No Glory

Ain't this the truth.  The mom does ALL of the grunt work and gets none of the glory.  This is totally the case for my mom, Carol.  I am a total lucky duck, because it is like I have my own home health nurse, except I don't have to pay her!  She actually pays to fly down and take care of me for weeks on end!  If you didn't already know, my mom is a retired nurse and at one time was an oncology nurse and herself a breast cancer patient.  So she gets it.  Maybe even a little too much. For instance, one time we went to lunch at Ruby Tuesdays because I had a gift card, a coupon, and I was Kodiak crushing on a steak from my 'roid rage.  (Bags of steroids that make me eat like a Kodiak Bear.)  Anyhoosikins, just as I was handing our waitress the coupon and getting ready to order the salad bar --with the best croutons in the universe-- in addition to my meat platter, ol' CB put the kabosh on that apparently bacteria infested salad plan.  No salad bar for me with my white blood cell count!  I wanted to argue.  I wanted to pull the "I'm 40 years old and can eat what I want" card.  But I knew it was no use.  It's impossible to win a healthcare argument with someone who quotes the Center for Disease Control on a daily basis.  Seriously, when brother Kurt and I were tots, she referred to pooping as a "bowel movement."  To preschoolers.  But what I heard was "bow-moo-men."  So we referred to turds as "bowmoomens."  Till the neighbor kids said "WTF are you talking about?"  Except not the WTF part.  Because our neighbors were the Klines.  And they are very Catholic.  And the Brubakers.  Not nearly as Catholic, but they had a Kool and the Gang record with the song "Celebration" on it and dancing in their living room to it was almost better than watching the "Dukes of Hazzard." And none of those kids knew what a "bowmoomen" was.

So I have grown up with my mother's medical jargon my whole life.  And if you ever had a medical professional for a parent, you never got to skip school.  Because you were "just fine" to go to school. None of this "making a doctor's appointment" business. No fooling them with fake sore throats and heart palpitations.  Because they would do a strep swab or an EKG in your family room.  And then say "you're fine."  Go to school.

The good news is that when your mother is a nurse with a career spanning through four different decades, you get all of your medical needs met.  Even before you know you are going to need them.  For example, my mom told me that she went to get her hair done and Desiree, her stylist, gave her a monetary donation to send my way for all of this cancer razzmatazz.  So instead of giving me the money, she went out and bought me things like Gas X, stool  (bowmoomen) softener, eye drops, Biotene, and nostril spray amongst other stuff.  I didn't know I was going to end up being desperate for these items, but slap my a$$ and call me Sally, I sho' nuff did!  I'm telling you, these things were lifesavers!  And reading teachers don't know anything about chemotherapy messing with your bowmoomens.  Good thing my madre did.  So thanks Desiree and mom for "keeping things moving!"

Nurse moms are really good at serving others.  It's been mostly my dad the past forty some years.  True story, I once was facetiming my parents and caught my mom seasoning my dad's food that she brought to him on a silver platter while he sat in his lazy boy watching airplane shows.  Uhhh, 1955 called and they want June Cleaver back....  But the past few months it has been me getting the silver platter treatment.  She not only serves me food in bed and in my recliner, she follows it up with massages to my arms, legs, and feet with Aquaphor and this really awesome smelling oil spray my friend Kelli bought for me.  And she does it for a really long time and is better than the Vietnamese nail techs at Pretty Nails!  Way better than my kids who make me pay them a quarter for rubbing my feet. They only last about 7 seconds. And they suck at it.  I'm telling you, they would never make it as Vietnamese nail techs.  Neither would my husband.  He rubs my feet when I ask him, but he squeezes them so hard that my metatarsals and phalanges clack together.   My mom however, does it perfect.  She also is the world's best back scratcher.  She even drives all the way through Cape Coral dodging snow birds and canals to pick me up Steak Gorgonzola from Olive Garden when that is the only thing I could possibly stomach eating.

Not only is she taking care of me, she is also helping to take care of the Triple Threat.  If you read my other blog, www.cjklausingfamily.blogspot.com , you know that building a life size replica of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks is an easier task.  She takes them to school, daycare, the park, and Culvers for ice cream.  All the things I couldn't do most of April, May, and June, when I was too sick to get out of bed.  I want to publicly thank my mom for doing tons of work with no glory.  Heck, I don't even have many pictures of her here during those months.  And I LOVE documenting our lives. So here are pictures of when my parents came down and took the kids to the beach.  I need to thank my Dad too.  His post is coming, but lets face it, my dad has gotten a lot of attention lately with his First Federal Bank marketing campaign!  He can wait a smidge.

