Happy Birthday, Mom

Today my Mom would have been 82. We would have taken her lunch, most likely KFC, a cake she would have said wasn't necessary, yet would have eaten every bit of the piece we gave her, then would have said in Southern disbelief, "82?! Lawww me!". 

We would have bemoaned how close Auburn came to winning the Iron Bowl yesterday, then bid our farewells as the girls would need to get back on the road to school. I would have kissed the top of her head, told her we loved her, and she would have said, "I love you too. Thank ya'll so much for comin'". 

And while I am so comforted knowing where she is spending this birthday, I sure do miss her. 

Something in every single day makes me think of her. And I'm surprised by how often it hits me again that she's no longer here. 

Seeing a roll of Necco's at the grocery store and starting to put them in my cart to hide around her room for her to find. 

Seeing a warm little velour sweatsuit and automatically checking to see if they have an XS for her. 

Dragging out my Christmas decorations this week and thinking, "I need to swing by her room and switch out her Fall decorations for Christmas...".

Don't even get me started on Christmas. Last year I cried so many times from anticipatory grief, decorating her little tree in her room, thinking it might be the last year. 

This year I'm even more of a mess. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, I'll Be Home for Christmas, The First Noel, O Holy Night, Silent Night, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear...just (quite) a few of the songs that bring instant tears. Whether the lyrics get me, the memory of her singing them next to me in church, or just the familiar tunes reminding me of Christmases gone by that she made so special for us... cue the waterworks. 

I know she'd say, "Girl, don't cry for me. I'm happy. I'm free of ailments. My mind is new and whole. I'm walking tall and upright. I'm with Mama and Daddy. I got to meet my 2 grandchildren we never got to hold. And, most of all, I'm with my Savior, whom I served my whole life, and longed to see face to face. And while I'm looking forward to seeing you again, your time hasn't come yet. You have a lot to do. Kids to finish raising, grandchildren of your own to meet, a husband to take care of. Soon, we'll be spending eternity together, but until then, quit makin' David do all the cookin'. He's a marvel." 

There'll be more posts to come about my Mom. Some that make me laugh. And some that make me cry. Because I don't want to forget a single memory I have of her. 

And in all my sadness of missing her here, I am so thankful she'll be home for Christmas. 

Happy Birthday, Mom. I'll have David whip us up something tasty to celebrate. 

Gulf Getaway

Every trip we go on, I take notes throughout, in preparation for writing a recap blog to remember it by. Inevitably, after we return home, I slip into not just the post vacation blues, but the real life is meaningless, I miss the beach, my family actually drives me bonkers much of the time, I should quit my job and live off the grid depths of despair. 

Which, unfortunately, can take me awhile to climb out of. And by that time I've lost the desire to write about our adventures, lest it send me tumbling back into the depths. My notes from Paris/London are still on my phone. Perhaps one day they'll make it on to my computer for your reading enjoyment. 

I have just awoken from a delightful afternoon nap, snuggled up with Gizzie, who was most excited to get picked up from the kennel today. I try to explain to her each time, that we went away on a long trip and couldn't bring her us. We didn't just drop her off at prison and party at home without her, which is what I always fear she believes happens. George is her protector at the kennel. They sleep together, eat together, and when they let them outside, Gizzie runs ahead but continues looking back to make sure he's right there with her. 

At home, he can't even look her direction without her snapping at him and letting him know she's the boss here. Her little 8 lb yorkie poo self putting his 80 lb pit bull self in place. 

Now where were we? Ah, yes, refreshed from the nap I convinced David I needed after an exhausting day of travel (2+ hour flight from Tampa). And so far, I'm still in good spirits (no doubt he had the flight attendant slip a little something into my cranberry juice). 

"Why do you get cranberry juice on every flight?" Reese asked. 

The answer is. I really don't know. I think I started doing it back when I first started flying. Before I was an adult and could buy my own juice. And it's just a habit that's stuck with me. I realize stores carry gallons of cranberry juice that rarely makes its way to our fridge. But by golly, that little 6oz cold plastic cup of cranberry juice from Southwest Airlines is a treat. 

You know that ice breaker question, "If you could have someone do one chore for you for free for the rest of your life, what would it be?". And normal people pick cooking, or cleaning? Mine would be...packing! Ok, yes, my view of this question is a bit skewed because I do have someone who does the cooking and his name is David. But I absolutely abhor packing. I only have to do it two or three times a year...but I. Hate. It. It stresses me out. It overwhelms me. I procrastinate until the literal last minute, usually finishing up as we're heading out the door. Tossing in random things like a gun is pointed at my head and this is the last time I will ever be in my house. What do I need to grab??

Meanwhile, David saunters upstairs the night before, grabs a few undergarments and socks from his neatly organized drawers, a few pressed shirts off his symmetrically hung hangers, then lastly, retrieves a few swim trunks from their special little designated area, and voila! He's done. As I'm doing one more load of laundry to get my last few pairs of comfy undies clean, digging around the bottom of my closet for shorts that still fit and that will semi match my shirts I already had to dig to find. Where the heck my swimsuits are, your guess is as good as mine. 

So I was already in a tizzy the day we left, cursing David under my breath for scheduling a morning flight the day after I had worked a 10 hour shift. If he had only scheduled it for later in the afternoon, I would have been better prepared. That is a lie. I would not have been better prepared no matter what time that flight would have been. I would still have procrastinated to the point of frenzied panic. 

