The “little c” chronicles, Part 22: Lawd, Jesus.

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 100.4, 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'd 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 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 prime Questionable Decisions years.
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, 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.

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; 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. But 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 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 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.)