Levi and Grandma Carol

Caroline and the Alligator I bought to ensure good behavior 

My famous Dad and part of his First Federal super model shoot 

And She Shall Be Called Kodiak

I just finished round number ten of chemo.  I like to call Taxol "baby chemo," because it is a walk in the park compared to the Adriamycin/Cytoxin.  The A/C would knock me out for a good 12 days.  Like being pregnant with a horrendous hangover plus the flu and the bubonic plague. Taxol just makes me really, really tired, but keeps me up all night with hot flashes, gives me neuropathy in my arms and legs, and makes me eat.  I'm talking eat like a sixteen-year-old football player during two-a-days.  Actually it is probably the bags of steroids that make me inhale food.  Whatever the case, I am none too pleased about it.  I have put on 15 pounds and am within four pounds of my giving birth weight.  It's like I swallowed two big bowling balls.  The first time I went in for chemo, the nurse looked right at me before she hooked me up and said, "Listen honey, just so you know, you aren't going to get skinny on this."  I should have believed her, but I didn't.  Because I wasn't eating a whole heckuva lot when I was sick.  But good Lord, you should see me now.

Two words.  Long Horn.  I am obsessed with eating the "Flo's Filet" off the Long Horn menu. I fail miserably at the cancer patient's vegan diet.  Because all I want to eat is steak.  I am a T.Rex with protein.  I seriously just googled "what is the largest meat eating animal" at midnight tonight because that is what I feel like.  The answer was a tie.  Between the Polar Bear and the Brown Bear.  Also known as the Kodiak.  So there you have it.  Kodiak Klausing.

So I think about being a fatso morning, noon, and night.  And I know it is dumb.  And I understand it is such a girl thing.  And I have WAY more serious things to be worried about.  Like dying.  But even though there is a real possibility of me croaking from this, I don't worry about it.  Because I could just as easily get hit by one of those shady meat trucks that sell steaks outta the back of them tomorrow.  So I exercise.  I wear my fitbit and track my steps.  And then I want to eat a cookie.  So I grow that double chin and eat a cookie like a mother....

If This Doesn't Just Tug at Your Heartstrings....

This is a picture my six-year-old Levi drew for me.  That is a picture of a blanket my college roomie, Erin, sent to me.  I use it when I am on the lazy boy recovering from chemo.  The message says "Mommey (sic) I hope you feel better."

Levi is not one to sit down and draw pictures.  He leaves that for his sisters.  His idea of doing an art project consists of pissing of his sisters while they are doing art projects.  But break my heart, He spent several seconds drawing me a picture of my blanket while I was wallering in the Lazy Boy attempting to recover from a drug known as the "red death."  People are always asking me how the kids are doing.   And I guess the boy is doing pretty good, because Levi still  follows me in the bathroom and asks important questions like "Does the tooth fairy bring baseballs AND money sometimes?  Because I know that some tooth fairies bring baseballs."  As you can tell, this was an urgent question.  Urgent enough that it could not wait  the 30 seconds it was going to take me to pee in peace.  Quick sidebar. Levi recently pulled out a not quite very wiggly bottom tooth when our friend, Javier, bet him 20 bucks that he wouldn't do it.  He did it. With a trail of O positive trailing down his chin.  Also, they were in Hooters.  Because where else should you take a six year old boy to eat and dig out a tooth?

But like they say, kids are resilient.  Sometimes you just gotta be tough.  Like on the Kindergarten Celebration of Learning Day.  It was on a Wednesday, so I changed my chemo time to make sure I could be in attendance.  When I talked to Levi's teacher, she laughingly informed me that Levi told her and the class that I didn't have any hair because I had bugs.  Like lice.  So I had to get rid of my hair, because "No one wants bugs crawling around on their head."  He confused what Clay told him, "Mommy has a sick bug that is going to make her hair come out" with lice.  Totally legit confusion.

