Cold Fear

"Are you okay, Mom?"

That's the question my son asked after I got off the phone with a dear friend. Her wife, the mother of their two kids, had been diagnosed with a rare cancer about three weeks ago, and had just started chemo, and was hospitalized because she could no longer swallow. The tumors that showed up on the initial baseline ct scan were shown to have spread in the more recent ct scan taken a week ago. I'm sure I was ashen, and he was frightened. So was I.

These friends are like family to us. We met years ago doing theater together, and as fate would have it, they lived in the same building we did. We were the managers of the apartments for a time, and they still loved us anyway, even though we had no idea what we were doing. We watched each other's cats when we went on trips. We used their apartment to cook Thanksgiving dinner when they were out of town and our oven wasn't big enough for the pterodactyl we had stuffed for our dinner. We attended their wedding, on a beautiful, sunny Seattle afternoon in a park overlooking Puget Sound. Their first child, a girl is two months older than Joe-Henry. Their second child, a boy, just turned one a few months ago. We've stayed close, and the kids have helped us get even closer, if that's even possible. Joe-Henry loves their daughter Hazel, and seeing them together is like watching the future in living color. He loves baby Gabe too, asking for one of his own every time we leave their house.

We don't talk on the phone as much as I'd like to. They are both incredibly busy, talented people with lots on their plate. We email a bit, but it never matters how infrequently we see each other - we always pick up where we left off. But when she emailed about her diagnosis, and said they were leaving town that morning for the Adirondacks, but would see someone at Sloane Kettering, and would be back.....it's all just happening too fast. It's too much to take in, you know? And if I feel this way, I can't imagine what they are going through.

Our conversation was mostly very informational. I got caught up on what has been happening, because it's been so fast they've barely had time to process it themselves. Her voice was strained and exhausted, but she sounded remarkably strong, and buoyed by their family and friends. Someone got a philanthropic group to pay next months mortgage, someone else was cleaning their house, another friend dropped by and weeded the garden. I could tell that these things meant so much to them, and it wasn't lost on her how dearly they were being held in everyone's hearts. And their kids are helping them stay in the moment, something that has to be a necessity when panic threatens to send you racing through the streets in ten different directions.

I am setting them up with a blog and a great organizational website to arrange for friends to help, but I still feel completely helpless. I wish I could cure cancer instead. I wish I could kick cancer's ass to the curb. I wish I could not feel scared for my friend. I feel guilty for my fear - I want to just be fierce and organized and helpful and unemotional. And honestly, I am those things on the outside, for the most part. But inside - I am wobbly black jello. It won't stop me, though. I think I just had to say it, just once, acknowledge it, and now it's time to get to work.

Love to you all - it can't be said enough - love to you all.

Frantic

We took a bike ride to the park today, the whole family. There's a great farmer's market on the weekends, as well as a playground filled with kids. We made our way through the crowds, filling our little bag with peaches and cherries, and just taking it all in.

After we made it to the park, we watched Joe-Henry and about thirty other kids manuever the slides and swings and monkey bars, kids of all ages and abilities from toddlers to kids of about seven or eight. There were some big girls on top of the monkey bars, looking down on all the little kids, and some parents pushing little ones on the swings.

"Logan", she called out, walking slowly around the playstructure. I only noticed her because there wasn't really a choice - she was large and wearing a light pink jacket, and my eye naturally went to her. I went back to watching Joe-Henry on the swing, finally, finally figuring out how to pump the thing by himself.

Logan!" A little louder now, as she circled again, looking into the pipe structure, and under the slide.

"Way to go, Joe-Henry! Great job - look how high you're getting!" His Dad shouted, looking at me, to see why I wasn't chiming in.

"LOGAN!" She paced through furiously now, her face getting red, as she whipped out her cell phone to call someone, I'm not sure who. "LOGAN! LOGAN! LOGAN!!!" I walked up to her, as did about four other moms and dads - "What does he look like?" I asked, without even looking at me she said "Blue shirt, brown pants, grey shoes, three years old. He's only three" One of the dads looked at me, "What color hair?" "I don't know" Why would I know? I think he was afraid to ask her, she was so panicked, she looked like she might have exploded, sending us all to the far corners of the park with the blast. "He's blonde" I heard someone say.

