Chemo Blues

So, I have a prescription called Zofram that is supposed to help with the nausea that chemo causes. However, Little Warrior just throws it up. There might be a suppository that she could take, but that would make *me* throw up. (Oh, I'm just kidding. If it would help, I'd give it to her. It couldn't be worse than forcing Captopril down her throat 3 times a day. )

Not too bad, though. Doing lots of nursing, wanting to be held 90% of the time. Oh, gee, I've got to cuddle an adorable baby all day. The torture of it all.

My other three, not having cancer, have been roly-polys, a fact which greatly concerned my slender family (I'm the only pudgy one) until they began noticing that at age 3 1/2, each one would suddenly stretch out and get skinny. But oh, the irony ... my father has made so many jokes about my butterball babies, and now this one ... he would give anything for her to gain some weight. Her little arms look like sticks. I think The Husband wants to try feeding her bricks of butter.

The doctor is unfazed, so I'm not worrying about it. I'm letting her nurse as often as she wants, which is about 50 minutes of every hour. You would think that the weight would be melting off of *me*, but life is unfair, which we've already learned, right?

Enough nattering on. My wing of the family is coming over for Easter tomorrow, before my parents return to their home on Tuesday. I should make some effort at picking up.

A picture of Little Warrior

Thought I'd share a picture of Little Warrior. I probably won't leave it up permanently, but as an Ostara/Easter/Passover/Friday gift ...

This photo was taken yesterday. Not bad for someone less than two weeks after getting double partial-nephrectomies and having a grapefruit and an orange removed ... sum total, 2 lbs.

Oncologist talked to us today. It's mostly good news, but always the warnings not to get too comfortable. First issue is the post-op chemo and how will she respond to it, especially after she turns 11 months (a couple of weeks) and her dose is doubled.

And then there's the "we'll be scanning her every 3 months in case it returns."

But today, things are good. Today, she is happy. Today and today and today.

"She Won't Remember a Thing"

It is a bit odd. One of the things that has been repeated to me over and over again by well-meaning friends is "well, the good thing is that Little Warrior won't remember any of this."

I understand the feeling behind this -- that the treatment is scary and painful (it is) and so it's good that she can't remember it.

But I have some issues with this. First off is my concern that though she won't have conscious memories of this, she will have sense-memories. At 10 months, she doesn't have the ability (we think) to make any sense of this. She can't understand that all the poking and prodding is from love, and to heal her. All she knows is pain and discomfort and fear. I have concerns that she will take all of those feelings with her, with no way to comprehend them. I guess we will simply have to occasionally tell her about what happened, as a way to give her a context.

The other thing ...

This reminds me of when I was about 18 or 19 years old and I had my wisdom teeth removed. I asked the doctor about that anesthesia, and pain. He told me that I wouldn't be put under, but that the anesthesia they gave me would mean that I would have no memory of the pain.

WTF???

Being on that side of the equation -- the side that had not yet had the pain -- this didn't sound like such a good deal to me. "You may go through absolutely excrutiating pain, we may do simply horrid things to you, torture you mercilessly, but hey, you won't remember it! So what's the problem?"

Ah well, nothing that can be done about it. She had cancer, she needed treatment to save her life, no real decisions there. The challenge in the future will be to give her the information she needs, and be honest about it, while not allowing that to become her identity. I do not want her to be The Child Who Had Cancer When She Was a Baby. Just as I do not want my identity to become Mother Of A Child Who Had Cancer.

It is something that happened to us. It is not us.

The Ham Gene is Passed Down

Oh, Lordy. Looks like Little Warrior is a ham like her mama.

She's in a bouncy seat, reclining. (Abdominal muscles haven't healed enough for her to stay in a sitting position for very long.) I was in front of her, balancing a Weeble on my head, which she thought was The Funniest Thing In the World. Naturally, I did it over and over.

Finally decided I needed to do some things around the house, so I handed the Weeble to her and looked away for a second. Heard a laugh. Turned back around. She'd put the Weeble on HER head and was laughing like, "See, Mom!" Of course, her sisters and her brother had to come see what the fuss was about. They declared her to be The Smartest, Funniest Baby In The World. They are quite proud of her.

14 pounds of pure ham.

My heart is bursting, full of laughs and love. And I'm thinking of a line from a Carly Simon song: "... so don't mind if I fall apart, there's more room in a broken heart."

Ain't that the truth.

Holy Shamoley! Jesus is a marshmallow!

Okay, I won't pretend to be the most pious person in the world, but this kind of freaks me out:
---
“He’s Alive” Buns (or Resurrection Rolls)

One roll of refrigerator crescent rolls
Large marshmallows
Melted butter or margarine
Sugar and cinnamon mixture

Preheat oven to 350.
Give each child a triangle of crescent rolls. This represents the cloth that Jesus was wrapped in. Give each child a marshmallow. This represents Jesus (white).
Have the child dip the marshmallow in melted butter. This represents the oils of embalming. Dip buttered marshmallow in the cinnamon and sugar. This represents the spices used to anoint His body. Wrap up the coated marshmallow tightly in the crescent roll (not like a typical crescent roll up … bring sides up and seal the marshmallow tightly inside - this is important, if you don't get it sealed up good the marshmallow runs out). This represents the wrapping of Jesus’ body after death.
Place in a 350 degree for 10–12 minutes. The oven represents the tomb – pretend like the minutes are three days! Once the rolls cool slightly, the children can open their rolls (cloth) and discover that Jesus is no longer there, HE IS RISEN! The marshmallow melts and the crescent roll is puffed up, but empty.
---

Given the insane imaginations of most kids (judging from mine), this would just be wayyyy too confusing. And the butter represents the oils of embalming? We're teaching our kids that? And the marshmallow doesn't disappear, it melts.

You think I'm taking this too seriously now, well, don't come crying to me when your kid grows up confusing the Last Supper with the Resurrection. "He said, 'This is my body,' and turned into a marshmallow ..."

Sorry for those who like this ... but for this old heathen, this is just too blasphemous. Taking what is to many Christians the most sacred story and turning it into a ready-to-eat-treat?

And for those without kids, who think I made this up ... nope. It's a popular Sunday school project for this time of year.

Sounds delicious, though.

Eek! Time for a laugh!

Oops. Just saw the headline of my last post, and realized that if one was quickly scanning bloglines or some such, it would be easy to interpret it as she *had* passed over, as in death, rather than *is* passed over, as in Passover. Much apologies to anyone who might have had a whisper of consternation.

Yet again I am reminded that even in Very Serious Situations, there is humor. Like last week, when Little Warrior was still in ICU. She didn't get to breastfeed for 4 days. For those not familiar with the whole nursing scenario, if you don't milk the cow (or the mama), the udders, they dry up. I could just imagine Little Warrior: "I go through all that, I get my abdomen sliced side to side, chunks of my organs removed, and you let all my milk go away???"

So, I was trotting up to the 4th floor at the hospital, which holds a "Milk Bank," which is a place where you can get some privacy and pump your breasts, then they freeze your milk. They have a lot of preemies at the hospital, so often the moms will do this, then the doctors request some of the breastmilk to feed their baby via ng tube.

So a nurse sees me one of the days and says, "Oh, Lizard Eater, your baby hasn't been getting milk, right?" That's right, sez I. "Not now, and maybe not ever."

Her face goes white and her eyes widen.

"No, no, no!" I hurriedly assure her. "I mean, she might go straight to the breast, and won't drink any of the expressed milk."

She looked very relieved.

You gotta watch what you say, in trying times, as Ari Fleischer told us. My father would say the same thing. (sound effects as we go backward in time ...)

It was the week before I was to be married. I was picking up my wedding dress and driving to my parents' home when I had a blow-out. This being before cell phones, I hiked to the nearest place of business, which happened to be a funeral home, where I proceeded to call my mother and let her know what happened.

She called my father at work. Her exact words were, according to my father:

"LE was in a car accident. You don't have to do anything. I have it all under control. She's at the Klein Funeral Home."

!!!!

Happily, I can report that my father did not have a heart attack then and there on the spot.

She is Passed Over

Results are in.

Histology: Favorable (not anaplastic), all the way through
Margins: Clear
Mom: Happy happy happy

And a little bit ... afraid to be so happy. Pretty normal, I imagine.

Looks like she'll complete her chemo protocol, so she'll have 12-15 more weeks.

Hopefully, in June, we can learn more about the whole heart condition and whether it is related to having giant tumors pushing everything up into her chest. Everyone except the cardiologist thinks they're related. Of course, he's the specialist. Acting quite squirrely, though. On one hand, acting as if everything is very dire. On the other hand, he doesn't send anyone from cardiology to check on her during or after the surgery.

Does-Not-Compute.

Anyway, one thing at a time.

And if you think I'm not thinking of the symbolism of this week being Passover ...

Prisoner of Chillon

We are home. It feels really, really good.

As I was packing up at the hospital yesterday, I had the startling realization that if everything goes the way we'd like ... cancer beat, no infections, etc ... M-- might not be in a hospital room again until she's having her own baby, or some such.

That was thrilling.

When I left the room, and turned back to look and make sure I wasn't leaving anything -- I found myself taking a little moment to memorize the room in my head.

This morning, the memory of that makes me think of a poem I memorized in high school. The Prisoner of Chillon by Lord Byron.

"And thus when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage -- and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home ...
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: -- even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh."

One Week

A week ago right now, 11:30ish pm, I was cold with fear. I was packing up a few last items for our trip to the hospital for Little Warrior's surgery. Though I tried not to, I would gaze at her, wondering if she would be returning home.

Tonight, I gaze at her in her hospital bed, filled with gratitude. Her abdomen is smooth and slender. Her color is good. She spent most of this evening laughing at me, as we played tent under the covers, "hat monster" (don't ask), and just looking at each other and being made happy by the other's face. I thanked her for coming back to me.

Tonight, I pack up a few last items because we will hopefully return home tomorrow. This journey is far from over ... there are histology reports, CT scans, post-op chemo and maybe post-op radiation in our future.

But there's a future.

