and paying for all the things: the obituary (which was written flawlessly by my sister), the funeral, the casket, the gravestone.

Once that was done, we got back to work on the apartment, cleaning out the last few hidey-holes that hadn’t been touched, and watching random items of my mother’s disappear like magic.

It was common practice, in the 55+ apartment building she’d called home for the previous 8 years, for residents to place small tables or curio cabinets outside their apartment doors, and decorate them with photos, figurines, and other tchotchkes.

My mother didn’t do that.

Or at least she didn’t UNTIL, for some reason, she decided last Christmas that she wanted to put a table outside her door, and decorate it with a small Christmas tree. I helped her order an incredibly gaudy little tree that cost a ridiculous amount of money from one of her old lady catalogs, and when it arrived, I helped her set up the table and put together the tree. (Then, when she told my cousin’s wife Lynda on speaker phone that she’d put out her little tree, my cousin barked, “Someone’s going to steal it!” at which point she scuttled it back into her apartment, and I helped her order a really cheap, pathetic-looking tabletop tree to put outside her door. But I digress.)

After she died, the table sat empty outside the apartment, but then Love Tank got the brilliant idea to start putting random items on it, with a sign that said, “FREE.”

More rapid than eagles, the vultures they came!

They swooped in and snagged that stuff faster than we could get it out there, so over the next few days, anytime one of us went by the apartment to continue clearing it out, we’d dump more stuff onto the table. One day, as I was leaving, a kind and genial lady (whom I’d met before, because she appeared to be the resident chatterbox), stopped and thanked me for my generosity — and for my mom’s wine glasses. “I host a resident happy hour,” she said, “and at the next one, we’re going to drink a toast to your mother with her glasses.”

Y’all. The tears.

But again, I digress. The point is that eventually, we got the apartment to the point where we were ready for the clean-out service we hired to come and work their magic. The kind owner of the clean-out company (whom I found via Google) told me on the phone that he didn’t typically do apartments, but he agreed to come by and take a look. He ended up agreeing to do the job, perhaps out of pity for a sad, frazzled middle-aged woman, or perhaps because, as he stated, a place that small wouldn’t take up much of his time, especially since 90% of the items that needed to be cleared out were already in boxes (and the other 10% were pieces of furniture). So he put me on his schedule for a date in the near future, and I signed the agreement. How it works is that he and his crew come and clean out any and everything you tell them to (they would, in fact, have done a lot of the work my family and I had already done); they sell what they can (online), donate the rest, and split the proceeds of whatever they sell with you, 50/50. You do pay an hourly fee for the work, but assuming they sell enough stuff, you still come out ahead, without all the sturm und drang of trying to list the stuff yourself on Facebook Marketplace. SO worth it.

On the day he came back to clear the place out, he brought one of his employees, who was possibly the most interesting (and hilarious) man I’ve ever met. I mean, y’all know I’m the QUEEN of TMI, but I finally met someone who might just match my level of oversharing. Over the course of two hours, I learned many things about him:

1. He does not ever sweat.
2. Because he does not eat any salt whatsoever.
3. He has hair down past his butt (all of which he had tucked up under a do-rag/skull cap combo).
4. His parents live in the area, but he does not ever see or talk to them — not because he has any beef with them, but simply because he is a grown man, and why on earth would a grown man still talk to his parents?
5. He has nine children. (“Do you talk to THEM?” I blurted before I realized how fucking rude that sounded. Once I did, I was so focused on my own embarrassment that I missed his answer.)
6. He is not “full Black.” (This bit of knowledge came after he shared item #3 above with me; I asked him, “How long did it take you to grow your hair that long?” and I’m not sure what HE heard me ask, but his answer was, “Because I’m not full Black; I’m mixed with all kind of stuff.” I probed no further.)
7. He likes to use V8 juice to mix with liquor, so he can drink it while he’s at work, and nobody can tell he’s tippling. (As the two men were leaving my mom’s apartment, they asked me to check and make sure they’d removed everything I needed gone (IOW, everything that wasn’t going either to my house or my sister’s). I checked around, and told them they’d gotten everything; then they asked if I needed them to clean out the fridge, and by the time I said, “No, thanks, I’ll get that,” my new best friend was peering into it and asking what I was going to do with certain items. I told him to help himself, and he walked away with:
   • A couple of 12-packs of soda
   • A carton of eggs
   • A bottle of ranch dressing
   • A 6-pack of V8 (which is how I found out about him gettin’ his workday drank on, but more importantly, it’s how I found out that whole “no salt” thing was a damn LIE; I mean, what the hell do you think makes V8 taste so GOOOOOD?)
   • A pound of butter (ahem — SALTED), and
   • The doggy bag my Texas aunt had brought home from Applebee’s when she and my uncle were here to visit my mom in hospice.

