The Fucking Psychic Was Wrong aka What To Wear to Chemo

A single drop. One single drop at a time, over the course of three hours. Treatment number two; only six more to go.  I watched the poison – the “draino” as we called it – drip into the arm of my Big Susan, Neiman. You see, Neiman has breast cancer.

Just writing that makes me catch my breath and causes a deep pain in my chest.  This year was supposed to be different.  The psychic said so.  The new people this year brought to her life weren’t supposed to be oncologists, pathologists and care coordinators.  This year is our 20 year friend-a-versary and we wanted to take a trip to celebrate our two decades of putting up with each with nary a cross word.  A trip to the hospital is not what we had in mind.  Unfortunately, being a part of this is sadly familiar to me.  The thought of losing a friend – of losing Neiman – makes me lose my breath and I am scared.  But, I don’t tell her that. 

I know I must see her, be with her and help in any way that I can. The helping is secondary to just seeing her and being in her world.  I took treatment number two.  Why? Because, week two, after 14 days of the poison coursing through her veins and likely around the time of the second treatment, Neiman would lose her hair.  She may be western born and bred but four years of college in Texas gave her not only a degree but a whole different kind of seriousness about hair – or the lack thereof.

I arrived Wednesday night.  We were so happy to see each other; sick about the reason. The conversation is familiar and safe and then moves to the 800-lb cancer gorilla in the room.  How she feels, how her boob has healed (happily displaying said boob as she says, “My boob is now like my hand, anyone can see it.”) She showed me her regimen of pills and supplements.  I met the new dog.  I saw her thinning hair and the new wigs in between our regular catch up routine of surveying what is new in one another’s houses and closets.

It's a chemo cocktail

Chemo day is easy, relatively speaking. Relaxing morning and lunch with an old friend.  Would have been like any other visit – except for that whole cancer thing. Instead of looking at magazines, I reviewed her cancer notebook – full of surgical plans, pathology reports, treatment options and notes, taken by assorted friends who accompanied her on assorted medical appointments.  The chemo lounge is bright, warm with camaraderie and positive energy – everything orchestrated by the nurses who have warmth and humor that is astonishing.  I’m taken aback by the smiles – the laughter.  Hugs with people she’s met only once but who now figure prominently in her life.  I am grateful for them.  Chemo takes a while; most of the fluid is clear – very innocuous looking. Except for the kool-aid – that last bit that is red in color and so toxic that they don’t administer it through a drip but directly into her port.

The day after will be a tough day. It will be “Hair Friday.”  In between her cancer rehab appointment and the hideous shot that will make her weekend truly suck, we go to the wig master extraordinaire.  No shorts and t-shirts for us today – we will honor it with pretty sundresses, sandals and make up. I know this will be hard, I know her emotions are on the edge.  We look at each other, we join hands, a few tears and whispers and then we hear the snip of the scissors. She never turns away from the mirror, she never looks down.  Like everything else, she faces this, head held high and with beauty and grace. 

Her wigs are remarkable.  She has her “brand” which looks just like her regular hair.  I’m can’t believe how amazing it looks.  But it’s the second wig that surprises me - longer, darker – for her alter ego (we call her Serena.)  For some reason, this makes me so happy – that she is willing to have a bit of fun, do something a little bit different during such a tumultuous time when sameness is likely all she really wants.

The rest of the afternoon is us – we lunch, we chat, we participate in some significant retail therapy.  As we approach the mall, the store comes into view – she calls it the “mother ship” and yes, Neiman-Marcus beckons us and does not disappoint.  She buys frocks to go with her brand and we remark that Serena could give them a completely different look.  I’m shocked that when looking at her, I forget for one moment – just one nanosecond - that she is wearing a wig, that she has cancer.

Home brings visitors and calls – how is she doing, what does she need. Someone drops by with three coolers of food from a friend who is a caterer. We freeze some and finally, in our jammies and our faces scrubbed clean, we feast on a catered meal, slipping bites to the pooch, who waits less than patiently next to the table.

I brace myself for the next two days.  I’ve been warned by Jackson, a dear college friend who was here for the first treatment, what to expect.  She is tired, achy – almost like she has the flu but her bones truly hurt. Her mouth feels swollen, her spine hurts. The long walk with the dog probably did not help but it was her routine and so important that she do what she can. She naps. We sit outside and have a Pelligrino.  A neighbor comes by and she walks out front without her wig.  I am astonished.  Shortly after coming back in, we are in the kitchen and for the first time, she cries. Real tears, sobs.  There is nothing I can do but hold her, let her know I love her and that this is just a really shitty bump in the road.  That we will get through this.  And, I believe it.