The evening prior, I spent tidying the house, in case our plane went down and all five of us perished. Except I ran out of steam. I thought about leaving a note explaining we weren't ransacked and taken hostage. We left of our own free will on a family vacation to Florida. I just didn't have time to organize my side of the closet by color like David's. 

Oh, and David was out of town before our trip so I had to harvest cucumbers from his little backyard garden like Laura Ingalls Wilder at 7 o'clock at night because I promised him I'd watch over it while he was gone. 

I assumed my hot flashes and tendency to overheat was due to my body still trying to regulate itself from my chemo induced menopause, medication side effects, and my grand finale last summer...my hysterectomy. But no. I think it's just who I am now. David turned the air up...down...whichever way it goes to save money while we're gone and by the time I plopped down in the car to head to the airport, after my hectic morning getting ready, I looked like I had just emerged from the depths of hades, sweat dripping from my face, hair plastered to my head. 

"Everybody ready?" David singsonged cheerily. I grunted affirmation. 

We've never had a travel disaster, thank goodness, when flying that I can remember. Like a cancelled flight, lost luggage, etc. Just some minor hiccups. David bought all of our tickets weeks ago, then remembered after the fact he has companion status, so I fly for $5 anywhere he goes. So he called the airline the night before and explained the situation. They credited him the amount he paid for my tickets, but I had to recheck myself in. Of course, I was now in the C boarding group. So I watched my little family line up in the A group, laughing and having the best of times together. I quickly texted them in the group chat to cut it out and quit making fun little inside joke memories without me. 

I finally made it on. After family boarders, B group, anyone wearing the color blue, anyone named Martha May, and all those wearing checkered pants. David will only sit on the aisle. Tate and his 10 foot long legs has discovered he also prefers the aisle. Which means I was stuck smack dab in the middle of the girls. I made it seem like a fun, desirable arrangement. But I really just use them to get me onto David's free Southwest wifi that I can never figure out. We all got boarded, some maintenance men were tweaking a few things, then the announcement came that we all had to de board because the toilets wouldn't flush. But never fear, another plane for us was near. 

Off we shuffled to the new gate. Where we waited another hour for the "plane that was near".  

"Tate, were you kind to your seatmate on the plane?" I asked. 

"Yep. I told them my name, where I lived, what school I go to, and my social security number," he replied. 

A simple "no" would have sufficed. 

Our plane finally arrived and we bid our goodbyes once again as I waited my turn with the C groupers,  whom I was beginning to become rather chummy with. I looked up and saw David pointing at me and talking with the gate agent who also turned to look my direction. What on Earth. They stood there visiting for a few minutes, looking at the computer, each kid telling their name to him, then more pointing at me. Dear Lord, we're not making it on that plane. 

Turns out, the system showed Reese had already boarded somehow when she was clearly standing right there. They got it figured out, deemed her a non threat, and boarding continued. I bid a fond farewell to my C listers who would more than likely be scattered about the plane in random middle seats as I settled in betwixt the girls and began to recalculate at precisely what time I would be squishing soft white sand between my toes with our late departure. 

Most Hollaway Getaways are sun up to sun down, cram in all the sights, open and close down the parks, do all the things, eat at all the places, c-r-a-s-h. Repeat. Don't get me wrong. They're awesome. And a lot of fun. But they absolutely wear us out. This vacation, Drue was adamant be relaxing, play it by ear, not a lot of planned activities, just enjoy the moment. Which is now my new favorite way to vacation. And is what I'm guessing vacationing is all about. 

6 years ago, we splurged on a beach photographer, whose photos still adorn our living room walls to this day. We decided to splurge again this trip. Seeing as Tate barely reached my shoulder in the last family photos and now I barely reach his. The only slot she had available was the night after we arrived, which was perfect, before the three pale faced people in our party got charred by the Southern sun. The magic hour is 7:40pm-8:40pm apparently, so I prepared our posse that we wouldn't be eating dinner until after pictures. 

"After!?" exclaimed my man child with two hollow legs. "Why after?!". 

"Because I have to fit in my dress," I explained. "And if I eat dinner before,  the photographer will say, 'Oh? I didn't realize this was a maternity shoot'!".

I mentioned how I cry at the drop of a hat these days. Especially when memories of my Mom hit me. When Reese arrived home to go with us on our trip, there was a package waiting for her. It was a beautiful heart necklace with dried flowers from my Mom's casket inside. Tears immediately streamed down my face and she hadn't even been home 3 minutes. As I was getting ready for our pictures, Reese must have came out in her outfit and David remarked on her necklace and how Grandma Judy would be in our pictures. I quickly heard her shush him and say, "Don't say that to Mom! She's already got her makeup on!".

I want to be cool. I really do. And witty to talk to. But I'm just not. I'm socially awkward and my family thinks it is absolutely hilarious. Since I was the one who booked our session, I walked up to our photographer and introduced myself and the family. Things were off to a good start. Then she asked how our vacation was going so far and my awkwardness engulfed me. I said something dumb about the lizards there and she said, "Oh, is this your first time to Florida?". 

I began stammering around about how we had been before, but not this far South, blah, blah, blah and heard instant snickers behind me. Later that night back in our condo, David couldn't hold it in any longer. "We've been coming to Florida almost every October for the past, what, 9 years? To Orlando! You made it seem like it was our first time here!". And he and the kids proceeded to have a good 15 minute chuckle about it. 