But hey, I guess with NINE KIDS to feed . . . )

Overall, they did amazing work (they even offered to CLEAN the apartment, but I already had my mom’s regular cleaning lady scheduled for one last scrub down once the place was fully emptied), and it was a huge, sad-but-relieved exhale to have that done.

You’re as cold as ice . . .

The funeral, held in Topeka (where my mom lived most of her life, and had already purchased a burial plot), was miserable — not only because of the sadness of the occasion, but also because, in true Nadine fashion, my mother zinged us one last time by arranging for ELEVEN-DEGREE temperatures on the day of her GRAVESIDE service. Day before AND the day after? Temps in the 40s. Day of the funeral? ELEVVVVVVENNNNNNN. The one good thing about that is that the service was incredibly short, to prevent anyone from freezing their tuchis off.

We hadn’t put any details in the published obituary about a date and time for the service, and so only asked the funeral home to provide a dozen or so chairs, for my family, my sister’s family, my cousin and his wife (and possibly a cousin or two more from both sides of the family), and my Texas aunt and uncle.

Imagine my surprise when a shit ton of my sweet in-laws arrived (they drove almost TWO HOURS, in multiple cars, to stand in the cold for literally like 15 minutes), along with people from my mom’s former church and social circles (guess word gets around anyway). Can’t say I fully recognized ALL of them, because they’d bundled themselves up thoroughly enough, in defense against the cold, to rob a liquor store.

Which may be what some of them did after the service, so as not to waste all that effort on 15 minutes of frigid.

And then it was . . . done. My sister’s family and mine drove back to the Kansas City metro, and had lunch together at Bonefish, which my mom loved for the bang bang shrimp (so of course we got some). The next day, my sister’s family headed back to Michigan, and we both started Life Without Nadine.

My birthday was harder than I thought it would be.

Memorial Day (when we went to Topeka to decorate gravesites, as has been my family’s tradition since well before I arrived on the planet, but this year, hit WAY different) was harder than I thought it would be.

Nadine’s birthday was easier than I thought it would be — and as a bonus, someone finally used her wedding china (a gorgeous pattern consisting of a single black rose on a white background)! I inherited it when she moved from her house into her apartment, but nobody had ever used it. So for her birthday, we busted it out and ate KFC on it (she loved KFC, but I don’t like it, so it was exceedingly rare for our weekly Wednesday-night dinners with Grandma to feature the Colonel (though on occasion, she’d put her foot down and demand some Original Recipe drumsticks) — however, I figured I could suck it up in honor of what would have been her 94th birthday).

Thanksgiving and Christmas (both of which we typically spent with her) were easier than I thought they’d be.

It will be interesting to see how the rest of the “first year” goes; there are no more holidays and such to get through — but the time period between January 8 and February 5 will be the big, extensive anniversary of that sucktastic month I spent slowly, slowly letting my mama go.

We’ll see how that goes.

In the meantime, I am READY to celebrate the end of 2024, do you hear me? I mean, since 2020, it seems each year has told the former year to hold its beer in terms of sucktasticity, but I’d be lying if I said no turd blossoms had come out of some of the bullshit.

As always, Y’ALL are some of those flowers.

So what the hell, I’ll give 2025 a try, see what happens.

POSTSCRIPT

OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS. I hate Left Eye SO MUCH. 

I started this blog post earlier this afternoon (after a lovely walk with Love Tank in sunshine and mid-50s temps). I was reading back through it and making edits when I looked up and realized it was time to start dinner. So I put my laptop aside and turned to get off my bed . . . 

 . . . which is when I felt the PAAAAIIIIN. 

Pain like the pain I felt when that recent infection developed. 

I went into the bathroom to check out the situation, and saw that Left Eye was once again red, hot, and slightly swollen. 

FOR THE MUTHAFUCKIN' LOVE. 

I took my temperature, and so far, no fever. But NOW I'm hopped up on ibuprofen, and planning to call the plastic surgeon (AGAIN) in the morning. 

This bitch needs to sit ALL THE WAY DOWN. I am sick of her bullshit. 

DOOOOOOOOOD. I just left y’all pantsless on a windy mountaintop, didn’t I?

And quite frankly, I’m not sure how much butt cover I have to give you NOW, because there has been SO MUCH.

And I know I haven’t even given you Part 2 of the Nadine saga.

I’m honestly not sure which road to go down first.

I’ll start by saying that, healthwise, things are pretty good. I’m THIIIIIIIIIS CLOSE to the two-year “cancer-free” mark (I was told that if it doesn’t come back in the first two years, it’s less likely to return) . . .

. . . but of course there are acorns, twigs, dead birds, and wayward toddlers in the path — namely, a couple of things we’ve been “keeping an eye on” over the past several months:

If your nerves are getting nervous . . . [it’s because they’re] at your service . . . Thing Two and Thing One.