With a cancer diagnosis, things happen quickly and Neiman’s army of supporters each plays a role.  One took on keeping everyone in the loop with mass emails, another researched and provided supplements, another organized the meal plan.  Others took her to surgery and nursed her through recovery while still others walked the dog or dropped by with warm wishes and smiles.  I took no role –because I’m simply too far away.  It’s hard to watch these others – these amazing friends of hers – take on roles that I selfishly feel belong only to me.  I’m the best friend.

I’ve been able to meet some of these wonderful folks – these friends that fill her day-to-day life and are so important to her.  Many of whom – no, most of whom, I’ve either only met briefly, if at all.  It is hard for me to know that it will not be me caring for her each time and I remember to be grateful for this weekend – for this time.  I remember to be grateful that she has so many friends to lean on.  I am not surprised that so many surround Neiman – it’s just the way she is.  I know that like me, many of them are scared. They also know we will get through this. We believe it.

As grateful as I am for Neiman’s friends, I’m grateful for mine as well.  Lips, Legs, Perky, Handy and Belle - they helped me navigate Olympic-worthy logistics for childcare, animal care and airport transport.  My family has checked in.  I’ve been sent pictures of mini-me having a great weekend and of the pooch snuggling with Lips and her family (my pooch Maddy, and Lips’ pooch Mario have a thing – here’s hoping Maddy hasn’t worn out her welcome by constantly humping Mario. Yes, you read that right. ) I know that I can give Neiman my all this weekend – and make the most of this time – because of my friends.

I’ve learned it takes a village – to raise, to care, to nurture and to heal.  The village may not always be the one I live in but sometimes, getting to know the other villagers is just as rewarding.  The fear, tears, laughs and uncertainly are simply all an amazing reminder that I’m not only lucky to have Neiman, but oh so lucky that my villagers – and Neiman’s - are with us on this journey and will celebrate together on the other end.  I believe it.

One person's trash is another person's treasure AKA Garage sale bonding

I had a garage sale on Saturday.  In a totally typical bit of poor planning, this was taking place the morning after I hosted a sit-down dinner for 12.  Why? Because I'm a dumbass. But, I digress.  Now, I do realize that a garage sale doesn't have anything to do with friends - but it did result in a getting to spend a good chunk of the day with a couple of great women.  Laughter ensued.

S & I had a ton of little girl crap - toys, shoes, bedding, etc. along with other general house stuff.  Doing the sale together meant we wouldn't be bored out of our minds alone and that our kids would run unsupervised through only one house.  Now, S and her family were at my house for dinner the previous night so seeing her pull up before 7 a.m. the next day found us both a little bleary-eyed.  We posted signs (lessons learned:  stakes do not go easily into hard desert ground, duct tape can go bad and a fourth grader on a bike should be required to go back out and check on the said signs), got the kids entertained and had our first customers.

We'd been outside for less than an hour when a big SUV pulls up with one mom and two kids hanging out the windows. Lo and behold, my friend A and her two kids were in the 'hood.  A quick stop turned into an all day visit as her daughter disappeared into the house to play with the other girls.  A & S didn't know each other but a quick intro led to a long chat - about kids, school and stuff as inane as moving your goods from an old purse into a new one (we all admitted we love this and I'm not the least bit embarrassed to write that.)  We watched our kids eat crap at 8:30 in the morning and were all equally shocked by our customers. (Let me say this about garage sale shoppers in my neck of the woods - cheap ass low-ballers.)

A was our garage sale bitch: she made the much appreciated Starbucks run, flagged down a neighbor she knew better than I did and talked him into buying three of my bigger ticket items, bought stuff from both me and S, brought even more crap food for our kids to eat and even added some stuff to the sales pile.

Hooker on a scooter

About five hours later our shoppers had petered out (I hope my daughter riding her scooter down the street while dressed like a hooker didn't scare them away), our kids needed real food and we were all ready to be out of the sun.  Our kids had played happily with no fighting though A's son and the only boy in the bunch was thoroughly disgusted with all the girls by this point.  My dog and cat were exhausted from being chased and kid-handled.  What was a chore ended up being fun. So much so, we all agreed to do it again in the Spring (I have told my daughter that if we don't keep getting rid of crap, we'll be like one of those houses on "Hoarders" - she's horrified but happily parting with stuff.)