David was a tad disappointed at the caliber of our condo, no beach chairs/cabanas to reserve, etc. But the kids and I never care where we stay. Tate was just happy to have a bed. He's slept on the couch many a vacation. As an added bonus, we got a daily dose of marijuana from the stairwell. I am still so naive and always say, "Ewww, I think a skunk sprayed nearby,". To which the kids just roll their eyes, "Really, Mom?". And then I say, "Wait! How do you guys know what that smells like?". It's a whole thing. 

Our first full day was a success. Other than Reese getting sunscreen in her eyes and having to take an extended break back at the condo rinsing them out with my contact solution. David and I headed to the store to grab a few things we'd forgotten and the babies (Drue and Tate) bonded at the beach together, discovering that an 18 year old girl and 17 year old boy actually do have things in common and can enjoy each other's company without insults and name calling exclusively. I really don't know how we could have forgotten anything. The night before we had all gone to Publix for the week. I don't know what it is about vacation but we suddenly needed all the food. Things we've never eaten before in our lives made it into our cart, including my newly discovered favorite snack, Sprite flavored tic tacs. I made fun of Tate for getting them, then gobbled down the whole entire container myself over the next couple of days. 

In keeping with our relaxed vibe of the trip, we decided to go explore a place each morning, then finish our days at the beach. David is obsessed with botanical gardens and has decided we will visit one on all vacations. So off we went the morning after our photo shoot. Tate is no longer the little boy who runs off. He is now the big boy who likes to go off the path and climb over railings. I looked up and there he was. Precariously perched above the pond of lily pads, and I'm guessing, crocodiles. 

"We're going to be the first family to get kicked out of a free botanical garden," David mused. Every trip, Tate comes up with some random pose for pictures. I present this year's odd pose:

Is he praying? Meditating? Giving thanks to the universe at large? Who knows. But these are the precious memories we'll have of him. 

I wouldn't be doing my duty as a Mother if I didn't constantly worry about dangers lurking around us. Weeks prior to our trip, I kept reading about the riptides in the Gulf. So I helpfully sent an article about them in the family group chat. As well as a picture of what to watch out for. Thankfully, we didn't encounter any during our stay. In fact, we surprisingly found a lovely sand bar out in the ocean filled with sand dollars we took turns collecting. When my turn came to take our stash in to shore, I headed in, then remembered that to get to the sand bar we had to cross a part of the ocean where we couldn't touch. There I was, not the best swimmer, but a darn good doggy paddler, fighting against the current, swimming one armed and clutching these sand dollar treasures with my bad arm, and I thought, "This is it.". This is how I am going to exit this world. 

Mother of 3 Drowns Swimming to Shore with Armful of Sand Dollars would be the headline I suspected. Hey, I couldn't think of anything more creative in my final moments. And just when I turned to get one last look of my precious family at the sandbar in waist deep water, I felt the bottom of the sea beneath my toes, and realized I'd made it back to where I could touch. Stop the presses. I would live another day. 

After we showered and settled in for the night, a red bump on the front of my neck caught my eye. Are there mosquitos at the beach? I googled. Not likely so. Had it been a mosquito, I would have been covered in bites and there was just the one. I decided I must have been stung by an invisible sea creature and left it at that. I was just thankful it'd happened after pictures. 

David has always known he can't carry on a pleasant conversation with me past 9pm, and the kids now realize that as well. The beach drains me. I was exhausted every night. The first night, Tate randomly asked something about OJ Simpson. "Oh wow, that all happened when we were in college," I reminisced.

"What happened?" he asked. 

"The infamous car chase after he murdered his ex-wife," I said. 

"What was her name?" David asked aloud. 

"I don't remember," I replied. 

David continued to try and come up with it then said, "Well that's terrible."

"What is?" I asked. 

"That we don't remember her name."

And my irrational, tired self reared her ugly head. "Why is that terrible? She was nobody to me. I didn't know her. She certainly didn't care what my name was!" I said grouchily. 

Four pairs of eyes just stared back at me with laughter behind them. 

"I'm sorry, dear," David apologized mockingly, "I didn't realize you felt so passionately about this."

Then the name Nicole came to me along with three word name and I blurted out, "Anna Nicole Smith" which resulted in more laughter and Tate googling it and correcting it to Nicole Brown Simpson. 

"I do not care!" I said and promptly went to bed. 

We couldn't go to the Gulf and not feast on a good old fashioned seafood boil. And feast, we did. Drue chose to stay home that night so just the four of us ate shrimp, crab legs, and corn until we were stuffed to the brim. Then topped it off by sharing a one pound piece of chocolate cake called "Big A$$ Chocolate Cake" on the menu that the kids took turns saying because, "Mom, that's what it's called!". 

As we rolled ourselves back to the car, Tate was already planning what he would eat in an hour or for his second dinner. 

We discovered evening ocean swims this trip. I think before I had been too scared we'd lose one of them in the twilight or that sharks would mistake them for an evening snack. Evening swims are lovely. We don't have to worry about getting burnt. Hardly anyone is in the ocean. Very relaxing. And very beautiful as we watched the sun set each night and the clouds turn pink. As we floated peacefully, Tate asked, "When does this close?". 

"The ocean? It doesn't," I said. 

I checked on my neck bite when we got in and it hadn't changed whatsoever. David decided I could be carrying little seahorse babies in it and kept watching for one to crawl out. "Moms don't carry the babies, the Dads do," the kids set him straight. 

Monday was Busch Gardens day, just to throw some thrill rides into the mix. But the tropical storms put a damper on the day and we only got a handful of rides in before the rain shut everything down. We headed back early and as David followed the GPS, there was a split in the road on one of his exits. He went to the left when he actually should have gone right. No harm no fowl. I advised him kindly of this and our GPS rerouted us immediately. A few moments later he said, "Hey, I recognize that. This is the way we came this morning." 