Back in late April of this year, I noticed a firm, lumpish thing on the outside edge of Bad Boob^TM — so I immediately booked an appointment with Dr. Cool and Calm’s nurse practitioner. Upon seeing me and feeling for herself, she said she didn’t think it was a malignancy, “but,” she said, “let’s do an ultrasound, just for fun.”

Don’t have to twist MY arm (as y’all know, I’ve been a little clenched about the fact that I would not automatically receive regular scans to check for repeat “little c” engagements, but would instead be reliant on my oncologist to order them IF he felt something needed to be checked out). I was told I’d be contacted the next week or so from the hospital, to schedule the warm jelly jam.

A few days later, I received an email from the hospital, with instructions to call and schedule my appointment — but in the meantime, I’d begun to feel a little pain just below my left shoulder blade. Not enough pain to keep me from functioning, but noticeable nonetheless. So I called Dr. CaC’s office back, and told them about it. I said I hadn’t scheduled the ultrasound yet, and wondered if I should continue with that scheduled programming, or do something different. I was told to go ahead and schedule the ultrasound for the boob, and that I would also be getting a CT scan for the other thing.

Long story short, the ultrasound results came back “unremarkable,” (never in my life have I been so delighted to be ordinary), and the CT scan showed a nodule on my left lung, “consistent with radiation damage.”

I was told to follow up with another ultrasound in three months, and another CT scan in six months.

The three-month ultrasound results again came back as “probably benign;” however, the suggestion was for another three-month follow-up.

In late October/early November, then, I got stripped down, gowned up, and studied internally via both wand and contrast dye. Again, the radiologist who checked out my ultrasound results said he was “not excited” (which is GOOD news; medical shit is weird) about it. He said it was likely scar tissue, and that it seemed, in fact, to have gotten smaller since the last scan. He said he didn’t see a compelling reason to try to do a biopsy (which involved the risk of puncturing my implant), but that if it continued to be an issue, we might consider one in the future.

As for the CT, the same nodule appeared . . . but now it’s kind of a thing. At my follow-up appointment with Dr. CaC, he indicated that it’s 5-10 mm in size, which means that it’s too small to biopsy, and that he can’t say for sure whether it’s grown in size . . . but whereas the previous report labeled it as radiation damage, Dr. CaC now says we don’t know what it is. So in three months, he wants another CT scan . . .

AAAAAAAND he wants a CA 27.29 blood test.

Mind you, HE did not say anything to me about ordering this blood test; I found out from the nice lady whose desk I visited on my way out of the office, to schedule my next check-up. Check-up scheduling always involves scheduling a date with a needle (which NEVER GETS ANY EASIER . . . *shudder*) the day before, for lab work that Dr. CaC can review before we meet. This time, the scheduler casually said, “Let’s see, he wants a CA 27.29 this time, and those results can take a little longer, so we’ll need to get you in for the blood draw maybe TWO days before your appointment this time.”

I asked what a CA 27.29 was.

She said she didn’t know, exactly.

So I Googled. You, too, can Google Fu, but basically, it’s a blood test to check for the recurrence of cancer. So clearly he’s a little concerned about this lung nodule.

Meanwhile, here I sit, a personified version of theater masks: happy that the concerns I raised in April are CERTAINLY not being ignored (early detection is everything), but sad — nay, ANNOYED AF — that celebration of my two-year “anniversary” (February 15) could end up being curtailed by the start of another treatment plan.

DAMMIT, I’m just now achieving a decent ponytail!

BUT there’s nothin’ to do at this point except dig up as much joy as I can en route to that bridge, so I’m choosing to lean into the “happy” part mentioned above, AND the knowledge that SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT, after the last couple of years I’ve had? I can fuckin’ survive damn near anything, so BRING IT.

Well, I can tell by your game, you’re gonna start a FLA-hame . . .

In the meantime, Bad Boob^TM continues to make her presence known, in the form of a FUCKING INFECTION.

Yep, thazz right: a couple of days after my Scan Extravaganza, I noticed pain in Ol’ “Left Eye” (because come on, what better name for my mischievous left mammary?) as I was doing the bending and lifting concomitant with house cleaning.

Since normally, they’re both numb AF (and since the pain wasn’t bad — just noticeable), I thought, “Huh . . . I wonder if this is some nerves coming ‘back online’ after a 2-year hiatus . . . “

Once I finished my chores, the pain subsided, and I thought nothing of it for the rest of the day . . .

But the NEXT MORNING (which happened to be Election Day) . . . LAWWWWWWWD, JESUS, I woke up in SO. MUCH. PAIN.

Like the doof I am, I assumed that, like the day before, the pain would eventually subside (even though it was worse this time, and I was unable to raise that arm parallel to my head), so I went about my morning, making cinnamon rolls and vegetable dip for my neighbor’s upcoming Election watch party that evening.

By lunchtime, though, Left Eye was utterly aflame (much like Andre Rison’s house after her namesake’s lost temper), and the rest of me was chilled to the bone.

Uh-oh.