By this time, Joe-Henry has jumped off the swing, in his blue shirt and brown pants. I'm glad he's six and tall with brown hair, just so that, if in the frenzy, some well meaning someone grabbed him like a trophy and shouted "Here he is!", I could prove he was mine. Joe-Henry wants to help find the little boy, so we go looking through the market.

By the time we came back, unsuccessful, she was no where, as though she had vanished into thin air. There were no police, there was nothing but fear in the eyes of parents, watching their children like hawks. Our worst fear too close for comfort.

wretched excess...

...or as I came to realize about four o'clock this morning (what is it about 4:00 a.m.?), wretching excess. Now before you picture me sprawled on my couch, with my bra on a lamp and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels in my limp hand, let me wipe off yer glasses. I was not hugging my toilet due to drink, no, I ate too much popcorn. That's right. Popcorn.

Joe-Henry has this wonderful program at his school where you can get a pass to see 10 "family friendly" movies for $7 (that's in quotes because while it might be suitable for the wee ones, a couple of these films have made me realize how quickly life is passing me by), but it's still a great deal, and even if only two of the movies are worth seeing, it's still an amazing price. So yesterday, we went to see "Night At The Museum", which I loved. There were a few moments where I went "Huh?", and the ending didn't really hang together, but still, it wasn't "just burn that part of my brain out" bad like "Everyone's Hero". I feel so sad to say that, because Christopher Reeve was directing it when he died, and it was Dana Reeve's last project, and I love them both. But I will choose to remember them for other things.

AAAAAnyway - I ate too much popcorn. There was no butter on it or anything, just the way I like it, but I guess I'm old now, and I can't do that to my body anymore, and it told me so. At 4:00 a.m. It was strange, because I didn't wake up groaning, or even knowing it was coming, I just felt a bit uncomfortable. I went to the bathroom, and before I knew it.... well, you know this part.

Anyway, the sound of my wretching (and really, is there any WORSE sound to wake to in the wee hours?) woke Joe-Henry and scared him to death, and he started to wail. Not cry, but wail. He was terrified. I felt so bad for him, but was powerless to do anything, as I was, um, incapacitated. And my poor husband, he came into the bathroom, saying, "Oh, baby..." and then when Joe-Henry started crying, went in to comfort him. As he said this morning, he felt selfish, because Joe-Henry never wants to be comforted by Daddy in the night, but last night, he did, and Charley was in heaven.

After I brushed my teeth and cleaned myself up, I went in to reassure Joe-Henry. We snuggled in his bed for a while, he tried to make small talk ("Hey Mom. How do you think the rings of Saturn hang in the air like that?") but he finally said, "mom I heard you and I got so, so scared." I tried my best to reassure him, but even though I started to go back to sleep, he lay there next to me with his eyes wide open. So we both went into bed with Daddy, and this morning, he didn't even want to go in the bathroom upstairs, or let me kiss him goodbye. I asked him if he was still afraid, and he said, "NO! That's not it at all!", in that way you defend yourself when you've just been completely busted.

Honestly, I know how he feels. I was 8 when my mom died, and 6 when she had a pulmonary embolism. I was the only one in the room with her when that happened, and up until she died, I was terrified when she so much as burped. I was always watching her so carefully. For anything out of the ordinary. And mommy throwing up is definitely out of the ordinary. So I understand, I really do. My worst fear is to be incapacitated in front of Joe-Henry. Not for me, but for him. It's terrifying to be a child and see your parents ailing. They are the people who keep you safe and guide you and give you the world in age appropriated dosages. Without them, the world is unknown. It rushes at you unbound, and your shield is gone.

So. Guess what? No more popcorn for me. Who knows, I may even change my diet altogether. Start working out. Get healthy.

I'll start with the popcorn.

fear, part 2

Have you ever been to the doctor and had them totally blow you off? It's so frustrating, isn't it? But here's the other end of that spectrum - have you ever been to the doctor and had them be so thorough, so attentive, that it made you really, really nervous?

I went to my gyno yesterday for my yearly exam. We are fairly new to each other because we just moved here last spring, so I found her through my brother's girlfriend. I like her a lot, and feel like I'm in good hands. I'd been to her a couple times in the last six months due to urinary tract infections and some abnormal bleeding. At that time she assured me that it was common for women to have some changes at this stage of life, and I didn't worry too much about it. But yesterday, while taking my full history (again), and during the exam, she got alarmed and said "I think I'm going to order some tests". She says she's worried about fibroids, but wants to rule out all the "biggies". Gulp.