Friday, almost a week ago, I went to the hospital chapel after having to hand over my baby into the anesthesiologist's arms, not knowing when, or if, I would hold her again.

In the little chapel, with The Husband, I sobbed. I couldn't stop. Finally, compelled by some deep longing inside me, I dropped to my knees in what can only be referred to as supplication. Please, I begged. That was the only word that cried out from my heart. Please.

Later, I can analyze why and what. Tonight, "please" has been replaced with "thank you." Tonight, it doesn't matter to whom -- or what -- those words are directed.

I am profoundly grateful.

"Everything happens for a reason"

Bullshit.

I know there are some people who very firmly believe in this principle. If you are one of these fine folks, you are welcome to it. I, however, do not share your belief.

Not sharing someone's belief in this core philosophy is akin to saying you don't like scrapple. "Oh, but you haven't had my scrapple," they say knowingly. Surely, if you eat their scrapple or listen to their testimony about how something awful happened to them, but in the end, it led to something good, surely then you will change your mind.

I am sure that I have been guilty of such things. Not saying that everything happens for a reason ... I had a brother who committed suicide two days before my 10th birthday, when he was 23. That kind of knocks those arguments right out of you.

But definitely, I can look back at many times in my life when something appeared to be bad, but it led to something good. Losing a job only to get a better one, wanting one thing, but getting something more right. And I know I have used these situations as examples to why someone shouldn't worry about their misfortune, but should be open to it being the start of something good.

But some things don't happen for a reason.

Okay, now that I have made myself perfectly clear on that point, I will now say that when one is in a situation -- any situation -- I think you should learn what you can, whether it's never order shrimp tacos in a roadside diner in Kansas or any of the many, myriad lessons from Little Warrior's battle with the big C.

Here's one such lesson. A huge "aha" moment for me.

Like many people, I have said, "Oh, you are so special, I could never do that," when referring to someone working in a potentially high-grief job. Hospice chaplain, pediatric cancer nurse, etc.

Aha moment this week: what an incredibly selfish thing to say.

Little Warrior's surgeon is apparently very good, very gifted. I say this not merely based on our experience, but also on all the comments I've heard about him.

So, what if he had decided, Oh God, I can't be a pediatric surgeon. It's too heartrending. It would eat me up.

She might not be alive. Or she might be on dialysis. Or, or, or ...

Each of us has a gift to give to the world. If it turns out that your gift involves ministering to dying patients, or working with sick children, or helping the incarcerated, then how can you say, "I can't. It's too painful."?

You can't. You have to get over it and get to it. Because you're the only person who can give the world your gift.

And if you think I'm preaching to myself, you're completely correct.

Just a boring happy day in the hospital

Got into a room last night. We are back on the oncology floor. Ah, it feels like home. Amazing the difference in attitude being on the oncology floor after what looks like a successful surgery versus when being diagnosed.

Little Warrior is nursing, pooping, and doing all the things you want a 10 month old to do. Right now, she is holding onto the ribbon on a balloon K- brought. "It's my balloon and you can't have it." She is adorable, and all the nurses keep coming 'round to see the cutie. They don't get many babies on the oncology floor.

The Husband is off finding a wifi signal at Starbucks so he can email some work in. Tomorrow, he goes back to work, staying at home in the evenings. So, Little Warrior and I will be by ourselves here, which is fine.

"I can't complain, but sometimes I still do." - Joe Walsh

Amazing how ungrateful we humans can be. Or maybe it's just me. Little Warrior is still in the ICU, not because of anything going wrong, but because they can't find a bed for her elsewhere in the hospital. So, we're cramped up next to two other beds, very loud, staff hollering down the room at each other (not "stat, important stuff!" but "hey, girl, do you want Popeyes for lunch or McDonalds?") and I'm irritated.

Taking a cue from "supposedly this is good therapy" ... my gratefuls:

a) we have a bed in the ICU, in a wonderful hospital
b) I have a husband who can be here with me and trade out sleep time
c) I got 5 hours of sleep last night
d) we can afford all this .. or at least have the means to fake it
e) I have so many great friends sending us love
f) We have wonderful parents who are watching our other kids so we don't even have to worry about them
g) There's a library with a computer so I can vent all this
h) Our wonderful, wonderful little girl is alive.

Okay. Time to hit the milk bank and pump. Good humor is restored.

...and the details

Removed: 1 grapefruit size tumor from the right kidney, 1 orange size from the left. My daughter, the fruit basket.

Kept: 2/3 of her right kidney and between 1/2 - 2/3 of her left. This was more than we hoped for. They did the right side first, and when they came back and said they saved 2/3 of it, we cried with joy, knowing that even if they had to completely remove the left side, the 2/3 could be enough. When they came out 3 hours later and reported how much they saved on the left side, we were so jubilant. No level of happiness higher.

"... my cup runneth over ..."

She's in ICU right now, but doing great. Off the oxygen, draining nicely, kidneys working fine. We might be moved to the oncology floor today, I hope I hope I hope. (No beds/privacy/etc in ICU for the parents). We managed to get a Ronald McDonald room last night and let me tell you, it's amazing what a new person you are after 5 hours sleep and a shower.

We will have hurdles to climb ... namely, getting the full report after they completely analyze the tumors. But we are so, so, so happy right now.

Anne, ready to pass that juju on to you, luv.

LE

Blue Skies

Blue skies
Smiling on me
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see

Blue days
All of them gone
Nothing but blue skies
From now on.

Filled with love - thank you

I am fine.

Thanks to my wonderful friends, including you guys, I am calm. Your prayers, energy, juju and love are sustaining me.

Bags are packed. Shower is taken. Alarm is set. Am about to take Little Warrior and go to bed. It feels like a million miles until I'll be able to do that again.

We'll be in ICU, and I don't anticipate having access to a computer for a few days. Will update as soon as I can.

Thank you, my friends.

Paralyzed

I'm paralyzed.

There are so many things I need to do ... getting the clothes ready for my other three kids to minimize the chances that The Princess and the Boy can convince their grandma that really, truly, it's okay with Mom if they go to school in a ballerina outfit and ripped old clothes, respectively. Getting our bags all packed. Updating my iPod with the playlist of songs I put together for Little Warrior. Finding batteries for the cheapie speakers for the iPod. (Although, with all the other wires and tubes that will be coming from her, having her wear some earbuds would be pretty cute.) Finding my address book so I can write thank-you notes while we're in the hospital (yeah right). Finding all the stuff for the breast pump, since I won't be nursing her for several days.

But I'm paralyzed. It's taking all of my resources to hold it together and not just sit here bawling.

Okay, LE. You've got a to-do list, above. Stop checking your email every 30 seconds. What, you think you're going to get an email from God saying oops, it was all a mistake, and she doesn't really have cancer? That you've obviously learned all about pain and compassion and friends, so the lesson is over?

It isn't coming. Get off your ass and get moving.

Too many worms

First, thanks for all the sweet comments. And Philocrites, thanks for the shout out in your blog. I was very, very touched. Even printed out it out to show my mama. Not that I can make her understand what a blog is.

Way too many worms to stab today. We had out sitdown with the surgeon and the urologist who will be assisting him.

Their goal is to remove both tumors (one on each kidney), leaving enough kidney to function without dialysis. A combined total of 2/3 - 1 kidney is the goal.

Many, many variables in this. After they remove the first tumor, they'll assess whether to continue on with the other one, or if they need to sew her back up, let her recover for two weeks, then do another surgery. Of course, we'd all prefer it be one surgery, but a) she has a heart problem and b) she's less than 17 lbs.

And tons more variables, which can be summed up as "until they get in there, they just really won't know what's what." They can make assumptions about how the tumors are connected to the kidneys, based on the scans, but they just don't know for sure til they get in there.

I'm at information overload. Too many scenarios of what "might" happen ... they plan on working on the kidneys inside her body, but they might need to detach one, work on it separately, then re-attach it. They might keep an echocardiogram on her all the time, to watch her heart. The surgery will probably be 8 hours, (not including anesthesia time beforehand), but might be more. Might, might, might.

One thing to hold onto ... to repeat over and over and over in my head. The surgeon said that the chance of something happening to her in surgery ... and her not making it ... is small. Not something he's anticipating at all.

Oh my God. I can't believe any of this. At Christmas, my concern was making sure she didn't accidentally ingest any pine needles. And whether two kinds of fudge was enough.

Mostly, I can't believe that tomorrow is my last day with her before surgery.

I've got to stop crying. I'm going to have a hell of a headache. And I need to get sleep. This might be the last night to get any for quite a while. Tomorrow night, I have to stop nursing her probably about midnight. And after surgery, we'll be sitting up in chairs with her in the ICU for several days.

I hope, I hope, I hope.

Stabbing Worms

If you run into a fairly normal-looking woman who suddenly begins making stabbing motions at the floor, you'll know you have met Lizard Eater.

See, the dark scary thoughts, as I have written about before, sneak up on you, unnoticed, until they're in your head and you're weeping. For me, they usually come for me at night, when I'm in bed and my defenses are down. I see them as worms. Creepy, crawly worms, quietly wriggling over the foot of the bed, inching up the bedspread, and crawling in one's ears.

The closer we get to Little Warrior's surgery -- Friday -- the hungrier the worms get. They're no longer willing to wait 'til night. Now, when I least expect it ... when I am, for instance, sitting in a hospital exam room, waiting 5 hours for a 5 minute procedure, they begin inching up my shoe, over my jeans, across my shirt, foot over foot up my hair and into my ear ... and suddenly, I am thinking about something I really do NOT want to be thinking about at that particular moment, and oh geez, the tears are starting, fuckitall I wore eye makeup today ...

So, I envision taking the ole straight hoe my mama used to use to lop the heads off snakes in our back yard (making no distinction between the copperheads and king snakes), and I begin stabbing the heck out of those worms at my feet.

STAB, STAB, STAB!!! GO AWAY, WORMS!!!

So far, it's working pretty well. I get a few strange looks and the other parents hurry by me with their children, but that's okay.