So my baby boy had to be tough when it was time for me to leave.  Some other kids got to go home with their parents, but I had to go get chemo, so I couldn't take him with me.  I tried to explain that normally I would have been working, and he would have had to stay in school anyways.  But those big brown eyes welled up with tears and it took all I had not to fall apart.  The good news is that my kiddos are going to be too young to remember much of this.  It will just be me that remembers how Levi would lay down in bed with me when I was really sick and watch "Blaze and the Monster Machines."  

My Chemo BFF

So, I have already kinda sorta mentioned that I am the youngest, hottest, most stylish sweet thang in the chemo joint.  I might have totally told a lie .  On certain Wednesdays I am the hippest chick stuck to a chemo pole. But every other Wednesday the crown of cuteness goes to my chemo b. fry, Grace.  She hunkered down next to me in the blood and bodily-fluid resistant mint green recliners on my very first chemo treatment.  And she put on her fox socks, and I knew right then that I was no match for her in terms of youthfulness, looks, and style.  She definitely was the cutest  and youngest patient in that cancer carniceria.  I could tell  just by looking at her.  Also because patients have to state their birthdays infinity plus one times.  I had three years on her. Dang it!

Now remember, I just found out about my cancer and had just made it Facebook official.  I was racking up the "likes" and my attention whore-ometer had just measured a 9.9 on the Richter scale.  I was a category 5 attention whooo-re and was sickly relishing every bit of sympathy that came my way. And now it was obvious that I had cancer competition.  I mean, my first fifteen minutes there and I was already winning the sympathy vote from the senior citizens with my heartbreaking story.  "Advanced stage breast cancer, three little kids, school teacher, yada yada yada."  Anyhoo, I can't quite remember, because I was doped up on my first chemo cocktail, but I think it was my friend Amber who struck up a conversation with Grace.  I was probably being a snot because of the rivalry between us.  The rivalry that I cooked up in my mind the first five minutes we were seated next to each other.  The rivalry poor Grace did not know she was engaged in with a complete stranger.  I am so thankful Amber was nicer than me and started chatting, because Grace is such a precious gem!!

From the first conversation we had, I knew that Grace was going to be my chemo BFF.  And I told her that she was going to be my BFF.  Thank God she didn't fight me on that one, because I would have really been bored and without snacks for the past couple months.  But back to our rivalry that Grace did not know existed.  I started out our first conversation the way every mother starts out a conversation, by asking if she had any kids.  Mind you, I was expecting an answer like "Yes, I have a 7 year-old named Harper,"  or "No, I am child-free" because Grace looked way too put together to have a baby or a gaggle of kids.  She was also very cool.  So I figured she would have an only child with a trendy, hipster name like Harper.  And her only child had to be around the age of 7, because anything younger than that is a lot more work and again, this girl appeared to have her $h*& together, so no way could she have toddlers.  I was seriously gearing up to tell my favorite shocking mother story--how I birthed three single kids in 2.5 years after she was done telling me all about "Harper." But then she dropped a bombshell.  She said that she had FOUR babies age 5 and under!!  Say whaaaaaaaaaaa???!!!!!  She just totally one upped me in a category I didn't think I could possibly be one upped.  It's like we were in the Miss America pageant, and she had already demolished me in the evening gown and swimwear categories, but I was going to redeem myself in the talent competition by juggling three flaming swords.  And then Grace came strutting in in her sequined gown with FOUR flaming swords AND singing Yankee Doodle Dandy at the same time!  Thunder stolen.  Game over.  She won.  But I no longer cared about losing because OMG, she had cancer AND four babies and I just can't even.....

To make it even more obvious that we were destined to be besties, I found out that she was a teacher and we had a common principal.  So here we are, cancer patients, mothers, teachers, Cheetoh and chocolate lovers.  A match made in oncology heaven. Obviously we (I) dropped our rivalry and  know that God put us together in the same spot at the same time for a reason.  To be friends.  To support each other during a really rough time.  To have girl time talk for hours while poison is dripping into our veins.  Grace has the perfect name for her.  She is extremely gracious, kind, humble, patient, and calm.  She knows just the right words to say or write to make me feel better.  And she was always checking on me!  She makes me want to be a better person.  More like her.  And now I know that I sound like I have written marriage vows to her.  But tomorrow is her last session!  And I am really going to miss her!  And she gets to ring the bell!  (You get to ring the bell when you are all done with treatment.  It's kind of emotional for everyone. )  So congratulations Grace!  I look forward to Moms Night Out without the chemo pole!

Amber, the nice one.