And, two friends had become three. Way more valuable than anything we sold.

                                                                                                              

Me, myself & I

I spend an extraordinary amount of time with just my almost-7-year-old-daughter.  This is a lot like being around a very small dictator (without possibility of a coup) or being in a well-appointed detention center in which you have no control over the TV.  These are not necessarily bad things (wine helps) but it does mean that many times, the only adult conversation in my house is the one in my own head.

I’m certainly around other adults at work – my work friends are great and do qualify as grown-ups. Most of the time.  At school drop off and pick up, I may exchange a rushed or tired nod with other parents or a quick hello with the before/after care counselors.  Sometimes, I even speak to an adult neighbor during our evening walk with the dog.  But, outside of work, most of my conversations involve fairies, Wizards of Waverly Place, homework, Phineas & Ferb and wiping yourself. I’m sadly well-versed on Good Luck Charlie, Taylor Swift, Soul Surfer, unicorns and ponies. And you wonder why I love a nice glass of wine.

When my mother was still living, I called her daily. Okay, let’s be real. We talked 2-3 times a day. By choice. She used to joke that I called her in the morning just to be sure she was still alive.  Not true, well, not entirely. But, it really was so nice to talk to someone who truly liked hearing from me.  We talked every.single.night.

I would also talk to M usually after she did her nightly call to her mother.  We certainly call out of our deep friendship but as single parents, you really just need to talk to another adult who can appreciate your life, listen to you bitch and talk about your day. Someone to share ideas or just ask “is that normal?” or “Can you believe that?”  For me, that connection with another adult was like a lifeline.

Now that mom is gone, M and I still talk but it’s often quick (okay, quick for us is 30-minutes) as we’re faced with homework (our kids and our own), demanding pets, chores and daily life upkeep.  And, then, silence. I’m alone with the laundry, those unfinished house projects that mock me, a lizard-eating cat and a dog with a severe under bite and anxiety.  No wonder I started a blog.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I treasure the amazing time I spend with my daughter and overall, feel super lucky to do work I enjoy. But at the end of a long day, when I’m tired of being at the beck and call of a whole slew of people that I get paid to beck and call back or a bossy 2^nd grader, it sure would be nice to talk to another adult who can commiserate.  I’m lucky to have great friends and value the time I spend with them, but most weeknights and during chunks of the weekend my only company is either too little to ride in the front seat or has four legs and pees in the yard. 

A couple times this weekend, the house was quiet – all the things that needed to be done were still sitting right there – waiting to be done. But, what I really wanted to do was hang with a friend. But, it was late and I didn’t have a sitter. The logistics alone can make an impromptu get-together worthy of seasoned event planner.  It was the first time in a very long time that I was alone and a tad bit lonely.  I have never believed that being alone was the same as being lonely and most nights, I relish that time right after my daughter goes to bed.  For me, the knowledge that we are safe and sound in our home – a home that I alone I provided for my daughter – gives me immense satisfaction.  But sometimes – just sometimes – you want some company.

That lonely feeling lasted just a moment. Not so long that I felt the need to dial up a friend for a virtual pity party. Just long enough for me to remember to enjoy the friend that was around.  So, I found something that had to be done that didn’t completely annoy me. I put on some completely banal television show, poured myself a glass of wine and enjoyed my own company.

Would laundry and organizing my home office have been more fun with a friend? Absolutely. Would it have been great to be sitting with friends and talking about grown up things (or making fun of people) and sipping grown up drinks? You bet.  But then I wouldn’t have found those old pictures that made me laugh. I wouldn’t have felt that sense of accomplishment over what I did all by myself. 

If I have learned nothing else from being a single adult – and then single parent – it’s that you better like yourself and enjoy your own company.  I’d like to think that I’m a better friend because of those things – that my friendships are not borne of desperation or fear of being alone but out of a real desire to know that person and spend time with them.

I would not venture to say that I am my own best friend. That just sounds downright creepy (and frankly, a wee bit pervy.) But, I can safely safe that I’m pretty cool to hang around with - even if I’m the only one who thinks so.

Unconditional Friendship is a Lick Away

This post is dedicated to those who have loved and lost a furry friend. They may be four-legged and lick themselves – but they are still some of our truest friends.