STAB, STAB, STAB.

What I Love ...

Okay, taking a break from your regularly scheduled program of angst, pain, cancer and sadness ...

What I Love:

a) The crockydiles in Pearls Before Swine

b) My new haircut. Which is to say, my old haircut. Long, with bangs. As opposed to long, with no bangs. Some women can get away with no bangs, showing their smooth foreheads. Alas, I'm am not that woman. I think this makes me look younger. It probably just makes me look like a dork. Ignorance is bliss, baby!

c) Coffee. With cream. And sugar.

d) Finding a new great blog. Like http://www.dooce.com/

e) Reading my favorite blogs. I am such an addict. Blog-writers, y'all are to me, what "Friends" was to the country after 9-11. Terrific escapism, with the added bonus that I occasionally learn sumpin'. On top of that, you are new friends to me.

f) All the Sweet Potato Queens books. And the Sweet Potato Queens messageboards.

g) Learning a new crazy recipe. My friends know that I love giving them recipes that begin, "Okay, I know this sounds bizarre, but it's really good, trust me!" Like this one, for magic milkshakes (no ice cream).

h) Teletubbies. Because it means that I occasionally have time to drink a cup of coffee and write in my blog.

i) Extra paycheck months like this one.

j) Gilmore Girls. Great, great, great dialog. One of the few shows where I can watch an episode more than once. As fast as they speak, it's like a good movie where you pick up on things you missed the first time.

And speaking of comics (see "a", above), I should cut this one out and save it for when my kids are adults. They'll love it. I am this mom.
Rhymes With Orange

Son has been bummed because he and I will be apart on our favorite holiday. This Saturday is April Fool's Day. In my family, in each generation, a fool is born ... One person, in all the world, a Chosen One. One born with the strength, skill and power to play pranks on those who love him.

In the generation before me, it was my father. In mine, it was me. And in my children, it is my son.

There are very strict rules about being an April Fool as I explained to Son last year. 1) One prank may be played per person. Continuing to tell your little sister, "Look there's a kangaroo! Look there's a snake!" is not fun for her. 2) When the person calls your bluff "Oh, it's April Fools," you must 'fess up. 3) The joke itself can only last about 5 minutes. Any more, and you're being cruel. And the most important rule:

DON'T BE SURPRISED WHEN THEY PRANK YOU BACK. TAKE YOUR JUST DESSERTS.

Last year's prank on my poor long-suffering husband was killer. We had our house up for sale and had just recarpeted the entire house.

Note: a really good April Fool's Prank takes planning and preparation.

A week earlier, I had mixed up some school glue with a little brown paint. I poured it onto a piece of plastic wrap in a puddle and let it dry. Pulled it off the plastic wrap, and put it next to an empty paper coffee cup from our favorite coffee place. On its side. On the brand new carpet.

Learned something interesting: when I wonder if my husband is being passive aggressive when he does something like walk past his dirty socks on the floor 20 times ... no, he's not. He's that oblivious.

He was bringing in some sheets of laminate we were going to put down in our entry later. Walked past the cup and puddle 11 times. Never saw them.

Later, he and I were sitting in the living room talking about this and that. Suddenly, he yells, "Ohhhhmmmmyyyygodddddd" and flings himself across the room, not unlike someone shouting "fire in the hole" and jumping clear of a hand grenade. He had caught sight of the cup and puddle. He scooped it up ... realized it was solid ... realized he'd been pranked ...

... and said something unprintable.

Tee-hee.

Just the facts ma'am ...

Okay, enough angst and emotion. Here's the update on what's going on:

Next week is the biggie. Tuesday, CT scan. Wednesday, meeting with the surgeon. Friday, surgery. THE surgery. Removing the tumors off each kidney. (1 biggie per kidney.) As of now, the surgeon thinks he can remove them and leave working kidney on both sides.

Cardiologist thinks her heart can take the surgery. Oncologist thinks the chemo has done all it's going to do, shrinkage-wise. Which is to say, not much.

Me, I've got to make sure to avoid caffeine after noon, so that I can fall asleep when I go to bed. I remember there was some teen-slasher film in the 80's wherein the kids weren't supposed to fall asleep. Nightmare on Elm Street, I guess. If you fell asleep, the killer could get you in your dreams.

For me, it's if I can't fall asleep. If I have to lay there in bed for more than 5 minutes, they come ... horrible thoughts. I can almost see them, like worms, crawling up the bed. Ughhh. How's that for visualization.

They always involve the Worst Case Scenario. You would think that would be bad enough, right? Losing someone you love? Nope. It's what to do next. Last night, the spectre of making a decision on organ donation haunted me. I'm all for it, but one doesn't really like to think of it in connection with one's infant daughter snuggled up next to you. I was envisioning the whole scenario, and wondering if I could hold her again, and how the timing would work out, and then, there I am, sobbing in the dark.

When I woke up, I realized it probably wasn't even an issue, since she has cancer, and I think there are rules against such things. Why couldn't that logic visit me along with the worms? I guess Logic is busy sleeping while I'm suffering. Bastard.

I'm okay now. It's daytime.

The Cold Times

What they always say about Times Like This is that "you'll be on a rollercoaster of emotions." Ain't that the truth.

My experience has been that the traditional lows ... when you're weepy and everything seems dark ... are not the worst part. Those are expected. You're scared, and you're sad, and you don't know how to get out of the low. But it's kind of like surfing. (I'm guessing, since I've never surfed.) Eventually, a new wave is going to come along and lift you up.

What has been far worse, for me, are the Cold Times. If someone were to look at you, they would think, Ah, she's doing better. She's handling it okay. You look "together." You're functioning well, you're not crying, you can talk quite logically about anything.

Anything. And there's the rub. During the Cold Times, you can have the most horrific thoughts ... and they don't affect you. You are cold and emotionless inside and you examine these thoughts with curiosity. Hmm, if the worst happens, I guess I'll just get rid of my nursing shirts. Hmm, if the worst happens, we'll take the crib out of our room. Hmm, if the worst happens, I guess we'll just use her room as a guest bedroom.

Eventually, the thoughts are so stark, so horrible, that you shock yourself back into some semblance of feeling and are then horrified at yourself. "How can I think such things???" And in my case, I scoop up Little Warrior and clutch her tightly, kissing her little ole head over and over and closing my mind to any of those excrutiating thoughts.

Until the Cold Times come again.

'Tis better to say something stupid than nothing ...

That's one thing I've learned though this. Remember that whole "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything"? B.S., at least in this situation.

I know that in the past, I've been guilty of worrying that I was going to say something dumbass to someone going through a rough time.

But you know what? Silence hurts far more than anything stupid you can say.

I've been lucky. All the people that I'm really close to have been next to me since the second we were called to go to the ER with Little Warrior. I am blessed; I am rich in my friends.

But I will admit, there have been a few that have surprised me -- friends who I would have predicted would at least be dropping an email. Total silence.

I'm sure it's the whole "I wouldn't know what to say." But you can say that. In fact, the best thing I heard was when she was first diagnosed and my good friend MouseFace called and said, "I don't what to say except that this really sucks."

She summed up my feelings exactly.

If You Throw a Pity Party ...

...make sure you have plenty of food and drink.

That was the advice I gave a friend today who is going through a rough patch. And I have another friend, Anne, who hit a low on Monday and is feeling a bit blue.

Before All of This, I LOVED throwing parties. I am a bit famous for them, actually. Or infamous, I guess. You know the party scene in "Breakfast at Tiffany's"? That's always been my goal. But with more food, because I am a cook and a foodie.

Well, four kids later, our parties are similar to the scene, if you threw in about 1.5 children for every adult couple. Lots of sinful food, and a few non-sinful items for my vegan friends. Someone on the back deck playing guitar, kids up in the playroom wreaking havoc, pockets of great conversation all over, food and drink everywhere. And by about 9:30 pm, me somewhere teaching everyone how to do chocolate cake shots.

So, why should a pity party be any different? Of course, there's no need for guests, this is a party for one.

Necessary items for a pity party:

a) Dress: dress is beyond casual. Only the most comfy jammies will do. Barring that, then super soft sweats, or faded, loose shorts and a big tshirt.

b) Food: first, there must be something salty. And something sweet. Something creamy. Something crunchy. There we go, your four food groups. The sweet should, of course, be chocolate. Or, you can have chocolate as an adjunct, and have something else filling the sweet role.

c) Drink: A really good red wine. Or a dark beer, the better to go with chocolate. Now that I think about it, in college, some friends and I (after much testing) decided that the perfect snack was dutch chocolate ice cream, bavarian style pretzels and Shiner Bock. Ooh, looka that. Salty, sweet, creamy, crunchy and chocolate in only 3 items. Wait, how did I get back on food?

If one is not allowed to drink alcohol because a) it interferes with the anti-depressants, b) because it interferes with chemo, c) it comes through breastmilk and interferes with your baby's chemo or d) the court-mandated breathalyzer test you must take every hour, then one should drink either a) an egg cream, b) a real non-diet Coke or c) a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider.

d) Entertainment: There are two schools of thought on this. One avenue to explore is that of really depressing movies. Sob along with Steel Magnolias, Beaches, Terms of Endearment, etc.

The other school of thought says who wants more tears? Rent something either really funny or really bad, or a combination of the two.

Happy Festivities!

Will the real superstition please stand up?

Times like this, you get real superstitious. I've knocked wood so many times, we got a letter from our neighborhood association instructing us to take care of our woodpecker problem.

Coupled with this is the fact that I don't know the rules of that many superstitions. Something about tossing salt over your shoulder. Or not looking at a full moon through the trees unless its over your left shoulder. So, I just go through my day, randomly tossing salt, hitting wood or a wood by-product, and twitching around to look at things backward. My neighbors think I either have epilepsy or full-body Tourettes.

The bigger issue is when you're not sure which way to go with superstition. Superstition-wise, leaving any possible logic out of it, does one talk about all eventualities, in the belief that if you talk about it, you ward it off? Kind of like buying tons of life insurance to guard against your death. Or should one not mention any negative outcomes, in order to not "open the door" to the possibility?