"Yep," I replied offhandedly.

"So we're good," he went on. 

"Yeah, the GPS rerouted us," I explained. 

A few minutes later, "But this is how we came this morning. So it all worked out," he said again. 

What is happening here? I wondered in my head. Does this man not know how a GPS works? 

"Right, because it got us back on track," I said, a little more invested into the conversation at that point. 

For some reason, he wouldn't let it go and was trying to prove a point, but was sounding more and more ridiculous. He doesn't get irritated very easily but his next phrase came out like I was the one who didn't know what was going on. 

"This is the same way we came this morning," he said slower and a little aggravated, "So it all turned out ok, is all I'm saying."

And I was too tired. Too tired for a rebuttal. So I tried something new for me. I kept quiet and closed my eyes. Dissolving our marriage over this wasn't going to be worth it. And we still had one full day of vacation left together. 

As we all floated in the waves, our new happy place, that evening, the subject of the GPS resurfaced. "Yeah, Dad, what was that about? You weren't making any sense!" Drue said. "And, Mom, I looked at you and you didn't even say anything!".

"Me too!" Reese said. "When Mom just quit talking, I thought 'what the heck' and just went to sleep."

I still don't know if David's brain glitched or what. In hindsight, I think maybe he didn't realize the GPS rerouted us and he thought his wrong turn was actually the right turn when we started passing familiar places. Either way, I was just proud of myself after 25 years of marriage for letting it go in the moment and staying quiet. We all had a good laugh about it and I said, "I was literally seething in my seat!".

"You were?" David asked, as he doubled over in the ocean. 

"Yes! I thought 'we're finna get divorced over this dang GPS!'". 

As relaxing as our time in the ocean was we, in fact, look like the redneckiest redneck family around when we're out there. Tate on his Pabst Blue Ribbon inner tube (don't ask), Drue and I on rafts, David standing out in the sea as our "anchor", holding on to a rope that is tied to Tate's inner tube and that Drue and I also hold onto so we don't float away. Reese usually has the goggles on diving for things. But she's scared to go too far from us so she usually kicks one of us in the face or splashes us all as she resurfaces, and we all yell at her in unison. Prime entertainment for other beach goers, no doubt. 

When no sea horses escaped from my neck, I diagnosed myself with a leishmania parasite. "Can cause high fever, weight loss...oh nice, I kinda hope it's that," I announced. 

One of the nights (after the O.J. Simpson fiasco) Reese asked, "What was your favorite beach day we've had?". Yep, it was after 9pm. I started reflecting on the days then snapped, "I don't know! I can't pick a favorite! I've enjoyed them all. That stresses me out. Why do we have to pick just one?". 

Again, all the laughs. And reminders not to ask Mom anything at night. Ever. 

One of my favorite parts of our condo vacations are the nighttimes. We're all clean, fed, and cozied up in the living room watching movies together. "Mom, is this your dream come true?", Tate asked. "Yes, yes it is," I replied contentedly. The night before we visited the Clearwater Aquarium we watched Dolphin Tale which was filmed there. I don't see any notes from that day so there must not have been any marriage ending arguments or kids falling into the turtle tank. It was neat to see though. And made me want to move there and be a marine biologist who rehabs animals. First, I'll need to update my resume and add "expert in Leishmania parasites". 

I love, love, love our family vacations. David likes to burst my bubble of happiness each time by saying, "You know, this could be our last one with the five of us." Tell me that after 9pm buster, and you might get a right hook to your jaw. This one was the perfect amount of days. Not too long, not too short. I always start out, "Everything is wonderful and I love spending time with all of you" then end up "MUST YOU YAWN SO LOUDLY?!" near the end. That's when we know it's time. Time to get back to our regular lives and schedules, going out in 5 different directions most days. Catching glimpses of each other leaving for, or coming home from work. 

I think I covered all the noteworthy happenings. Now I'm off to read Nicole Brown Simpson's biography, because I still feel guilty for saying she didn't mean anything to me when I was tired. Then after that, I'll come up with another diagnosis for this unsightly red bump on my neck. 

Plunging into the post vacation depths of despair will just have to wait for tomorrow. 

A Little Less "Organ"ized...Get It??

Greetings from my bed, snuggled betwixt our yorkie poo and pittie. Who, I would say, make excellent caregivers, except for the fact that Gizzie's way of checking to see if I'm alive is by standing on my stomach. And George is just living his best life because he normally doesn't get free reign in our bed until nighttime.

Surgery went well. It was a little trickier than my doctor had expected, because there was a lifetime's supply of endometriosis hiding behind my uterus that surprised even her. I like to keep my healthcare team on their toes apparently. 

My 4:15am alarm was in no way welcomed. But we were on our way by 4:45ish. David was most excited about the perfect parking spot he found, right near the entrance to the hospital. "You gotta get up pretty early to find a better spot than me," he said proudly. 

Got all checked in and headed back to pre op. He got to come with me this time, and of course, provided much comedic relief for all those within earshot. When the nurse stepped out he asked, "Did they say they could get me a warm blanket?"

"What? No!" I hissed, hoping they hadn't heard him. 

"I think you have to request it and then slip it to me..." he suggested. "Also, I have a mosquito bite that's been bothering me. Do you think they could take a look at it?". 

Oh here we go. It was at this moment I began to rethink him being back there. 