I grabbed a thermometer, and discovered I was one hot tamale, sitting at 100.7, so like any mature, reasonable person . . .

. . . I called Love Tank at work, choking back tears of self-pity.

Like an ACTUAL adult, he suggested I call the doctor, and said he’d head home immediately in case there was an ER visit in our near future.

While he was en route, I called both Dr. CaC and my plastic surgeon (the latter being a brilliant Love Tank suggestion), and by the time he arrived home, I was juggling callbacks like a circus performer (each nurse had a knack for calling precisely when I was on the line with the other). Once all the dialing was done, however, the plastic surgeon called in a prescription for antibiotics I was to start immediately, and scheduled me for a visit the next day; and Dr. CaC, satisfied with that course of action, said he would wait to see me until my next regularly-scheduled appointment.

So that night, still feeling puny, I dragged my soreness and my triple-digit glory to my neighbor’s house to watch the whole damn country go down in flames right alongside my left jug. And thanks to the antibiotics, I COULDN’T EVEN DROWN MY MISERY IN ALCOHOL.

Love Tank and I ended up heading home a little earlier than anticipated, because as the returns came in, I started swirling the drain both physically and emotionally.

SIDE NOTE WITH KIDDING ASIDE: Y'all may never have seen me "get political" — on my blog, or my Facebook, or anywhere — and while I could argue that my feelings about the  matter are NOT political but, in fact, incredibly personal to me and people I love, like, and hell, a bunch of people I don't even know (many of whom I might possibly DISlike), I won't, because that would be a HUGE digression from the point, which is this: 

I AM UTTERLY HORRIFIED by the election of Donald Trump for another term as POTUS. Consider that ON THE RECORD, and if that changes your feelings about me or this blog for the worse, you may now take your leave (because if you're HAPPY about this, quite frankly, that changes MY feelings about YOU). 

If it changes your feelings for the BETTER, stick around for more about my tits.

The next morning, the fever had broken, and I was feeling better physically . . . but emotionally, I was still a wreck — as evidenced by my visit with the plastic surgeon.

I saw him mid-morning on Wednesday, and he advised me to take it easy through the weekend, keep up with the antibiotics, and apply warm compresses 2x a day. He said that since there was no evidence of broken skin (cuts, scratches, wounds), there was no way to tell what had caused the infection (although he floated a theory that the pressure of the wand during my recent ultrasound may have been a factor).

He also nearly earned himself a fat lip.

I had told him that I first noticed the pain on Monday, in the middle of a cleaning spree that involved a lot of bending and reaching. When he told me to take it easy for a few days and lay off the housework, I said lightly, “Don’t have to throw a brick at ME!” and he said, “If you want, I can write you a note to that effect, FOR YOUR HUSBAND.”

Then he went on babbling while I processed that big ball of WTF.

I was still livid when I walked out, but once my cooler head kicked in, I (having “known” him for a couple of years now) decided it was a poor (and HORRIBLY TIMED) attempt at a joke.

That evening, I talked to my sister, who felt like it was NOT a joke, but a genuine attempt to be helpful, because so many women have husbands who expect them to keep the house spotless and get dinner on the table, in sickness and in health.

I can’t decide which is worse.

Anyway , after my appointment, I went home, ate lunch, took some Tylenol (all pain killer, even OTC, makes me sleepy, so I typically don’t take it during the day), and passed out for a couple of hours with a heating pad across my chest.

It was kinda glorious.

I’ve seen the plastic surgeon once more since then (he made no ill-advised jokes), and he says I’m doing well; the localized heat and redness has subsided, as has the fever — but there’s still some lymphatic swelling in the area, and my range of motion on that side is still sketch., so he put me on a second round of antibiotics, which I just finished. I’ll see him again the day before Thanksgiving, and hopefully won’t wind up on yet ANOTHER round of antibiotics, because Mama wants wine with her turkey and stuffing!

It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)

In the meantime, I feel fine. Emotionally, I’m still a little WTF, but because I’m in a pretty good place physically, I’ve taken to walking 3-4 miles most days, which is helping all the things.

On that note, I have to shout out a phenomenal group of my absolute favies.

Way (WAAAAAYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEE) back in high school, my core group of pals consisted of five amazing humans: all whip-smart, hilarious, talented, fun . . . and all dying to get TF out of Kansas, which we all eventually did, taking up residence across the U.S. and the globe, from Germany and Morocco to New York, Minnesota, Washington State, Washington, DC, North Carolina, Tennesee, Georgia, California, and Texas.

I’m the only dumbass who came BACK to Oz after I escaped. (Then again, if I hadn’t, I might have wound up married to some Love Tricycle mofo who gave me ugly children, so I think this worked out well, don’t you? Because have you seen my babies? But I digress.)

My dad dubbed us “The Rat Pack,” and although I kept up with most of them through college, once we graduated, a lot of that fell apart the further we got from the bralessness and lawlessness of our early 20s.