I vaguely remember a friend's Catholic Italian grandmother spitting when certain things were said. But I don't remember what kinds of things.

Oh great. Salt, wood, turn around and spit. Now my neighbors are sure to call the guys with the butterfly nets.

Obladi, Oblada 2

Early morning can be just as bad as night ... maybe worse, because you have no control. You wake up with a thought in your head that you dreamed or that is continuing from the night before.

This a.m. "If the worst happens, I need to get a copy of 'The Little Prince' for the service, because my copy is in French."

Ugh.

That was followed by loud barking and little girl screams, as Bo Peep and the Princess came down the stairs, startling the dog, who was in the house because it's raining, who began barking, startling the girls and making them scream and cry. That lives in the house that Jack built.

They came and got in bed with Little Warrior and myself. So, there I am, Little Warrior on my left, Bo Peep curled up on my right arm, the Princess lying slap in the middle of me. So I was vividly reminded that I am not just the mother of one.

The morning has begun, Teletubbies and Cookie Crisp (I miss being able to do the grocery shopping). It's raining outside, which I love.

Obladi, Oblada, Life Goes On ...

Reality is so much worse than my imagination

Tonight, we were watching "Cold Case" and The Husband noted, "I'm surprised you're watching this. You usually hate this kind of show." (Meaning: stressful, scary.)

Good ole escapism. Doesn't bother me a whit, now.

Before, shows like that were too much for me. With my crazy imagination, eek. I was scared of everything.

Now, I'm scared of one thing. And that's it.

Before, my imagination could pull up all kinds of dramatic, harrowing situations. A bump outside my window was the crazed murderer, coming to get us all.

Now, I am learning that little, seemingly insignificant things are far scarier, far more painful than the bogeyman my mind could conjure. A few minutes before my husband made his comment, I was stroking my baby daughter's cheek, her eyelids, her little lips, trying to memorize them. Wondering if I would soon be trying to remember what her skin feels like.

It's nighttime right now. Daytime, I am detached. I can think of such awful things, but in a very detached, unemotional way. If the worst happens, I think, what will we do for a minister for the service? (Our church is currently without). The two that I could call "mine" are unavailable; one is in the Northeast, and one is in Australia. I muse over options.

But at nighttime ... the guard is down. There is no detachment. I videotape Little Warrior playing with her siblings, making sure that I have each one videotaped holding her, making her laugh. I have to stop, my vision is blurry and the viewfinder is wet.

I wish I could take some sort of a sleeping pill, because when I lay down to go to sleep, that's when the worst of the demons arrive. My head swims with worry, with grief. Can't take a sleeping pill, can't even have a beer. Little Warrior is getting all of her nutrition from Mama and alcohol can interfere with chemo.

Please God, may next week's reality be so much better than my imagination.

Humor Knows Its Place -- Everywhere

ChaliceChick had a great post about humor. And you know, I could use a little humor right now. Before All Of This, I was quite into humor. Loved doing an annual humor service at my home church.

Well, actually, I still love humor, and it's amazing how you can find it in even the more dire circumstances. Like when my great-aunt died, and even though she had crossed every t and dotted every i, my dad still had to fax papers back and forth and sign things. It was capped off by the 25 page document he had to sign to get her body cremated. One of the many items in that document stated, that "I understand that this process is irreversible."

What??? said my father. "No, I figured I could just add some water and reconstitute her!"

Or at 11:30 pm, the night that Little Warrior came out of a 9 hour surgical biopsy that was supposed to be 3 hours ... we were in the recovery area and the pulmonologist wandered by. We noted that her breathing was a little rough. "Well, sure, you should expect that when you remove the top half of her right lung." Little Warrior was supposed to get biopsies of her *kidneys.* The Husband and I both began gasping for air. "Oh!" said the pulmonologist. "Not her! That little girl over there! Sorry!"

So, in the spirit of "I need a laugh" ... some of my favorite UU jokes. (Which do not include any of the "we have no raison d'etre" jokes.)

Why are UU congregations so bad at hymn singing?

Because they are always reading a few lines ahead to see if they agree with the words.

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if you think socks are too formal for a Summer service.

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if you know at least 5 ways to say - Happy holidays!

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if your idea of a guy's night out is going to a N.O.W. rally.

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if unleavened bread is part of your Easter Brunch.

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if you refer to construction paper as "paper of color."

If you find yourself rewriting a church survey, rather than taking it, you might be a UU.

If you call up your minister in the middle of the night, panicking because you are STARTING to believe in God, you might be a UU.

If, to explain your personal theology, you have to use interpretive dance, you might be a UU.

You may be a Unitarian Universalist if you take your day planner to church instead of the Bible.

Not always true, but still funny ... especially for those of us who have taken a very-Christian-not-UU person to church:

Fellow goes to a UU service for the first time, and later is asked what he thought of it. "Darndest church I ever went to," he replies, "the only time I heard the name of Jesus Christ was when the janitor fell down the stairs."

And to end, a great Dostoyevsky quote:

"If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know the man, don't bother analyzing his ways of being silent, of talking, of weeping, or seeing how much he is moved by noble ideas; you'll get better results if you just watch him laugh. If he laughs well, he's a good man...All I claim to know is that laughter is the most reliable gauge of human nature."

Of course, anyone who laughs at Gallagher, I regard with a high degree of suspicion. But I consider "Better Off Dead" to be one of the funniest movies ever made. And my parents think the same of "The Coca-Cola Kid," which left me and The Husband scratching our heads. What can I say, humor is subjective.

Things you want to say ...

Okay, I'm stealing this from Anne of Supposedly This Is Good Therapy:

List ten things you want to say to people you know but you never will, for whatever reason. Don't say who they are. Use each person only once.

1. Get therapy, already!

2. Hit rock bottom, already, so you can go sober!

3. He's a jerk. We all know he is. Hold him accountable or kick him out.

4. Tell me what you'd say if I were another doctor and the patient wasn't my kid.

5. You're controlling and a know-it-all, but I really love you, and wish we could just hang out and really get to know each other as people.

6. Go for a nerd. They're much better lovers than Mr. Cool.

7. I love you but you drive people crazy.

8. You are mentally ill, we all know it, and we don't believe anything you say.

9. Your son thinks Jesus is going to reward him for telling everyone my son is an evil wizard, because we're Unitarian. Do you really consider that to be Christian behavior?

10. Ummm, priorities??? Little Warrior has cancer!

I told The Husband about this little exercise. "Hmm, am I on there?" Nope, I told him, I tell you everything I want to say.

Whether he wants me to, or not!

Attitude isn't everything ...

...but it's something.

Okay, so we got the news today that Little Warrior will have surgery in two weeks. The breath was a bit knocked out of me; I didn't really think it would be that soon.

Here's the deal. I can look at it as "these could be the last two weeks of her life." Or, I could look at it as "two weeks from now, she could be cancer-free!"

Though I generally am a glass half-full kind of person, I don't have much patience with the "blow sunshine" people. You know, the "everything will be okay" people. The "God never gives you more than you can handle" people.

But this is just survival. If I take the cheerful view of things, and events wind up NOT cheerful, has that cost me anything? No. Will I be more prepared for the worst? No. The worst would be the worst and there's no preparing for it.

If I take the fatalist approach, would it mean that I would cherish the next two weeks more? Nope. I'd be weepy and sad. However, if I take the positive view, then I will be more cheerful, which means I can genuinely enjoy my time with Little Warrior and the rest of the family.

So, prescription for the next two weeks: lots of pizza, watching movies together, and getting ready for positive things.

Either a positive outcome will happen or it won't. Either way, I've had that two weeks.

Blind sided again

The cardiologist said that the problem with her heart ... which heretofore we had been told was simply because the tumors were squeezing everything up into her chest ... is cardiomyopathy, and not from the tumors. Not related to cancer. Just a little coincidence.

So, now, we are not only parents of a cancer patient, but also parents of a cardiac patient. And it's the same child.

Even when one knows better, one asks the question of the universe, "why is this happening?" Is it because I was greedy? I had three healthy children and I wanted one more?

I want to just feast my eyes on her and enjoy all the happiness I can ... but I cry. I cry because I *am* greedy and I want more than just this one moment.

More news tomorrow

Well, we had a good 4 day weekend. Little Warrior seems to be feeling fairly good. She's sleeping a bit more than normal, but hey, she had two scoops of chemo on Thursday.

I've been able to just enjoy the time at home, but now I have "Sunday night disease." If you've ever had a job you detested, you know that illness. You'd like to keep enjoying the rest of your day, or evening, but your stomach has that sinking feeling and a voice keeps whispering, "Tomorrow. Tomorrow."

Nothing horrible, tomorrow, just a potential for more bad news. We're meeting with the cardiologist. I don't entirely know what's going to happen. They might do an EKG, but the nurse today said they *won't* do another echocardiogram.

So, tomorrow is a "no eye makeup" day. In case there's any need to cry.

Painted Ladies 'a Trois

We have a lot of lantana in our yard that is now in bloom. Apparently, "lantana" is butterfly for "Viagra."

Just watched three painted ladies have a menage a trois. Butterflies, I mean. One got kicked out of the fun, and the two remaining flew off together, still going at it, up, up, up, into one of our skyscraper pine trees.

Now, how can you not be cheered by that?

Turn ON the Lights, the Party's Over

Pity party is over. Thank you for attending, please pick up your souvenir tote bag on the way out.

Two of my heroes threw a hand down into the abyss and pulled me up. Neither of them know they are my heroes (ewww, doesn't that sound like a cheesy song?).

I've never met her, or heard her speak, but I've been a huge fan of Rev. Christine Robinson for quite some time now. I found her sermons on the First Church Albuquerque site probably a couple of years ago. Thought they were brilliant, even printed a lot of them out and sent them to my parents. Planned on asking her permission to share some of them in our church's "new UU" orientation. (Hadn't gotten around to taking on the job of orientations when this began.) To a UU seminary geek like me, she's Elvis.