The nurse returned and went through all the routine questions. Name, date of birth, do I know what surgery I'm having, etc. I answered "hysterectomy and oophorectomy". David looked puzzled and asked, "And where exactly are her oofas?". 

Out the nurse went again to check on her other patients. David was starting to get restless by then and began inspecting my gurney. "I wonder what this button does?" 

"Leave it!" I warned. 

"Do you want me to start your IV?" he asked as he picked up my arm and began tapping it to wake up my veins. "Or turn on your oxygen?".

"I don't want you to touch a single solitary thing," I admonished. 

He sat back down in his chair and while he was repositioning his mask, one of the strings broke. Honestly. He's like my 4th child. He began scanning the room like MacGyver, looking for something he could use to put it back together. "I need a suture kit," he decided. 

Off I went to the OR. And in seemingly the next 30 seconds, I was being wheeled to my room for the night. I took about 10 catnaps that afternoon, being unable to stay awake for more than 5 minutes at a time. David got a kick out of the "goals" written on my board. "Dangle pain control?" he questioned my nurse. "That seems kinda mean. You don't just give it to them when they need it?!"

I surpassed my "dangle" goal for the day. And instead of just sitting up on the side of my bed, I managed to slowly walk around the unit with my IV pole and nurse aide. Such an overachiever I am. Although, at the pace I went, a snail would have given me a run for my money. 

The anesthesia made me sick as a dog who just ate stale mac n cheetos (yes, that is a mac & cheese stuffed cheeto puff). An oddly specific comparison, I know.  But Gizzie found a half eaten one in one of the kids' rooms years ago and we thought she was done for. She was so sick for an entire day. Didn't even move once. So of course I rushed her to the vet first thing in the morning and thankfully she's lived happily ever after ever since. But it's now our standard family measurement for how sick someone is. 

I made it through that first night. One minute feeling on the verge of making that journey toward the eternal light, the next a nurse coming in saying she had my discharge orders to go home. I called David to come fetch me (he lost rock, paper, scissors apparently), "She said you can just pull up to the main entrance and she'll wheel me out," I explained. 

"Got it. So, like, do I just honk or what?". 

"Don't you dare." 

My nurse took out my IV and went to grab my discharge papers. As I repositioned myself in bed, it was like old faithful erupting from my hand. Blood spattering all over the floor, on me, on my bedding. Think prom scene from Carrie. The poor housekeeper who got assigned to my room probably couldn't decide whether to clean and sanitize or report a crime. 

David got me home where I promptly crawled into bed and drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day and a half. Small stretches of walking, increasing each day, were recommended for a smoother recovery. Since opening the front door these days feels like opening the gates to hades, I opted to shuffle around in circles on our air conditioned main floor. 

I picked the worst time to pass down my car to Tate and upgrade myself to a larger SUV. I haven't yet learned how to casually get in and out of it. I just kind of awkwardly slither out and breathe a sigh of relief when my foot finally touches solid ground. So if everyone could just avert their eyes for the next 4-6 weeks if I happen to pull up beside you and attempt to exit my vehicle semi successfully, that would be helpful. 

In the meantime, it has been handy having my pick of chauffeurs this time around. I learned rather quickly not to say, "Who wants to drive their dear old Mom to Target??". And just began assigning each offspring the task randomly. A neat thing about our city is they somehow managed to deliberately map out each and every route I take to anywhere and begin road construction. As Tate ineffectively dodged some bumps in the road, I remarked, "Umm...ow. I feel like some more of my organs are going to fall out." 

"Wait, those were organs you had removed? You should have sold them on the black market!". His chauffeur duties have been suspended for the time being. 

My surgical team sent me home with some parting gifts. They left 3 or 4 of my ECG electrode patches stuck to me. Each time I shower, I discover another one. Like a little scavenger hunt. 

All in all, I'm doing well. And feeling good. I'm up to one to two outings per day. And down to one nap a day where I wake up in a fuzzy stupor not knowing what year it is. 

As always, I'm so grateful for your prayers and well wishes. I feel like I have more than exceeded my allotment of them these past 4 years. But I know God has placed each and every one of you in my life for a reason. And it's not just so my list of potential chauffeurs can get longer...

Fallopian Farewell

Some people have Summer homes. Or tranquil getaways to a favorite vacation spot each year. 

I have the OR. Not Oregon, although that would be lovely. Operating Rooms. I find myself visiting different ones around the metro each Summer. And instead of collecting little souvenir shot glasses, I collect those plastic hospital cups with lids and straws that measure my water intake. I'm accumulating quite the menagerie. 

Cancer is that rather unique gift that keeps on giving. If that gift is a subscription to something you never asked for, absolutely detest, and isn't eligible for returns or exchanges. 

I'm off to get my 8th surgery in the a.m. 

No, my cancer isn't back. But the medicine I take to help prevent breast cancer reoccurrence, Tamoxifen, can cause uterine cancer. So every year I get a sonogram to check things out. And EVERY YEAR it shows suspiciousness lurking amongst my lining. Which means I either have to get a biopsy done, or in last Summer's case, a hysteroscopy and d&c. 

People. I am slated to be on Tamoxifen for SEVEN MORE YEARS. So after my last suspicious sonogram this Spring, my doctor said, "That's it! Everything's coming out!". Kind of like when your kids are all causing a ruckus in the very room you're trying to find some peace and quiet in for 5 minutes so you finally yell, "EVERYBODY OUT!".