Oh, I spoke to, and even saw, a couple of them somewhat regularly over the years (likewise, others of us were communicating in pairs) — but ultimately, I lost touch with most of them . . . until one of us (who wasn’t me) got her act together (and scraped up the contact info) to reunite ALL of us on a Zoom call a couple of years ago. Since then, I’ve been in regular contact with ALL of them.

They are magnificent. For many reasons, really, but most recently because our group chat has become a refuge for our collective misery over the election results — and has led to the collective creation of the Best Spotify Playlist in the Goddamn World^TM.

The Sunday afternoon following the election, on my daily neighborhood meander, I queued up U2’s The Joshua Tree for musical accompaniment. It wasn’t totally out of the blue; the night before, I’d agreed to a movie night with my 3rd grader, and he chose Sing 2, starring none other than Bono himself. After the movie, I tried playing the original version of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” for the boy, but he was unimpressed. Since it was still on my mind the next day (and it had been decades since I’d heard the whole album end to end), I decided I’d take a solo trip back to 80s-era adolescent angst.

OMG, that shit was SO. GOOD.

So good that I followed it up with yet another album that featured prominently in my pubescent sturm und drang: Sting’s Dream of the Blue Turtles. Say WHAAAAAAAT? Oh, yes, I DID. Consider Me Gone. y’all. I done Work[ed] the Black Seam with ALL the Russians.

(Another side note: Does anyone over the age of 25, who is not an actual musician, still spend time just listening to music? I mean, without doing anything else? I listen to plenty of music — while I’m cleaning, while I’m cooking, while I’m walking, running, driving — but back in the day, I would just lie on my bedroom floor, headphones on, and do NOTHING but listen. Do people still do that once they’ve acquired a mortgage? The closest I get these days to JUST LISTENING to music is if Love Tank is like, “Hey, remember that song . . . ?” and if I don’t, he’ll play it for me. And typically when that happens, I am actually sitting still, but otherwise . . . Anyway, DIGRESSION R US. Back to it . . . )

When I returned from my walk, I messaged The Rat Pack, because who better to appreciate my rediscovery of such integral chunks of our high school soundtrack?

Then one of us (the professional musician, go figure) got the BRILLIANT idea that we should all collaborate on a Spotify list of songs we used to listen to back then . . .

By Sunday night, we’d essentially created an aural time machine stuffed with REM, The Police, Tracy Chapman, INXS, Prince, Sting, The Clash, The Cure, Janet Jackson, Violent Femmes, OMD, Salt-n-Pepa, Depeche Mode . . . the list goes on . . .

. . . and it is a thing of such motherfucking beauty and delight! I crank it up for every walk, and sometimes — when it hits just right — I think we all just might survive this shit show.

And the Beat[ing] Goes On . . .

So now that you’re caught up on my recent health news (which was once the point of this blog), I have more news . . .

I ain’t got no job.

Thazz right, folx — in addition to my mother’s month-long hospital/hospice stay (and ultimate death), the first half of 2024 also brought a 25% RIF at my place of employment in May . . .

. . . and I was part of the 25%.

And it just so happened that I got canned on the last day of school for both of my boys, so when my elder son (who’d had struggles of his own throughout the school year) came home from that last half-day feeling jovial and chesty, having pulled off a 3.5 GPA with all As and Bs (I won’t go into detail, but trust me when I say that this was a mid-sized miracle, given where his grades and his motivation were a mere MONTH earlier) . . .

. . . we instantly shot a hole right through his balloon by telling him that I’d just lost my job, and therefore our grand plan to officially hand my car down to him (and buy a NEW car for me) was not going to happen.

In the end, through a series of events both unfortunate and fortunate (depending on who you’re talking to), he did end up with my car, and I ended up with a new one (a lovely Honda CRV Hybrid named Toot Toot).

Because it would take more time than ANYONE has to tell that story (which is kinda boring, anyway), I’ll itemize it:

1. Boy the Elder and I began the summer break “sharing” my old car (which mostly involved him taking it places, since even when I was working, I was 100% remote, so where did I have to go?).
2. A couple of weeks in, he was on his way home from trying to score free ice cream from a friend who worked at an ice cream shop (in the end, he paid for his frosty treat), and the engine seized up a block from our house.
3. Our only options, as presented to us by our favorite mechanic, were a new engine or a new car.
4. So we bit the bullet and bought a new car. Again, we broke the kid’s heart, because buying a brand new car meant there’d be no car for him to drive regularly; at that point, both of our cars would be too new to hand over to someone in his Questionable Decisions era.
5. Then, while sitting in the dealership, waiting for our new car paperwork to come off the printer, Love Tank asked, “OK, so what’s the MOST you’d be willing to pay to fix your old car for Boy the Elder?”
6. I said $5,000. He agreed.
7. We ended up spending twice that.
8. But we got a 12-month/12,000-mile warranty on the new (used) engine . . .
9. . . . which is GOOD, seeing as we’ve had that [BLEEEEEEP]er back at the shop almost half a dozen times, because the “Check Engine” light tends to make routine appearances (at this point, she’s shown up so often that we’ve named her Sherry).
10. In fact, we’re taking the car back to the shop tomorrow, because Sherry has returned.