I go in next Friday for an ultrasound, and then she does a biopsy next month.

I'm usually pretty cavalier about stuff like this, but I have to tell you, I'm kind of scared. I had to have a biopsy once before, in my early thirties, and they found nothing, so I'm really hoping for the same outcome. I'm glad I can get in next week for the ultrasound, and I'll breathe even easier when I get the results of my pap smear and blood test.

A side effect of this is that I am feeling like a total bitch. I was so short with Joe-Henry this morning and last night, and I know he's feeling scared too. He's such a little emotional sponge, I can tell he's feeling it. Last night he had a complete meltdown over a little game, and I realized that I was having the same kind of inappropriate responses about little things too, so of course he's going to go there.

I'm going to just try my best to stay calm, take the tiny dose of Lexipro she prescribed to ease my mood swings, go for walks, and think healthy thoughts. Wish me luck, because I'm a total hypochondriac.

fear

Last night as I was snuggling my son during our nightly ritual (I will lay next to him and we'll read books or talk, and I'll stay til he's asleep - I know a lot of people disagree with this, and if you're one of them, say what you will, I'm still going to do it), we were discussing the movie "Shrek". He had just received it for is birthday, and even though we'd seen it before, we watched it last night because a) there was no school today, and b) we'd missed the time for the movie showing in town. We were laughing about Donkey and he was saying that when Shrek and Fiona kissed he felt shy but happy. Then he said "I want to marry you when I grow up, Mom. Even though you'll be really old." I laughed, and told him that he'd most likely marry a girl his age, and when I said this, he started to cry.

These were not just quiet tears, but huge, gulping sobs that I was unprepared for. I asked him why he was crying, and he said, in that choking, gagging way you have when you're completely at the mercy of a huge emotion, he said "I don't want you to die, Mom! Don't ever leave, don't ever die". I quieted him, and soothed him and held him, and told him that hopefully we wouldn't have to worry about that for a really long time. I told him this: "Sweetie, the odds are that I'll live a really long time, and so will you, and we won't have to worry about this big feeling for a while." And after a ten minute digression to cover what "odds" meant (try it - it's hard), I admitted that I too, was afraid. I said, "I'm always afraid of losing you. I'm always afraid that something bad might happen, even though I know it probably won't. But it's just that I love you so much..." I trailed off. But that's the thing. It could happen. My son was born with a rare syndrome, called klippel-trenaunay syndrome, and it involves vascular malformations, as well as larger limbs and abnormal lymph flow. We've been lucky, and blessed that his involvement thus far is minor. But honestly, even without that upping our "odds", I would probably still live with that fear. Like any other parent that opens the newspaper or watches the news (I've limited myself - I don't watch the news anymore) and reads of some awful tragedy that's happened to another parent, I close my eyes and send them my heart, and feel horrible that I'm thankful that it wasn't us. This time.

Part of this too, stems from losing my own mother at a really early age. I was eight, and I don't know if I've processed it properly even yet. I remember distinctly her telling me she had to have an operation. We were washing windows on our french doors - I was doing the bottom half, and she was doing the top. I remember telling her I didn't want her to die, and she said "Oh, honey. I'm not going to die". And then, she did. Not from the operation, just from being sick in a small town, and not having adequate medical care. I think. That's what they tell me. I was eight, and my older siblings all have a different take on it. In a way, I guess I'm the lucky one, because her death, to me, is just loss. It's not colored by anything I can remember, like how she fought with my dad, or that I knew she was unhappy, or that the doctor was stubborn. For me it's just a childhood without my mother. I miss her, but I don't remember life with her that much. But I know life without her - It shaped everything. I got away with a lot, I never believed in my own goodness until years later, and now her loss informs who I am as a mother. It reinforces my need to tell the uncomfortable truth.

So I told him what I know from my own experience. Bad stuff happens all the time. I probably won't die for a long time, but I can't say that for certain, as much as I'd like to. We just have to focus all our energies in the love we share now. Store them away for later. I pray I'll be around to bug the crap out of him when he's a teenager. And I pray that he'll grow tall and strong, and bug the crap out of me, too.