I'll be adding a few more "ectomies" to my health history. A hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oophorectomy. Boy, spellcheck didn't like that latter one. At. All. 

Tate is disappointed he won't be getting that little brother he's always longed for. I didn't have the heart to tell him that ship had sailed years ago. Not only sailed, mind you, but had gotten lost forever in the Bermuda triangle. He's now trying to convince us to trade one, or both, of his sisters for a brother.  Or a bull terrier. Either will suffice. 

At least he's actually able to talk about the surgery now. When I was first explaining what it was, he said, "Mom! That's a bad word!". To which Drue and I both said in unison, "Uterus??". To mess with him more, I said I was planning on keeping all my newly evicted reproductive organs in a jar on the mantel. 

This immediately cleared both kids from the vicinity with Drue saying, "Mom...ewww. Good-bye." Teens are too easy sometimes. 

I assigned David the most important job of all. Of course he's my ride, but after surgery, I told him to make sure I put my earrings back in right away. I got my second hole pierced recently, and although it's past time that I can change them out, they still need an earring in so they don't close up. He's already set a reminder in his phone. While he was setting that, he asked what time we needed to be at the hospital. 

"5:15am," I replied. 

"Of course we do," he said good naturedly. Poor guy can't catch a break with my first surgery of the day luck of the draws. 

When he found out I'd be staying the night he asked if he needed to take the following day off work as well. "Heavens no," I said. "Just come pick me up between conference calls or something. Or heck, send one of the other THREE drivers in our household. But not Tate. He only knows how to get to Taco Bell and back home." 

I find it kind of poetic, fitting, ironic...I'm not sure which word works best...that I'm having this surgery done at the same hospital where I had all my babies. I've come full circle. 

Oh, and I'll be able to come off of Tamoxifen afterwards and switch to an aromatase inhibitor instead. "But I thought you came off Tamoxifen last year?" you say. Or you would say if you remember reading that in my March 2021 update. And you would be correct. 

Chemo threw me into early menopause. The one and only side effect I really didn't mind. Last year, my lab work showed that, yes indeed, I was post menopausal. So my oncologist took me off Tamoxifen and started me on Letrozole. Lo and behold, I went back to being pre menopausal within a month or so. Which caused my oncologist to scratch his head, order more lab work, and put me back on Tamoxifen. So if you're keeping track, I went in to menopause, came back out, then went. back. in. How David has not walked right out the front door, never to return, I have no idea. I have been a hot mess. Literally. 

And I wasn't the most emotionally/hormonally stable person pre cancer treatments as it was. But I can't take any hormone replacement anythings because that's what fueled my breast cancer to begin with. Oy. 

Never in a billion trillion years did I dream I'd be matter of factly blogging about menopause, ovaries, my uterus, or my bosom. But ridiculously modest me couldn't have gotten ear lobe cancer. Or pinky toe cancer. Neither of which causes me any kind of embarrassment to talk about whatsoever. Nope. This Mom of three who was too shy to even say "breastfeeding" and only felt comfortable referring to it as "nursing" got breast cancer. And her coping mechanism is writing. So there you have it. I am now the epitome of TMI. 

I'm off to pack my little bag. And do a few weird nesting things around the house that I always do before surgeries. Like scrub the kitchen trash can lids and refold my winter sweaters on the shelf in the way back of my bedroom closet. You know, important stuff like that. 

Update

I wanted to get this update done while I'm still able to decipher what happened in real life vs what I dreamed. If I launch into a story about my surgeon riding in to my pre-op room on a tiger, you'll know I switched to the dream version. Also I need a distraction from that ever annoying sign of healing...the incessant itch! David helpfully suggested taking a hot shower. When I started to shoot that idea down he continued, "No, really, you should take a shower!"

Good News: Both my covid test and pregnancy test were negative. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah! I accidentally scheduled my covid test for last Sunday at 2:10, thinking the AFC championship game started later. David said, "I'm sure the heck not driving you!". But it worked to my advantage because there was not another soul in line. 

I figured out why I always have to bring my i.d. for surgery check ins. Because no makeup is allowed, no contacts, no hair products, etc. So I know they are just trying to make sure I'm the same patient they see in their office when I show up looking a fright the morning of surgery. 

Thankfully, we made it safely through snowpocalypse. I-35 had one good lane open and we cruised right on through. We only started seeing cars having trouble once we made it to the main KU Med campus. And if David hadn't been on a mission to deliver me safely and on time for check in, he would have for sure been out there helping push people to safety.

We pulled into the parking garage and the ticket gate was already up to let people through. So we were't sure if we still needed to stop or what. We went ahead and got a ticket just in case and I reminded David to bring it in to get validated. "Oh, ok, we can just tape it to your arm and they can validate it during your procedure," he suggested.

David is the cutest right before my surgeries. He's still his jokey self but with an adorable sense of nervousness and uncertainty. He lamented the fact he hadn't brought a straw to use in his coffee thermos so he could just stick it up under his mask and guzzle it down. No one is allowed back in pre-op at this time which didn't sit well with him, "You mean this is it? I have to say goodbye to you here in the waiting room?". When they called my name he grabbed me into what I thought would be a quick hug, except he held on like he wasn't going to let them take me. Ever. Precious. Except I'd waited so long for this day to come I slithered out his grasp and headed on back.

I sure missed my pre-op buddy once back there though. Entertaining me and all the staff that pop in. Grey's Anatomy was on my TV. Which I found humorous as I looked out in to my real life OR area where no drama was ensuing whatsoever. Pretty boring, actually. 