In a penultimate coincidence (most people think penultimate means "beyond" ultimate. I means "one shy of ultimate," or in this case, "we're both Unitarian and this blog is linked to some other blog sites"), the very Reverend visited my blog when I was feeling very lost and left a little comment to let me know I wasn't alone.

Isn't that just like a UU minister to be on sabbatical (I read her profile) and yet still ministering. To a stranger, yet.

Well, that coincidence propelled me enough out of my funk to go back to the UU Alb. site. Found a sermon I hadn't yet read, called Singing in the Dark.

It was about that time that the mail came, and with it, "The Essential Willie Nelson," cd.

I don't just like Willie's music, which I was raised on, but I like the man. I like what he does with his celebrity. I kinda think that if Jesus were to return, he might kinda look and act like ole Willie. At the very least, he'd hang out with him.

So, I'm reading the Rev's sermon about making it through the dark times, and listening to Willie sing "If you've got the money, honey, I've got the time ..." I defy anyone to stay in a bad mood listening to that song.

I'm sure I'm going to be sad again. But right now, the sadness is because of fear, fear of what I can imagine happening in the future. Today, Little Warrior is playing and squealing. We're having tacos for dinner and the kids started spring break. The Husband is bringing home a copy of the latest Harry Potter movie as a surprise. Classify these as good times.

Thank you, Rev. Robinson. Thank you, Willie.

sad

Before All of This, I was a Happy Person. Prided myself on it, actually. I was pretty good at making the choice to be happy, and then be happy.

I can't do it.

I'm so sad. And I just don't know how to stop.

Desperately seeking "Normal"

Oh my God, I miss normal. I miss it with every fiber of my being. I ache for it.

I didn't realize how much until today. First, we had a "not normal" day, though one that has turned into normal ... today was chemo day. Little Warrior was supposed to begin a new chemo (doxorubicin) but it turns out that the echocardiogram showed that her heart isn't working the way it should. (It's having to work extra hard because the tumors are shoving everything up into her chest.)

So, because of that, we need to hold off on the doxorubicin, because it can cause problems on down the line. She'll see a cardiologist next week, then the cardio will meet with the oncologist and the surgeon and they'll determine whether the risk is worth it.

But that's not what made me realize how much I missed normal.

Back at home, I was looking for something in the hall closet. Rummaging there, I came across all of her cloth diapers.

The last time I looked at one of her cloth diapers was before this all began. Since she's on chemo, she has to use disposable diapers now, since we don't want excreted chemo going through our laundry, staying in her clothes, etc.

It's not like the cloth diapers are that big a deal to me. But just seeing them, it was like when you smell playdough and are instantly transported back to kindergarten. Except I was transported back to "normal." A place where I could do such wonderful things as go to the grocery store, or meet a friend for lunch with Little Warrior and Bo Peep in tow.

A place where I could look at Little Warrior and just see a cute little baby.

Not *this* kind of attention

Okay, I'll admit it. Prior to this, I loved attention. Loved getting up and doing sermons, no shyness in the pulpit or the center ring. Sure, it's positive attention, right? And the attention I got -- though brief -- when I had the emergency appendectomy, well that was nice, too. Coupla casseroles, a few get well cards, nice to be nurtured.

But the attention for this ... I hate it.

I mean, I guess the alternative ... getting no attention, no one wanting to lift our spirits, bringing over casseroles and prayers ... I'm sure it would be worse. The one thing I have *never* felt in all of this is "alone." I am incredibly blessed to have friends who keep remembering me, neighbor ladies who have been bringing over little presents to "lift my spirits" (how thoughtful is that???), family that jumps to help even without us asking ...

But I don't like this attention. I don't like being "the lady with the baby with cancer." I don't like trying to appear upbeat and positive when almost-strangers ask me how Little Warrior is doing. I don't like writing thank you notes for all the little niceties that have been done. (And I'm normally an oddball who *does* enjoy writing thank-you's.)

Yeah, I'm grateful. And when I think about it all, I know that it *does* help me, *does* lift my spirits.

And maybe that's the part I really hate. That I need the help. That I need the attention.

Damn that Don Williams

Haven't cried about getting the news that the tumors haven't shrunk. Too much to do, plus, I don't want the children to see me weeping all the time. So I say, I'll cry after they go to bed. But after they go to bed, I get busy doing things, and going to bed.

So, I take Little Warrior to get an echo today. Am driving back home, idly singing along with the "classic country" station (the last good country music, with some exceptions, was the 70's, in my opinion). Get to a line from a Don Williams' song:

"...I should be thankful, Lord, I know I should. But Lord I hope this day is good."

Blimey. Tears are rolling down my cheeks.

Damn you, Don Williams! (shakes fist at the sky)

Babies With Cancer Resources

Specifically ... there don't seem to be any. You've got your "Make a Wish" foundation and "Sunshine Kids" and such, but they all require the patient to be at least 3. Which I can understand, they want to help the kids who can appreciate it. But babies ... and the families of babies with cancer ... have some different and specific needs.

So ... if I had the money to start a foundation for babies with cancer, what would it do?

Off the top of my head: provide slings for babies in the hospital or getting chemo. When you've got an iv pole, slings are WONDERFUL. You can pop Baby in one, grab the pole, and you're off for a walk. Baby loves being close to Mom or Dad, parents love having Baby strapped to their chest, exercise is a good thing ...

What else? Mmm, provide those portable DVD players with a copy of Teletubbies or Baby Einstein. I call it Teletubby sedation.

Resources for the family ... some sort of family/couples counseling support -- how do you help your baby when he can't tell you what hurts?

OH, DEFINITELY ... resources for nursing mothers. First and foremost, information on breastfeeding a baby with cancer. I haven't been able to find ANYTHING. My doctors are good, but they don't have any information on this. All they tell me is "sure, go ahead and breastfeed." Breastpumps, for keeping up your supply during the 4+ days when Baby has surgery and you're not allowed to nurse.

Hmm. Will edit and add more as I think of them. Little Warrior is fussing. Hey, money for a baby nurse! Naaaaah.

Phooey on Statistics

Bummer.

Well, they were hoping that by now, the tumors would have shrunk by about 50%. These had shrunk, if at all, maybe 1 cm. On the good side, the character looks different. Perhaps the necrosis is happening from the inside out.

So, Little Warrior is now going to be on doxorubicin, as well as the Dactinomycin and Vincristine. 6 weeks from now, she goes in to surgery, no matter what.

The statistics, overall, for Wilms' look great -- 90+% survival.

However, here's the deal about statistics. The chance of getting Wilms? 1 in 10,000. Chance of getting bilateral Wilms? 5% of that number.

So, 90% survival ... means 1 in 10 won't survive.

1/10.
1/10,000

I won't keep going with the math.

Classify these "Good Times"

I wonder how we will look back on this time.

Right now, we are still in the honeymoon period, if you can call it that, of treatment. As far as we know, everything is going swimmingly, we're going to shrink these tumors down, have surgery, some post-op, and get on with life. Now, this may all change on Monday, which is when we have an appointment to meet with the doctor to go over the CT scan.

But right now, it's all hope. This morning, Little Warrior giggled and squealed, as her two older sisters played their new game, in which one jumps on Dad's back and one jumps on Dad's front and they hang there til they fall. (He lets his kids just romp all over him. He's like a piece of playground equipment.)

Right now, The Husband took the kids to go get bagels, Little Warrior is sitting on a blanket on the floor playing with toys, and I'm about to go dry my hair and get out of my bathrobe.

As Willie Nelson sang, "Classify these good times."

Tomorrow, early

Ugh. Gotta get up at 5:30, in order to make it to the hospital by 7:30 for Little Warrior to get a CT Scan at ... 1:00??? Grr.

This is her first scan since starting the chemo 6 weeks ago. pleaseohpleaseohplease -- "Wow, they are really shrinking!" I'll settle for "they're doing just as we expected." Anything else ... don't want to think about it.

Dis Not Plan Me Have In Mind, Floyd

http://www.comics.com/comics/pearls/archive/pearls-20060226.html

(February 26 Pearls Before Swine)

Oh. My. God. I love this. I have looked at it about 50 times today, and it's still making me laugh.

God muss have beeg plan foh us, Floyd!

Bwahahahahaha.

Keep your "miracle drug" of choice to yourself

Tip to the world: we all have a "miracle drug" that we believe in. But just because you believe in yours, do not try and convince me it is the One and Only Miracle Cure. Your cure may be:

* The Raw Food Diet
* Positive Thinking
* Jesus

... I'm not interested.

Prayers? Prayers, I love. Whether you pray to Allah, Jesus, Kali, of The Great Spirit of Mankind, I thank you for your prayers. I appreciate your prayers and I believe that there is a significant power in prayer that we don't understand.

But do not try and tell me to just hand my problems over to God and He will deliver. (I'm curious ... when people are given this platitude, and then the worst happens, do they then return to the platitude-giver and say, "Dude, what's up with what you promised?" Says my husband: "If they did, they'd just be given another platitude like 'Well, God has a plan.'")

And in terms of the "drink juice" or "eat raw food" or "don't give her chemo, it's poison" people ... get a life. Other than one bite of home-cooked sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving, this baby has had nothing but breastmilk, straight from the source. And chemotherapy is the reason why so many children now survive childhood cancer.

Pray for me. But do not tell me how to pray.

Or eat.

Whine and Redemption

"A range of acting-out behavior such as tantrums, or acting-in behavior, like depression, should be expected from an ill child. Help them to develop ways to cope and express their feelings." (from a helpful website)

Guess what. That applies to the parents, too.

First ... allow me to simultaneously act out and express my feelings.

Waaaah, waaaah, waaaaah! she whines.