In addition to a new car (and a new engine for the old one), we have also had to buy a new washer and dryer over the past few months, because our washing machine started emitting SMOKE (setting off the smoke alarm and everything) while Boy the Elder was doing laundry a couple of months ago.

(Seems to me that Boy the Elder is the problem, here; it’s a good thing he’s so cute.)

And of course there have been all the boob-related medical bills, in addition to dental work for Boy the Younger (who unfortunately inherited teeth made of paper from MY gene pool) . . .

It’s been a lot for folks working with HALF their normal income.

But on the “good expenses” side of the balance sheet, we enjoyed two amazing trips over the summer: one to Minnesota (where the boys spent a week at camp while Love Tank and I took Toot Toot on a weeklong roadtrip stretching into Canada, and where I was able to look dead in the eyeballs of one of my Rat Pack homies for the first time in multiple decades), and one to New Orleans, to celebrate the birthday of my absolute favorite Sister-in-Law, while eating all the powder-covered poofs, drinking all the bourbon, and sweating away all of those calories in the sultry summah heat.

In addition, Love Tank and I took a short road-trip zip to Louisville, KY, to celebrate our 21-year anniversary, and came back clanking with liquor souvies. And although I initially cancelled our annual Texas trip upon my loss of employment, the boys and I ultimately did end up driving south to visit our favorite family people.

All in all, it was a pretty good summer. In addition to the trips, I spent time (which otherwise would have been spent at work) at my neighbor’s pool; I watched Boy the Elder teach Boy the Younger how to ride a bike AND how to swim; I met friends for long lunches, coffee dates, and afternoon drinkies; I got some years-overdue deep-cleaning projects done; I got back on top of weekly meal planning (limited as we now are in the option to (literally) “phone it in” and order takeout); I spent long, lazy mornings chatting on porches with neighbors and admiring each other’s spring planting efforts . . .

What I did not do, of course, was update this blog. Because surprisingly, I managed to fill each day chock full (I tell ya, if not for the whole “BROKE” aspect of it all, I would make a damn good lady of leisure), and approximately four and a half days later, the whole blang summer was over.

I had this grand fantasy of landing a gig sometime around the start of school, and kicking off this fall with a renewed sense of purpose, a little more structure, and — most importantly — MORE MONEY leading into the holidays.

And for a minute there, it looked like the Universe was about to deliver! Starting in August, I was engaged with FOUR different organizations back-to-back, swinging through the hiring-process jungle like Tarzan: by the time I’d gotten to the end of the interview process with one organization, I’d have started the interview process with another, so that when each rejection ultimately came, the sting was greatly mitigated by the fact that the next vine was already in my hand.

Eventually, though, the next vine failed to materialize, and I was feeling more like George of the Jungle.

Since that heady time, I’ve had little nibbles here and there — enough to keep me from giving all the way up and selling foot pics on the internet — but at this point, I’m sliding into the holiday season with the idea that, barring a miracle, I’m probably going to be “off” for the remainder of 2024.

Whether that means I will EVER get to Part 2 of the story about my mom, I’m not sure. But I’ve got at least another month to find out . . .

As always, wish me luck, and thanks for being here! (Except for those of you who already left for “political” reasons.)

That’s right, y’all. The end of this here tunnel is coming into view.

If all goes as planned, I will emerge, squinting, from this (by that time) year-long underground adventure on September 23.

On that morning, I will take my last oral chemo pills—and at that point (again, crossing everything I have two of (yep—even those) that no surprises occur between now and then), my treatment will be complete.

So here’s the countdown breakdown:

• Radiation — last treatment on May 22
• Immunotherapy — last treatment on August 15
• Oral chemo — last gulp on September 23

Now that surgery’s in the rearview and I have started all three of the above (the immunotherapy being the one PRE-surgery treatment that has continued post-surgery; the rest are new), and have more of an idea of how it’s going to work, I do have a few updates/corrections to make from my last post.

First of all, I originally thought I was going to be on the chemo pills for a year, because the letter my insurance company sent to let me know that the medication had been approved said that they’d approved twelve 30-day cycles (which is just a handful of days shy of a year). So I girded my loins for that . . .

. . . but happily, that’s not the case; when I met with Dr. Cool-and-Calm’s nurse practitioner to talk about dosage, side effects, etc., she let me know that I’d be taking the medication for EIGHT 21-day cycles (each cycle consisting of 14 days of twice-daily pill popping (three pills each pop) and 7 days of “rest”), which works out to about six months. I received the meds (which arrive by mail) on Friday, April 7, and started taking them that night, so my last dose will then happen on a beautiful (no matter WTF the weather’s like) Saturday morning in September.