The inflatable warming blanket they put on me kept slipping out of the top of my blanket and slapping me in the face. David would have found this hilarious, no doubt comparing me to Violet Beauregarde plumping up into a huge blueberry. 

Everybody on my OR team popped their heads in. Nurses, doctors, assisting doctors, anesthesia team. I started feeling like a pretty big deal. And also a little guilty that all of them were assigned to little ol' me. I got marked up, drugged up, and literally signed my life away in case my procedure went south. 

David kept texting to see if I'd gone back yet. After about 2 hours, they brought in my little surgical cap and I texted him that it was getting close and I was putting my phone away. He chose the worst, most ominous reply whatsoever, texting, "See you on the other side". 

And I was out. Sometimes I make it to the OR room before I conk out. But this time I didn't even make it out into the hallway. Then I groggily heard my name being called by my post op nurse. She popped out to update David, then as she helped me get dressed, asked, "So, do you have a barn?'. I thought I'd heard wrong and assumed she meant, "How's your arm?". But it all came together when she said, "I told your husband you couldn't operate any heavy machinery and he said you had rented a forklift and planned to clear out your barn this weekend." My eyes were droopy but I was still able to roll them. 

We headed home about 12 hours after we'd started out that morning. David is not good at sitting. Or waiting. Or being patient. So I asked him how in the world he had fared all day. He has decided they really need to institute a volunteer program for people like him waiting all day on their loved ones, "There was a piece of carpet that had pulled away from the wall in the waiting area...I could have been tacking that back down. A win win. They get projects done for free and I get to work out my restlessness." 

So how did my procedure go? Sorry, I'm sure that's why you started reading in the first place. It went well. He put in 2 bypasses on my forearm so those are all stitched up. Then he moved some lymph nodes up my side and took out a bunch of scar tissue that was there from my last surgery, So perhaps this means I'll be able to reach both arms above my head at the same height again. I hopefully get my dreaded jp drain out tomorrow. My core muscles said, "Oh crud! She's completely depending on us to get her out of bed and out of the chair again!" which they weren't too happy about. But we came to an understanding and I'm getting up and at 'em quite a bit more easily. My soreness is easing up everyday. But I feel a bit narcoleptic, falling asleep sometimes mid sentence. 

I had to sleep in this huge foam swiss cheesy looking thing the first night. Which will now become something David wants to throw out, but I'll want to keep for a future pinterest project I'll never do.

I'm currently still orange from the iodine solution they slather all over you to prevent infection during surgery. And my upper lip got busted from the breathing tube. So basically I look like a one armed oompa loompa who's been in a bar fight.

David had me do a test drive with him earlier to the store to see how I did since he's abandoning me going to Denver tomorrow. I passed. And didn't fall asleep at the wheel. 

Time will tell on how well the procedure worked. And how much of the swelling will actually be able to be managed. 

I'm off to take my post dinner nap. And contemplate showering. But not before I color in my left side on my little blank surgery person. 

How I'm Spending Groundhog Day

Every 6 months or so I like to go ahead and have another cancer related surgery on a different body part. So far I've done skull, chest (duh), and uterus. This week's lucky winner is my left hand/arm. Perhaps I'll print out a blank person and color in all my various parts that have been sliced and diced. Kind of like when people print out a map of the US and color in all the States they've been to. Ok, not quite as fun as that, but I do like pretty color visuals. 

"What is this surgery for?" you ask. 

Lymphedema. 

"Ah. And what exactly is lymphedema?" you ask. 

Dang, ya'll are nosy. 

Basically, it's swelling from a damaged lymph system. Mine was damaged on the left side during my double mastectomy because in order to remove all the lymph nodes they needed to for testing, they had to dissect through multiple layers on that side to get to mine. Which made those lymph nodes pretty angry. So they decided to go on strike. If they had little picket signs they'd read, "We're a pain, we won't drain" or something along those lines. So my surgeon is just going to replace those naughty little nellies with working lymph nodes willing to do the job. And no, I'm not trying to make this political in any way with regards to workers going on strike, etc. But since pretty much every.single.thing is made political these days, go ahead and come at me. But on my right side, so I have a chance. 

I had a bout with lymphedema in the Spring of 2020. Yes, other health things actually occurred that year other than covid for some of us. It cleared up, only to rear its ugly head again in October of that year. I wore my compression sleeve nonstop, had multiple appointments with my lymphedema nurses, weeks of therapy and a lovely compression pump contraption, and lymphatic massage. All to no avail. My arm/hand remain swollen, stiff, and sore at times. David refers to it as my "Popeye" arm. And if tattoos weren't banned on a limb affected with lymphedema, you better bet your bottom dollar I'd get a little anchor on my forearm in a heartbeat. 

So last April, after all my lymphedema management options had been exhausted...my plastic surgeon declared me a perfect candidate for two procedures he happens to specialize in. A lymph node transfer and lymphovenous bypass. I, of course, was ready to get on his schedule that following week. However, when I didn't hear back from his office for a few weeks I reached out and said, "Sorry to be a pain...just checking to see if I have a surgery date yet so we can plan our Summer around it." 