So, in addition to taking care of a baby with cancer, a baby who can't tell me what hurts, so I have to try and deduce it by reading about older children and their complaints when on this protocol, I have to also make sure that my three older children are all having their needs met, both physical, emotional and mental, making sure that each of them feels special and valued and heard, AND I need to make sure to encourage my partner to express his feelings, no mean feat, since he is the quiet type, AND I need to be sure and eat healthfully because I must keep myself healthy, AND since I'm breastfeeding and alcohol can interfere with chemo I can't even have a glass of wine in the evening AND I need to comfort others -- friends, relatives and acquaintances -- who are affected by this, AND I need to read up on all the recent research to make sure our protocol is the best, AND OH YEAH, I need to sterilize all the babies toys and run interference between her and her siblings who really want to touch her, hold her, let her put her fingers in their mouths AND I need to make the house a sterile clean environment for the patient AND don't forget, "try to keep life as normal as possible to limit the disruption this will cause to your family."

/Rant

Okay. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Think of the blessings ...

...Of which there are many. I am so incredibly blessed in all of this in so many ways.

My parents, septagenarians both, closed up their house two states away, dragged their RV down here and there they are, my beck-and-call-parents, ready to drop everything and come over for appointments, entry into the hospital, even to pick up groceries.

Our wonderful siblings, the aunts and uncle to Little Warrior, who call, come down, make flyers, and play with their nephew and nieces.

An incredible little church and our covenant groups, who have made sure we never feel alone. Trips to the hospital, casseroles out the yin-yang, running a blood drive, prayers and hope.

We are blessed. We are blessed. We are blessed.

Being a UU and a Parent of a Cancer Patient

So, does it mean anything, being both a Unitarian Universalist and a parent of a cancer patient?

In some ways, no. You go through the same Kubler-Ross levels of grief. You deny, you rage, you cry, you bargain, you accept. You wish it could be YOU with the cancer, not your innocent little baby. (As if cancer is only handed out to those who have done bad.) You hold that baby close.

In some ways, yes. Forgive the wide generalizations here ... there are Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, etc. that all question and doubt in the same ways UU's do. As a UU, I consider it to be a responsibility to my religion that I question deity and philosophy. Perhaps this is a cushion, at times like this. When someone says to me, "You have to realize, this is all part of God's plan," I don't feel a need to rage at any type of "His eye is on the sparrow" deity, as perhaps one who has had total trust in God might. I can simply say, "Pbbblt."

And during the day, I can acknowledge the sense I have that such things are random. To my mind, when Job asks God why all the travails were visited upon him and God replies, "Because I'm God," I don't see it as any type of mystical answer. I think that it is a matter-of-fact answer to why bad things happen. They just do. "Because I'm God."

Just random. I believe that things are interconnected, but I believe that there are some things that happen randomly ... much like cancer itself. You have your healthy, working body, everything working in rhythm. But sometimes, things go screwy. Cells begin multiplying rapidly, out of rhythym, out of rhyme. Random.

But at night ...

But at night, as I curl my body around her sleeping form, looking at that sweet little face, tracing the incision that goes from one side of her to the other ... all I say is, Please.

Please, God.

I am Mr. Toad

I am, a bit. Mr. Toad. I admit it.

You remember Mr. Toad, from Wind in the Willows. He'd get into a new craze -- for instance, when he got a motorcar -- and he had to get the outfit to match. Goggles, car suit, etc.

I've done that. When I was on the fencing team, I was so thrilled the Christmas my parents bought me my own jacket. Pregnant, I couldn't WAIT to get in maternity clothes. After the baby was born, there I was in my nursing tops. I'm a Unitarian Universalist and not only do I wear UU t-shirts and jewelry, I even designed a shirt. And when U.T. were the champions this year, you know I was wearing my burnt orange the next day.

But now ... there's just no uniform, no costume, no t-shirt that goes with this.

I feel like there is. I managed to leave everyone today and go to Target all by myself. I felt like I was wearing a big, heavy sandwich board: "Mother of a Baby with Cancer." No one else could see the board, of course.

But it weighed me down.

Liquid diamonds

Big difference between a cancer patient and a cancer patient's mama? I LOVE chemo day. Little Warrior gets it weekly: every week, Vincristine, and every three weeks, Vincristine + Dactinomycin.

I love chemotherapy. It is liquid diamonds to me, going in and vanquishing the tumors, causing all those cells to POOF!

The long drive to the medical center, the hours of waiting ... WAIT when you get there, then WAIT in the infusion area, then WAIT to see the doctor, then WAIT for the chemo ... no problem. Fussy baby? Well, I'll just pop her in the sling strapped to my chest and we'll walk around and around and around the pediatric oncology area. Each step gets us closer to time for chemo and each drop of chemo gets us closer to her being well.

I love chemo day.

Okay, now THAT'S funny

Apparently the worship chair for our church was holding the March 5 Sunday open for me. Before All Of This began, I was scheduled to give a sermon.

Topic?

It was to be a humor service.

Happy 1/2 Price Chocolate Day!

Hey, we'll take our celebrations where we may. The Husband hit Godiva for 1/2 price Valentine's chocolate. He called me, asking my opinion about his selection. "We still have some left from Christmas," I told him. "A small box is enough." "Yeah," said he, "it's not that long til Mother's Day."

Mother's Day!

It seems a million years from now. I have no idea what my world will be like by Mother's Day. By then, Little Warrior will probably have had her surgery, perhaps be in post-op chemo. What will our home be like, come Mother's Day?

Right now, things are just ... unsettled. I haven't yet settled in to having a "normal life" some time, yet always ready to drop everything and go back in the hospital. And then there's the weekly chemo treatments.

But Little Warrior seems so normal. She laughs, she plays. She hasn't lost her hair yet. She has good color. So, we somewhat go about our day, stopping occasionally to take blood pressure, or hook up her iv antibiotics, or take her captropril.

I've had the weird situation of having do "de-reassure" people. Yes, I'm making up a word. Here's the situation: word somehow got out that she had "turned a corner." Whatever that means. A neighbor stopped by yesterday to check on us. When I said something about going for chemo weekly, she stopped me. "But I thought everything was all over?" No, I told her, we're actually just at the start of the process.

The whole thing is just weird, weird, weird. I occasionally tell myself "don't be overdramatic." Then I have to remind myself, "you're not being overdramatic. Your baby has cancer. It's real. It's happening."

So, in summation, we are in a period of adjustment. Explaining to the children that when we're here, we're here, and the normal rule apply. Trying to stay kept up on laundry and bills. Figuring out work-arounds to things like the fact that I can't go to the grocery store anymore.

Tomorrow is "double chemo" day. Rah-rah.

Back in the saddle ... er, hospital ... again

Well, after 5 glorious days of being at home -- I didn't know they were glorious at the time, but now I know to cherish every single day home -- we had to come back to the hospital as Little Warrior got an infection. Because the chemo kills good white blood cells, as well as the bad cancer cells, if you get an infection, you're in the hospital for iv antibiotics and "keeping an eye on."

It's not too bad. She's on the iv, but no monitors, other than the normal every 4 hours vital check. A coupla times a day, I pop her in the sling, we unplug the iv pole and take it for a walk around the pediatric oncology floor. And around. And around. And around.

So, I guess this isn't going to be a cake walk. I guess cancer rarely is.

A couple of people have told me things like, "well, when this is all over, it will help you, when you become a minister." (This has always been said in a sensitive way, after profuse preambles of "you'd never want this ...")

I guess that could be true. I don't know. It seems miles and miles, years and years away. I'm just focused on the task at hand. And I'm not entirely sure that this will better me in any way. It quite possibly will make me bitter, not better.

And it all seems weird, anyway, the idea that this torture being done to my daughter would enhance me in any aspect. I mean, how self-serving is that?

Got a reminder, in the midst of all this, of how lucky we are. REALLY lucky, not "lucky to get one kind of cancer over another." We went to the ER Sunday night. They let us go home, about 2 in the morning. We were blocked when we came upon a huge car wreck on the freeway.

Just read the newspaper. Head-on collision, someone going the wrong direction. 3 fatalities. 15 minutes earlier, and chemo might have been moot. For all three of us.

Dayum lucky.

Obladi, Life Goes On

"Obladi, oblada, life goes on, bra ..."

Even with cancer.

We are back home. Little Warrior had her second course of chemo last Thursday. She's throwing up about twice a day (and the doctors tell me that in babies, chemo doesn't cause nausea. Ha.) and her skin is a little dry, but so far, so good. Now that we're home, she has actually laughed at her siblings, done some smiling, and life is somewhat back to normal. I mean, other than the fact that we're taking her temp and blood pressure constantly, I'm wearing a watch that beeps at me every 8 hours for her blood pressure medication, the children aren't allowed to touch her, we're not allowed to go to the store or church ...

Well, other than THAT, Mrs. Lincoln ...

But life does go on. The 3 year old has a stomach bug, so we're trying to keep the two of them separate. But last night, we had a good dinner, all watched a DVD together, then karaoke in the living room.

Our living angels have been swirling around us, bringing us casseroles and Teletubbies DVDs, chocolate and company. It is amazing how important a card in the mail is -- it symbolizes a prayer, a moment in time where the person purchased it, signed it, addressed it and mailed it -- thinking of us while doing so, it's a tangible reminder of the energy being sent our way. I have never been that much of a card-sender; this has changed that.

We go to the children's hospital for chemo. There's an outpatient clinic with an entire floor devoted to pediatric oncology. You would think it would be depressing, a floor filled with children fighting cancer.

It's not! They've done such a terrific job. It's open and airy, and all about kids. There's toys, wagons, tvs, special lounges. They have a process you go through every time, so you used to what is going to happen. There's child life specialists on hand to help with distracting children or talking to siblings. Everywhere you go, there's someone saying, "what an adorable baby!" The vibe there is bright and happy.

"...la, la, la, how life goes on."

Hard battles, hoping for an easy war

NOTHING is easy. She's still got the canula (thingie in the nose), still has the Foley catheter, still hooked up to all kinds of monitoring devices, ivs, etc. After she tolerated the pedialyte okay, we were given the go ahead to nurse. Now, she wouldn't take the pedialyte in a bottle because she's been exclusively breastfed. Sorry, I didn't train her to a bottle anticipating that she would get cancer!