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My dear stepbrother and sister-in-law, S&S, lost a beloved pet last week. Sweet Zachary had lived a good life and was the sole survivor of a houseful of pets.  A little boy cried for him – old enough to understand what was happening and too young to fully intellectualize it. A wee girl took a more mature outlook and deemed him to be in Heaven.

This just makes my heart ache.  We are a family of animal lovers. We’ve had dogs, cats, a bird, hamsters, turtles, and fish.  We’ve had purebreds and mutts. Give us an animal (except reptiles) and we will love it.

Puck was the first long-time family pet I truly remember. He was a Welsh Corgi and probably my first Big Susan. He was loyal and quite handsome – despite having only one ear that stayed up.  He had brown soulful eyes that wrapped Nannie around his paw. She felt his nose in the morning and if it was warm, she made him a soft scrambled egg and kept ice in his water bowl.  D and I fought about who would walk him – good grief that dog stopped to pee on every blade of grass.  Puck lived 16 years and I wept when I came home and saw his water bowl gone.  I irrationally blamed my stepfather but know he was just the brave soul that had the heart to do what truly needed to be done.  Puck took all my teenage angst and heartache with him – bless his furry little heart.

Licorice was my cat. She was evil but I saw her flaws as quirks. My mother and stepfather just saw her as a giant pain in the ass. She was once found on the counter - on a chocolate cake. Another time, she sampled a large package of hot Italian sausage then she pushed it onto the floor where it was happily finished by Puck.  Oh, it wasn’t pretty. He had to stay outside for three days after my mother stepped and slid in, uh, the leftovers.  Despite being a troublemaker, she was a dear confidante. She listened to me cry over every little thing, cuddled with me when I didn’t want to be alone and was always so happy to see me.

My siblings are also all animal lovers.  Newman, Phoebe, Jessie and Rubi have all been a part of my sister D’s family.  A motley crew if ever there was one and you couldn’t find a more loyal or lovable bunch.  Yitzee and Grey – precursors to the current Margo and Max – lived with my sister S.  Her preference is for the feline kind and she’s had as sweet, needy and neurotic a bunch as possible.  Puck II lived with my brother R. He was another corgi with a big heart who relished the beach life and belly rubs. My siblings would never call their pets anything less than family – and friend.

Beau saw T through the toughest of times. There was no more loyal friend and devoted follower.  He had his own fan club, staying with friends in the big house when T traveled. He was a pampered pooch with his own screened in dog porch with a large comfy chair that he conned from T, a Coach collar and run of the house.  Sometimes, when things fall apart, one person gets the prize. T got Beau and both were the big winners. There was never a more devoted dog – or human.  His loss was heartbreaking.  And though Grace has since joined T in her adventures, there is always a warm spot for dear Beau.

M speaks lovingly of John Doe, a pooch long gone, though her home is currently ruled by Roxy.  Roxy is an escape artist who likes to slink between the vertical blinds – in the middle of the night.  Leaving the house requires quick feet and a squirt bottle but M wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chelsea and Maddy rule my roost. Chelsea is a Maine Coon cat with strong opinions and no problem making them known.  She has curled up on me when I am sad, licked tears away from my face and my daughter’s and kept our feet warm.  She is the first pet my daughter remembers. She likes the shower, the toilet and rolling in dirt.  She brought me a lizard last week.  Maddy, our most recent family member is a poodle-terrier mix with a sad past that she is working to overcome.  When excited, she can scarcely contain herself.  She can jump up to my arms (unlike the cat), eats dirt and poop and has thankfully grown a full coat of fur. Almost.  Her under bite gives her a perpetual smile. Shy around most men, it was big news when sniffed and licked my brother’s toe last weekend. Both greet us at the door each time we come in (even from the mailbox) with wagging tails and joyful noise. They complete our family and make our house a home

 

There are so many more pets I could name that have a place in my heart.  Hollywood, Lucy, Charlie Brown, Casey, and Kramer.  Gretchen, Daisy, Brandy and Samantha. The list goes on. And of course, Zachary…and his sweet playmates who went before him Tara, Max and Alex.

When I say that friends make our life richer – I mean both human and four-legged friends.  They stand by our side through thick and thin, make us laugh, love us unconditionally and lick our faces.  They may also pee on the floor and eat poop.  I’m just not telling who does what.

Postscript:

Since drafting this, I learned that another friend, S, lost her pooch Stanley. A hell of man-dog with a heart of gold.  I know S will miss him deeply and life just won’t be the same without him around. Woof woof old boy.