As for the radiation, which I started on April 12, I was originally told I’d have 33 treatments. When I met with the radiologist today (after my first official week of radiation), however, I learned that I will actually only be having 28 treatments. Apparently, 33 is the maximum number of treatments, so they tell most patients they’ll be having (and schedule them for) that many—then adjust later if necessary, once they get the plan figured out based on each individual case. Weird, I know, but the nurse explained that it works a lot better THIS way than it does to give a patient an initial estimate that turns out to be LOWER than the amount of treatments they end up needing. This way, if there’s a surprise, it’s a good one.

But really, aside from the fact that it’s NOT ACTUALLY GOOD FOR YOU (although it’s useful if you have cancer), I gotta say I don’t mind radiation a-tall! I have a standing 8 a.m. appointment every week day, so I leave my house around 7:30 (without morning traffic, I could probably leave around 7:40, but it’s worth 10 extra minutes of car singing each way to get it done first thing). Once I get there, I check myself in by booping a little plastic card across a scanner. Then someone comes to fetch me and usher me into a private changing room, where I ditch my shirt and don a gown (keeping my pants and shoes on), lock up my belongings, and give some nice ladies my name and birthdate. At that point, I get escorted to a table in a lovely dark room (enhanced by back-lit ceiling art, which is lost on me because I close my eyes during the treatment), where I lie comfortably for ten minutes, covered in warm blankets and feeling nothing. Honestly, the worst part is that they drape a little square of brass mesh material (reminiscent—to me, anyway—of a disco halter top) over my exposed chest, and YOWZA! That sucker is COLD! (Since that first day, they’ve made a point of warming it up a little by draping it across my legs and placing the warm blanket on top of it for a minute or so before we get started . . . but it’s still mufuggin’ cold.) Otherwise, though, if not for periodic instructions to hold my breath, I could totally get a little snooze in during treatment.

And while I’m aware that the side effects from both the radiation and the chemo meds could increase over time, at this point I still feel pretty normal: no obvious side effects from the chemo pills (the ones I was told were most likely to occur are diarrhea and hand & foot syndrome—so I’ve been bracing for THAT potential ball-o-fun, but so far, nothing), and no skin burning from the radiation. I feel mild tingling maybe an hour or so after treatment some days—like a sunburn coming on—but all I do is slap some lotion on, and I’m good (I’ve yet to even use the prescription cream they gave me for the occasion—but the nurse told me today that I should go ahead and start using that sooner rather than later; I don’t have to wait for discomfort).

This may have something to do with the fact that, per post-op instructions from the plastic surgeon, I have been moisturizing my chestal area for a few weeks now. When I met with him to have my bandages removed, he said something to the effect of, “You can start using lotion in this area now, because that’s what your skin is used to.”

And I said nothing, but inside, I was thinking, “Uhhhh, WHUH . . . ? Are there people out there in them streets who are lotioning their tits?? Because I can assure you, mister, that these (former) ladies are NOT, in fact, ‘used to’ that.” Still, in anticipation of getting my expanders filled, I thought it might be of use to have more pliable skin in that area. Plus, a generous and swanky friend sent me some super-bougie oils for just that reason, so it seemed like the universe was telling me to grease up the girls. But I digress. Point is, maybe my religious moisturization of late is why the radiation has had little negative effect on my skin thus far. OR maybe it’s just too soon for me to get crispy. I suppose time will tell.

For the love of money

In other news, well . . . there’s NOT much other news. Life is (blessedly) pretty boring, aside from a few annoying insurance issues. Nothing major—I still feel really fortunate to have skated through thus far without the hairball of denials and appeals some folx go through—but basically the sea monkey (aka the hospital) has my money.

Because of the exhorbitant costs of both my last couple of chemo treatments (which occurred in January) and, of course, my surgery (in February), it took no time at all for me to reach my out-of-pocket maximum for 2023.

In fact, I thought I’d reached it after the first three bills came through. So imagine my surprise, after shelling out for those bills, to get a bill from one of my physicians (let’s call him Dr. Money Grabs) for roughly a thousand dollars! Thus began a close and personal phone relationship with my insurance company.

The first person I talked to said that the bill in question was eligible for reprocessing; she’d put it through the system again, and payment would be issued to Dr. Money Grabs within 10-15 business days.

The second person I talked to (the next day) happily agreed to phone Dr. MG’s office on my behalf and explain the situation, so it wouldn’t look like I was trying to skip out on my bill or anything. (Which was the whole reason for my call, so yay.)

The third person I talked to MANY days later, when I called back because I’d received an EOB showing “patient responsibilities” I didn’t understand (I thought I was done being a responsible patient for the year). She confused the living hell out of me, but one thing I got out of the conversation was that the claim for Dr. Money Grabs had ALREADY been reprocessed, and had, in fact, been billed correctly . . . so I still owed that money.