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

Anyway, with a syringe, we got it down her. At midnight, we were free to nurse. Well, nursing a baby with a canula in her nose just AIN'T gonna happen, or at least, not this baby. Took it out. Tried for an hour to nurse. Not gonna happen, not after the whole canula incident. Okay, so bundle up all the wires, hoses and tubes and get her back in bed.

This morning, we were able to nurse (again, each time we have to go through a 3 person ordeal of moving wires, hoses and tubes and HER) ... but she threw it up. Probably because that's what she does at least once a day, having nothing to do with the nursing per se.

Tried again later. Did fine, except we had to give her blood pressure medication, which meant she threw up again. Not an easy one for taking any medicine by mouth, even before all of this. Oh! And mixed in all of this, The Husband is trying to hold an oxygen mask close enough to her that she'll breathe some of it, but not so close that she fights like a wildcat to get it away. Hmmm. Back when we were in college, I don't think that that is quite the way he envisioned getting close to my bosom.

And we're going to start the chemotherapy today. Cross fingers and toes that it goes well. Ideally, they'd wait til she was somewhat back to normal ... but we can't. The tumors are shoving everything up into her chest, making it harder for her heart to work, which in turn affects her kidneys, which already have problems their ownselves since that's where the tumors are residing.

But you know, I can take every battle being a sunovabeech if it means that the overall war is "easy." Do the chemo, get the surgery, be cancer free.

Sounds good to me.

Tell me again how lucky I am

Okay, I understand the mission behind it, but I'm getting tired of people telling me how "lucky" I am. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know ... I'm lucky to live in a country where I can get good healthcare. I'm lucky to have a good, close family. I'm lucky that it's Wilm's tumors and not some worse type.

But it's one thing to know this yourself and comment on it, and quite another for someone who is not going through this to lecture you on it. My dear daddy, bless his pointed head, actually said, "If you'd been born when I was, you'd have two dead babies right now." (My first child had emergency surgery for a blockage when he was an infant.)

It has been ONE WEEK since we found out that the happiest baby in the world has cancer in not one, but both kidneys. Yes, the cancer is curable, but guess what? That's only one part of the equation. Killing the cancer has to be balanced with saving the kidneys, saving the heart. I always thought it was a quip when people would say "the thing with chemo is, you hope it will kill your cancer before it kills you." Guess what. It ain't a joke. It is literally true.

Let ME decide how lucky I am, please. And unless you have had a child fight cancer ... do not tell me I'm "lucky."

Lizard Eater

p.s. If another person tells me "this is a good cancer to have," they're going to get ... well, they'll get a mean look. Aw heck, probably not. Okay, then, then ... THEY'LL GET A TOTAL POKER FACE!!! Ha. That'll teach 'em.

The Journey Changes

SCREEEEEEEEECH.

That was the sound, not unlike a record player needle scratching across an LP, of one life screeching to a halt, in order to violently change directions.

Last week, I took the baby in to the doctor. She'd been vomiting some yellow stuff, and one side of her abdomen was swollen and hard. I hoped it was gas/indigestion, worried that it might be a blockage of some kind.

The pedi immediately sent us to get an xray. 15 minutes later, in the car on the way home, she caught me on my cell. Instructed me to instantly turn around. And head for the ER at the children's hospital.

Well, it's a week later. After an ultrasound, echocardiograms, xrays, CT scans and slicing her open to do a biopsy, we know that Little Warrior has bilateral Wilm's tumors in both of her kidneys.

Amazing how fast your perspective changes. You become grateful for such crumbs: we're grateful that it's Wilm's; they have a good rate for cure. We're grateful that they both have "favorable" histologies. We're grateful that the lymph nodes biopsied were clear.

We're profoundly grateful for our friends and family who are enabling us to just concentrate on LW right now, while they take care of the older 3.

And we're learning that just because something is a cliche, just because you know about it, doesn't mean it won't happen to you. 5 levels of grief? Yup. Have been experiencing them all. Incredulity -- a baby with cancer??? That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. Rage at the situation, at the tumors themselves. Especially once I learned that the reason she's never been as roly poly as my others were was because the tumors were gobbling up her nutrition. MY wonderful, homemade breastmilk was being consumed by these tumors? That's like a criminal breaking into your home, stealing your goods, beating up your sister, then eating the birthday cake you made for her birthday. WTF???

Right now, she's recovering from the surgery. Surgery that hasn't actually done anything in the cure, it only provided us with information. Next step is chemo -- hoping to start it either day after tomorrow or the day after that.

Do I sound calm? I guess I am, at the moment. First you cry. And in my case, then you cry more. Then more. Then more. Then more. And then, it's time for the journey to begin.

Journey to ministerial life. It just became much simpler.

Journey to life.

To the Christians in this time of Christmas ...

What kind of Christian are you?

So, what kind of Christian are you? Are you a Matthew 25:35 Christian or a John 14:6 Christian?

These seem to be the two camps. Those who place all of the weight upon John, when he reported Christ saying “"I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me,” and those who put their attentions on Christ’s words: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me… I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' '”

So, which are you?

If you call yourself a Christian, when faced with tolerance and inclusiveness, which path do you choose? When a salesclerk at Target greets you with a merry, “Happy Holidays!” do you choose to turn to the verse of decisiveness that declares no tolerance for those of a different religion or do you turn to the verse that says that whatever you do for the least person, the person of the lowest class, you have done that for Him?

What Would Jesus Do?

Walking the ministering walk

Our congregation doesn't currently have a minister, so I've been asked to do some ministerial type things this year. Most, I felt to be a stretch for me, but stretching is good. Most recently I did my first memorial service and my second baby dedication.

The memorial service, which, for obvious reasons, stressed me out -- this sounds like a weird thing to say about a memorial, but it went really well. I was very surprised that while I was in the pulpit, I had no urge to cry. Of course, the lady whom I was memorializing was highly strong, very dignified -- I could almost hear her saying, "No, of COURSE you aren't going to cry. Strong women don't cry! And you have a job to do. Buck up!"

Now, as soon as I left the sanctuary and a crying parishioner came up to me, the tears flowed. But that's okay. I have it on good authority that seminarians are allowed to be human. Of course, once I'm ordained, that's revoked. Ha.

The dedication was quite enjoyable. All baby dedications are, but in a way, this was my first. The actual first one was when I had to step in for a minister who couldn't attend as planned, so I was using her words and script. For this one, it was crafted between myself and the family. And the baby and her brother were adorable. Hmm. I need to get a minister or seminary student to come by our church so *my* baby can be dedicated.

Got our holiday cards out the Friday after Thanksgiving, which is insane. But, we just moved, and figured ours better be the first, if we wanted to get our new address on everyone's list. "Everyone's going to hate us," said The Husband. "No," sez I, "they'll realize it's because we moved." "Nope. They'll just hate us," responded Hub.

So, my best friend calls me up. "You suck," she informs me.

Score one for the cynic.

A little surreal, this ministerial stuff

To Do List for Today:

* Watch weepy movies like Beaches and Steel Magnolias, in an effort to find my emotional Kegel muscle. Ain't that a great term? See, I'll be doing a memorial service in a couple of weeks for someone I cared about. I am a crier, and am afraid that I'll be weeping the whole time. So a learned friend of mine recommended that I cue up sad movies to the cry scene, then practice stopping the flow of tears. Exactly like when they tell you to practice stopping your pee to find your Kegel muscle.

*Pore over "The X-rated Bible, an Irreverent Survey of Sex in the Scriptures" to find a good reading for my sermon about sex (and canvass) for Sunday.

*Work on plans for the annual Halloween party.

*Deal with a baby that is fussy from innoculations.

Just your average ordinary day for a seminarian/mother of 4.

Fleeing a hurricane

Left home 9:45 am.

Hour 5: was 20 minutes from our house.

DVD player not working.

3 kids, plus one 4 month old baby.

1 German Shepard

1 cat

101 degrees outside. We were alternately turning off the a/c or just keeping it low, to conserve gas. Already, we are passing cars that have either overheated or run out of gas. People are just sitting by the side of the road. All the businesses we pass are closed up. You can’t even go in anywhere to use the bathroom. We have plenty of food and water in the car, but I’m rationing it out, because I don’t want to have to stop for potty breaks. Which would be, “peeing in the weeds” breaks. About every 20 minutes, The Husband and I question ourselves – is it more risky to stay at home, perhaps facing a Category 5 Hurricane, or take this trip, and perhaps be stranded by the side of the road when the hurricane hits?

They interrupt the weather/traffic broadcast because Bush is giving a speech:

“We now got another hurricane coming, Hurricane Rita … As we meet our responsibilities in dealing with these two significant storms, Katrina and Rita, our focus on defending our country remains undiminished.”

He then proceeds to give a speech defending the Iraq war.

Can you imagine how comforted I felt?

Toilet Paper and Bra Straps

Okay, I forgot to add a great moment from yesterday.

After "Bridge Over Troubled Water" was sung, I had to do a reading. Well, the tears were streaming, no way I could hide it. So, I took a second, then explained to the congregation that I had requested the song weeks earlier and that when, on Friday, I realized what song would be played, I told my friends, who began taking bets as to whether I would burst into tears or hysterical laughter. "So you see, I opted for the tears." Good, sympathetic laugh.

Made my way through the reading -- not easy, because I had no tissue, so was having to sniff every line or so. After that, a hymn, during which a little old lady brought me some toilet paper and whispered that my bra strap was showing.

Tee-hee-hee! She was so like my mother, as women "of a certain generation" take very seriously the faux-pas of visible undergarments whilst my generation could not care less. For some reason, this cheered me immensely and helped me to continue on with the service with new energy.

Thanks to "the little old lady whispering" ... well, not "hush."

Lizard Eater returns

I'm back.

Well, after months of selling one house, buying another, having a baby ... I have returned. Months that included serious questioning of myself about going back to seminary, do I really think I can be the kind of parent I want to be AND be a student/minister ... well, the call goes on.

Had already been scheduled to give a talk out of town this weekend ... then Katrina hits. Radically changed my sermon, of course. How could you not address it?