His nurse replied back that unfortunately, due to covid, and OR's not being back up to full capacity, the soonest they could get me on their books was Feb 2, 2022. I remember staring at that date in disbelief. Bursting into tears. Cursing covid...who hasn't? Then bucking up and accepting what was completely out of my control. For those of you who've followed along from the get go of my diagnosis in 2018, I shared that my diagnosis was 3/22. My craniotomy/skull biopsy was 5/22, my double mastectomy was 6/22, and I started Tamoxifen on 1/22 the following year. So I had to laugh when I finally realized the coincidental significance of my 2/02/22 surgery date. One of my lifelong besties, Kelly (and her family) are runners. For their various races, 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons, and whatnot she always finds a Bible verse that corresponds to their bib numbers. I discovered an entire chapter for mine. 2 Samuel 22. David's song of Praise. Praising God for his deliverance. And specifically verse 2: "The Lord is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer." Which He most certainly has been for me throughout these past 4 years. 

David is being his sweet, albeit ornery, self. He scared the dickens out of me yesterday, causing me to jump, scream, and flail my arms. Today he attacked me while I was sitting in bed on my phone, grabbing my knee, one of my most ticklish spots, again causing me to scream and slap his arm. "You can't do that kind of stuff starting tomorrow!" I reminded him. "I know," he replied grabbing my knee once again, "That's why I'm getting it all out of my system now." 

He has been out of town every week (except holiday weeks) in November, December, & January. This is where the sweet part comes in. He made sure to be in town this week and took off all day tomorrow, even though my surgery will literally take all day and I told him to feel free to check emails, get on calls, etc. And he took off the rest of the week as well. Which I suspect has more to do with his upcoming birthday this weekend, but it was still sweet. He is giddy about being home all week so he can cook. He texted his meal plan to the fam on Sunday and said, "This is just going to be the best week ever!" Umm...except for those of us who'll be doped up on oxycodone. 

For the lymphovenous bypass, my surgeon will shoot dye up my arm through the spaces in between my fingers, map the lymphatics, and wherever the blockages are, make a slit in my arm and connect the blocked lymphatic vessels to working veins via itty bitty mini shunts. He's already warned me it takes awhile to notice a difference and it will never look like my right hand/arm. But hey, I'll be happy if I'm just able to fit my wedding ring back on my finger. And so will David. So the old single fellas will stop winking creepily at me. 

I do have a bone to pick with my plastic surgeon tomorrow, however, when I see him. During my reconstruction process he kept asking if I was sure I didn't want to go bigger. I assured him that, no, I've never been well endowed and was certainly not going to take the opportunity to do so at that time. What he didn't warn me about was that I would gain 40 pounds once starting my hormonal therapy (ok, and perhaps, my love of sweets and disdain of the gym) but MOSTLY due to my medication. And implants don't grow! Every other area of my body has spread out far and wide, except them. So now it looks like I never even got reconstruction and chose to stay flat. And I'm sure most people are left questioning my gender, especially when I run errands in sweats. I feel like there should have been a warning label of some sort. "Objects implanted in your chest don't grow proportionately with the rest of your body." 

And, of course, in true Midwest fashion, with my surgery date upon us...we're under a winter storm warning for tomorrow. Thankfully, David has a truck. Which I will most definitely be sending him out in to pick up my surgeon should he be unable to make it to the main KU campus tomorrow. 

Since most people don't know what lymphedema is, I've decided I'm going to have as much fun with recovery as I can. So when people see me all bandaged up and say, "Oh no! What happened?" I'm just going to make up various scenarios as I see fit. I'm thinking of starting off with shark attack, run over by my teen drivers, or Wordle playing paralysis. 

Home For Christmas

When I was little, I thought everyone had a Southern family refuge like Pine Lake. Where we spent a week every Summer, tucked away in a log cabin built by my Granddad, fishing, exploring the creek with cousins, being slung around in the back of his old pickup, and being loved on by all of our Alabama family. 

The Army took my parents out of Alabama to a handful of other States and overseas, finally plopping them down for good in the Midwest. Leavenworth, to be exact. And I've always felt a little sad for my Mom, that she was never able to return to her home to stay. Had they returned while I was still at home, however, I would have attended Auburn University, not Southwest Baptist University. And would never have met that handsome strawberry blond fellow in my Old Testament history class. And had they returned after I left home, my kids would have missed out on years of Grandma Judy watching them each week and all the memories they hold dear from those days. 

I guess it's only fitting that our last big family get together, Thanksgiving 2020, was at Pine Lake. The day after my parents returned home to Leavenworth from that trip, my Dad had a heart attack, underwent surgery, then suffered 2 kinds of strokes during recovery and hasn't returned to their Leavenworth home since. 

This past Spring, my Mom ended up in the hospital, followed by a rehab facility, and finally an assisted living up the road from me, where my Dad now lives as well. I would love to insert here...and they lived happily ever after.  However, their health issues continue to increase as their independence continues to decrease. They've both had a myriad of challenges and my Mom has been in and out of the hospital multiple times. 

"I'm dreaming tonight, of a place I love, even more than I usually do, and although I know it's a long road back, I promise you..." when I hear that old familiar tune this season, tears spring to my eyes, realizing my Mom most likely won't be making another trip down to her home. 

Perusing Target's dollar section the other day, tears again sprung to my eyes (this seems to be a common theme for me this Christmas season) as I looked down and saw a little wooden cabin. While not an exact replica of the one my Granddad built, I knew it could work. I had no sooner put it in my basket, than I saw another little wooden structure shaped like a triangle, complete with red and green paint in the package. And my vision sprang to life. Those two pieces, along with a few decorative pine trees and a little john deere tractor ornament completed the look. 

When my Mom returns to her apartment from her current hospital stay, she'll find her own little piece of heaven on Earth. 

So she can be home for Christmas...if only in her dreams.