Because she was so confusing, and because our (40-minute!) conversation had run right up into school pick-up time for my littler dude, I thanked her politely, hung up, and whined to Love Tank, who kindly provided me with the receipts, as it were, to prove we’d already been billed for (and paid) the out-of-pocket maximum, so that I could call back armed.

The fourth person I talked to explained the situation A LOT more clearly (in the course of a roughly 12 minute call): What happened was that we got a HUGE bill from the hospital (eating up more than 90% of my out-of-pocket maximum), paid it (along with a couple of other piddly ones that sucked up the rest of the maximum) . . .

. . . and then, six days after we paid that big-ass bill, for reasons only God and The Shadow know, that claim got ADJUSTED, so that we actually owed $1000 LESS than what we’d already paid. Shortly thereafter, Dr. MG’s (hefty) claim came through—and because, according to the insurance company, I was now (thanks to that adjusted claim) still $1000 short of my out-of-pocket max, then I still owed a thousand bucks on Dr. MG’s bill.

So at this point, I have shelled out a thousand bucks MORE than my out-of-pocket maximum . . . and now get to begin the super-fun journey of getting the hospital to reimburse us for those extra thousand bucks we paid on that big-ass hospital bill. (Oh, and did I mention? The pluckers have now sent a SECOND BILL for the amount of the adjusted claim, like they ain’t already have too much of my money!)

So I guess the lesson in all of this is that it DOES NOT PAY to pay your bills on time!

And for real: how the fleck do people deal with this when they DO NOT have the good fortune of a decent savings account? I mean, there was a time in my own life where I most certainly did NOT have a thousand bucks to just fling around, and something like this would have sucked me under like a rip tide—so the fact that despite all this, my family has still been eating dinner is not lost on me.

And I suppose that’s the whole point of trussing myself up in a bejeweled leather number and traipsing down a runway for the Bra Couture fundraising event, which is in . . . holy shit . . . three days! I spent Sunday afternoon at a dress rehearsal, and that’s when I learned that each bra is auctioned off (which part I knew) WHILE THE PERSON MODELING THAT BRA IS STILL ON THE RUNWAY IN THAT BRA (which part was news to me).

“Don’t just stand there!” we were told; we’re supposed to be working the crowd, upping the bid!

This is going to be excruciating for me. But I guess it’s the least I can do, given that I’m not generating much money for the event through ticket sales—and given the fact that I understand even more accutely now why this money is necessary.

Wish me luck!

If you sing a song today, you will make a better way

I’m sorry, y’all; I just have to do something here to counteract the fact that the title of this blog post calls to mind the absolute worst song by one of the absolute best bands on the planet.

If you know me, you know that my constant complaint is that September is all the Earth, Wind, and Fire many people know. AND THERE ARE SO MANY BETTER SONGS (my knowledge of which is 100% owing to my sister; she gave me Earth, Wind & Fire, my brother gave me Boston, Steve Miller, and Kraftwerk, and my other sister gave me Marvin Gaye, The Dramatics, and The Isley Brothers . . . my childhood in my family was the musical gift that kept on givin’ . . . but I digress).

And I’ll say it—Boogie Wonderland ain’t it, either (although it’s better than September).

Allow me, then, to offer up nine of my favorite Earth, Wind & Fire songs (one for each member of the group) as penance for the title of this post. Listen to as many or as few as you’d like, but I hope you find at least one that makes you put dusty old September in a drawer.

For belting out in the car with the windows down (there will be waving of hands, but try to keep one on the wheel at all times):

Sing a Song
Sunshine (This one has a hella catchy refrain.)

For car-free (and carefree) occasions when you can wave both hands in the air with impunity:

Serpentine Fire
Devotion (This one has a special place in my heart—and, evidently, my psyche—because once, about 30 years ago, I had a dream in which I was sitting behind the pulpit in a church, and Earth, Wind & Fire came busting through the sanctuary doors in white spandex jumpsuits with colorful feathers down the sleeves, singing this song; I woke myself up laughing with delight.)

If your booty wants to join the party and wave itself around a little, too:

Happy Feelin’
On Your Face

For belting out in the shower (where good bathroom acoustics can take your game to the next level):

Fantasy (I mean, the opening instrumentals alone are worth the price of admission, but there is also the opportunity to SANG.)
I’ll Write a Song For You (WARNING: if you’re new at attempting to channel Philip Bailey, you could injure yourself with this one; it starts off slow and easy, but by the end, you’ll wish you’d stretched first.)

And finally, this one is good for whatever you need in the moment: you can belt it out, wave it out, or shake it out—it’s the whole potato.

In the Stone

Enjoy! And, as always, THANK YOU for hangin’ in. Y’all fill me with—ahem—Gratitude.

(Woops. Guess that makes TEN. But come on, how could I pass that one up in the face of so much love?)