Irony/irony/irony ... about 4 weeks ago, I had asked this church if they could get someone to do a particular song. They had an incredible singer today. The song? Bridge Over Troubled Water.

By "weary," I was completely melted down. Oh well. I had always worried about what would happen if I cried in the pulpit. Now I know. If you're crying in the pulpit, it probably means that at least half the congregation is crying already anyway.

Had something said to me after the service ... that touched me profoundly, and made me feel like, "oh, yeah, I really have been called ..."

So, good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise ... eww. Scratch that saying for a while.

Um ... good Lord willin' ... I'll start back in January. Hopefully The Wren will take a bottle by then.

Glad to be back.

busybusybusy and triumphs not our own

Am trying to do everything I can right now, since I'm having to "sit out" the semester, due to Baby Sparkle's impending birth. Including selling our house and buying a new house, after we realized that my difficulty in balancing family and school was due largely in part to the necessity of me being mother AND father AND a student. Hence, we will be moving closer to The Husband's work. House should go on the market April 1. Being the prankster I am, my friends have repeatedly asked me if this is merely an extremely elaborate April Fool's Joke. Not on my end, I tell them. Week after next, we move into a motel while our house is re-roofed, re-carpeted, and re-painted.

Triumphs not our own ... after experiencing the futility of potty training with my first two children (I agree with Vicki Iovine who penned that there is a particular date, circled on a calendar, of when your child will be potty trained. You can buy all the books and do all the work, but the date remains the same.), other than putting a potty chair in a bathroom and making books and videos available, I haven't done much with my toddler about it. Yesterday, out of the blue, she comes up to me and says, "I did it!"

What did you do? (Always a dangerous question.)

"I went potty!"

Being an experienced parent without the stars in my eyes, I asked the logical question: Where?

"In the potty!"

Uh-huh. Riiiiight. Okay, let's see.

Blow me down. Yellow liquid filling the potty.

Parade was thrown, grandparents and dad were called, lollipops were given. This was repeated later last night. And again this morning.

An independent kid, who jumps ahead and does something I'm not prepared for. Huh. Pretty cool, right now. We'll see when she's 13.

Sculpting Margot Adler

Went to a Women's Conference this past weekend with three of my chums. That was the most important component of the weekend -- driving up and staying in one room with three women, all of us spiritually and otherwise greatly compatible. So much talking, eating and having fun ... staying up til 4 am Saturday night, having philosophical and spiritual revelations. Am sick now, having run my motor at too high a gear all weekend!

Margot Adler, author of Drawing Down the Moon and NPR correspondent, was the theme speaker and led some marvelous ritual, including an opening spiral dance. That gave me the opportunity to come face to face with 4 members of my old Circle, which was exciting. Coincidences were abounding.

So, back to Margot. Like most folks exploring paganism, I read "Drawing Down the Moon" as one of my introductory pieces. So, I'm pretty star-struck about her.

At my second workshop -- on Theatre for the Oppressed -- she shows up to participate. With absolutely no manuevering on my part, she and I wound up partners for an exercise where we "sculpted" each other into various emotions. Very down to earth, she was, and fun. We also wound up doing a little skit together with two other women. Cool!

Our little group decided that on the years when Women's Conference is too far away, we're going to have a church women's retreat ... no roughing it allowed. Nice hotel, go out to a great dinner, etc. As I wrote above, that was the biggest part of the conference -- communing with other like-minded women. Partners and children left at home -- well, except for nursing babies, which I will be attached to next year. I keep forgetting that. I'm so busy, I literally forget I'm pregnant until I bump the huge belly into a doorway or the refrigerator door. Trying to sell our house and look for one closer to T's work.

Catch Up Time

Time to ketchup.

Okay, so first of all, I got an A in my Systematic Theology class. Of course, as I explained to a friend, I had to sell my soul to Jesus to do so. Ha. AND my professor requested a copy of my midterm to share with another student as an example of full complete answers.

This, perhaps, sounds like bragging. The truth of the matter is that the A, while it does show a willingness to work hard, mostly shows an ability to take really good notes and repeat them back to the professor. Which is, I guess, okay. This was a class for me to learn, not think. I would also add, to learn, not to accept.

Baby news: Baby does NOT have down's syndrome, nor any other chromosomal abnormalities, nor neural tube defects. And I have become much more sensitive to the fact that you can't just have a slash and burn "it's a fetus, not a baby" attitude. AND, I have become even more appreciative about the choices we still have, hard as they might be to make. The only thing that would have made this more difficult would have been if I were waiting to find out what the rest of my life would be like, as opposed to waiting to see if I had to make a very difficult choice.

Other news is that my due date is still under debate and it's too close to the end of the semester (might be some overlap), so no classes this semester. Was disappointed at first, but now am convinced with the old "everything happens for a reason." I plunged into school without first making a place for it in my life. Now, I have the time to figure out how to do it all ... how to have routines for the family, what I need to cut, etc. One thing we're hoping to cut -- me doing Mom AND Dad work. Husband drives 3 hours a day, which means I do the main parenting M-F. Had a wild idea ... gee, how about if we move closer to Husband's job, so he can be the dad, and I can be the Mom? Wow! Might even make me closer to school. So, we're looking at selling the house we've been in for 7 years and moving this summer. After our newborn comes into the world. Sometime between GA and the summer program. Have I mentioned that we suffer from insanity? Well, pregnant with my 4th, starting theological school, you may have picked up on that.

Cold day today, so we're making tons of chili to freeze. Love our vacuum sealer. These little joys in life.

"Historical" Jesus

Also from last night ...

Other: went off on a vent last night to Husband about the utter lack of logic that some of these students are willing to interject into their theology. I'm not talking Unitarian-type logic. I'm talking within the bounds of the Bible. To whit: I was in a group last night with two guys (incl the one who wanted my notes) and we were to write up our beliefs on the historical Jesus. The characters in this were The Pastor, The Islander (I don't know where he's from) and me, The Heretic.

The Heretic: Okay, so we need to write up our beliefs [I'm playing good Christian girl, of course] about the historical Jesus. Let's start pre-birth.

The Pastor: Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit.

Heretic: Well, this is supposed to be on the *historical* Jesus.

blank look

Heretic: You know, the "historical" Jesus we've been reading about. That which we have some sort of record for.

The Pastor: But we have a record. We have the Bible. That gives us our historical Jesus.

Heretic sighs and moves on: Okay, do we want to put that Mary was a virgin? We read last week that "virgin" was perhaps mistranslated from the original text.

The Pastor: Of course she was a virgin. It's in the Bible.

Heretic again sighs.

The Islander, looking in his bible: And he grew up in Nazareth.

Heretic: Okay, remember that. We're going through chronologically. Anything else before he was born?

The Islander: See, right here, he grew up in Nazareth.

Heretic: Yes, yes, but right now, in our chronology, he isn't born yet. Okay, now his birth. What are we going to say about that?

The Pastor: What it says in the Bible.

Heretic: Yes, but it's only described in Luke and Matthew, and they have contradictions. For instance, in one, there's the shepherds, in the other, there's the wise men. So which are we going to choose?

Islander: Both of them. They happened at different times.

Heretic: Okay, well, where are we going to say he was born? In Nazareth or Bethlehem?

blank look

Heretic: Okay, I'm going to say Bethlehem, even though some historians doubt it, because in order to fulfill the Old Testament prophesy, Christ has to be born in Bethlehem.

Islander: Herod called to kill him.

Heretic: Okay. Now, Herod was only mentioned in one book. Do we choose to include that in our belief?

The Pastor: It's in the Bible.

Heretic: Ohhhhkay. So then where did Christ grow up?

Islander: Nazareth

Heretic: Okay, when did he move to Nazareth?

blank look

Heretic: We've said that we believe in the Herod story. If we accept that, then we have to accept that Jesus and his parents fled to Egypt.

blank look

Ugh.

Jaw dropping

Um, am I a grade prude?

Had two "interesting" things happen tonight at class. First: had a substitute and learned what my theological limits are. Taking notes and parroting back something I don't believe -- sure, for the sake of education, can do. Have a "socratic method" prof (who is fundamentalist Christian) who wants to delve into our personal theologies (and then argue with them)? No. Just ... can't ... do ... it.

Then, after class, we students were chatting about how our regular prof is going to email us the questions for our final (take home) exam. A person in the class who I've fairly well respected, who happens to already be the 50ish pastor of his church, comes up to me with that casual air of "of course you will" expectation and says, "hey, email me your notes."

I'm sure my jaw dropped.

"ALL of MY notes?"

"Yeah, sure."

Note: I do not mind sharing notes with someone who has missed class. In fact, I copied a month's worth of notes for someone who had foot surgery AND her dad died.

But he hadn't missed any classes.

On top of that ... there were two other gentlemen hovering over us, ready to add their names to my little distribution list.

"Uh, no," I laughed it off, like SURELY he couldn't be serious. "If you have any holes in your notes, email me." Went on to say something about how I can't trust that I have my notes accurate, would hate to pass on errors, etc.

"Oh, go on," he says. "You take the best notes in the class."

Did not say what I wanted to which was: "Um, maybe you should rethink copying my notes, since I'm not what you would classify as a 'believer' and am in fact, a heretic and a heathen to boot."

Just busied myself and left.

He's a preacher, I mentioned that already, right?

.4 to .9

I always think of myself as a "glass half full" kind of person, but there are things where I certainly go the other way. To whit: I need to see a perionatalogist. My early blood tests came back showing that this pregnancy has an increased risk of Down's syndrome.

How much? Well, it's still less than 1%. I went from about a .4% chance to a .9% chance. Went from 1/233 to 1/129.

So, next week, I have an appointment; first for a level 2 ultrasound, then a possible amnio ... although, the way I'm feeling now, I want to go ahead and get the amnio. Be done with *that* particular stress for the rest of the pregnancy. Husband has to go with me, in case I get an amnio, since I won't be able to drive after. Not sure why, I guess because there's a risk of leaking from the injection site and pressing the gas pedal would disturb that or something.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln ...