Dusan was right. And I'm fresh out of pudding.

One for me, and one for my homies.

Picture it: Sarasota, summer 1987.  Our hair is huge, our income is 100% discretionary, and our only rule besides "stick together" is "don't get caught."  Elizabeth's parents foolishly decide to head to Europe for  a few weeks, leaving 16 year-old her - and by extension, Hope and me - at home alone.  Those of you who secretly call John Hughes your personal lord and savior know what happens next, right?  Elizabeth promptly installs Hope in the spare bedroom; I make frequent guest appearances; and most of our classmates end up at Elizabeth's house for a classy soirée.  You know how I know it was classy?  Because I was the one chugging the cold duck straight from the bottle (and there's a reason you only ever do that once).


Anyway, the good times are rolling, the hot tub is turning weird colors, and it looks like someone is heating up a carton of pour-a-quiche in the microwave (as one does). Elizabeth, Hope, and I are debating exactly how to deal with the police when they inevitably arrive (and they do), when Dusan wanders over.


Dusan is of Korean descent, incredibly smart, a musical genius, rather tall, not someone we usually run with, and ALLEGEDLY a fan of the Mary Jane.  He is normally mellow, but tonight - daaaaamn.  His eyes are doing that pinwheel-y thing that Bugs Bunny's eyes do when he takes one to the melon, thanks to Daffy's shenanigans.

Not actually Dusan.

Dusan oozes coolness - and just a tiny bit of condescension - as he leans in to the three of us and says, "You know, guys... I never said it was gonna be easy."  He waits a beat, then asks us to open his pudding cup (in all fairness, they're tricky under the most lucid of circumstances).  We oblige, and he ambles off, mumbling "This is the BEST pudding..."  


Hope, Elizabeth, and I are stunned into silence.  What the hell is he talking about?  When did he tell us this?  Is he even more ALLEGEDLY stoned than we thought?  Or is he a prophet?  And where did he get that pudding?  Is there any more? And really, what ARE we going to do when the cops show up?

Why yes,  as a matter of fact, I DO own the road.

Fast forward to fall 2011, and it looks like our pal was a
prophet.  It is not easy - life in general, yes, but more specifically, living with cancer in our family.  And that makes ME not easy to live with, and that's why I have been off the radar for a while.  For the last several weeks there has literally been nothing that anyone could say that was the right thing.   And when I am like that, I cannot stand to think that I am going to bite off some dear friend's head for saying the wrong thing, so I have just made myself scarce.

I know what you're thinking.  "*I* would have known what to say.  You could have let me know what was going on."  No.  No, I couldn't.   I assure you, no matter what you were going to say, it was going to be the wrong thing.  Ask me how Nathan's doing, and you're an insensitive jerk for not allowing me to have a life outside my son with cancer.  Ask me about anything else, and you are an insensitive jerk for not asking me about my son with cancer.  Tell me how strong I am and how you can't imagine how I manage, and you are an insensitive jerk for not realizing that I am not managing, that I am a hot under-medicated mess.  Tell me that God never gives us more than we can handle, and you are an insensitive jerk with shitty glib theology.  Tell me how lucky I am that Nathan is doing so well and how so many parents don't get the kind of good news we have gotten, and you are an insensitive jerk for turning suffering into a competition.  Tell me how awful it must be to have a kid with cancer, and you are an insensitive jerk for ignoring all those parents who don't get the kind of good news we've gotten.  Tell me that it could be worse, and you are an insensitive jerk for minimizing the pain and horror and grief and anxiety and fear, both high- and low-grade, that we have lived with since he was diagnosed in March 2006. And God and John Hughes help you should you decide to give me advice, because that will be a bridge way the hell too far.

In short, you cannot win.  Because I just want this to be over.  I do not want to be strengthened by my struggles or admired for my positive attitude.  I do not want to be an inspiration to anyone anywhere. I don't want to be "that family" any more.  I am not a good sport.  I am a tired, ungrateful wretch, and I want my life back.

Would be a one-of-a-kind tramp stamp.

Which is right up there with "oompa-loompa" and "date with the guy who played Tuco on Breaking Bad" (don't judge) on the List of Things I Deserve But Am Unlikely To Receive Sometime Soon.  My time in Camp Suck-It-Up is half over, sort of.  Nathan will finish chemo in July 2012 (screw the Mayans), and we will for sure pack up and vacate the cabin ASAP, but I suspect that no one checks out without commemorative camper tattoos.  


Nathan will continue to have MRIs every 6 months for the rest of his life, and we will continue to hold our breath and wait for the doctor's follow-up call.  And the odds are that he'll have further NF-related complications at some point, and that we will be shattered all over again.

So, why did I climb out of the hole and back in your face?  Because I taught my 5th graders last week that we have to be willing to unpack some yucky places in ourselves in order to connect with the characters in the books we read as well as the ones we encounter in real life.  Because when I mentioned that I could think of one of those yucky places right off the bat, a very wise 10 year-old looked dead at me and said, "Maybe you should write about it."  And because I may be a lot of things, but a bullshitter is not one of them, in the classroom or anywhere else. 

So, no. I am not getting what I want.  Probably not ever.  But I am learning to live honestly with what I have - ungraciously, kicking and screaming, pudding-free, and with my meds clutched in my hot sweaty hand.  Bless your heart for putting up with me.

Love you -

MA

Python Power, Part 1

At long last, the post you've been waiting for: Team Grantham's night at Spamalot!

The backstory: A few months ago, I mentioned on Facebook that the Monty Python dialogue at the dinner table was wearing on my nerves.  I was not quite ready to blow my nose at anyone, but there is only so much "NI!  NI!  NI!" a person can take, and I knew I could count on my FB pals to commiserate.   Well, not only did they not commiserate, they applauded Sir Matthew and Sir Nathan of the Dining Room Table, and they suggested other Python lines the boys could start running into the ground. Thanks, English pig dogs.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth the Remarkable came into town just long enough to spot the "coming attractions" sign at Van Wezel - and when she saw "Spamalot," she put the Conspiracy of Those Whose Fathers Smelt of Elderberries Angels to work on procuring tickets for us.  To say that Nathan was excited about this treat is to say that I occasionally enjoy a frosty Diet Coke; he was hella psyched, as were the rest of us - and yes, even Clare gets in on the act at the end.

And now, Our Trip to Spamalot, Part 1.

The night is a win-win before we even get to the show - Clare is having a sleepover at Nana's, as she is just the tiniest bit too young to appreciate the Python boys (or so we think...) (foreshadowing!).  Everyone is happy!  I personally am giddy!  Out comes the camera to capture some moments!

"Really? Photos in the car? Really?"

OK, so Driver Dan is dealing with the massive construction on US 301 and is not giddy - YET (more foreshadowing!).  What about the boys?

"Really?  In the car?  Really"?

That's Matt in the backseat, Angry Birding on Nathan's iPod and trying to ignore me (good luck with that, Pal!). And that's Nathan in the middle, wearing his trés chic Peeps hat (thanks, KDYE - xoxo), and even though that smile looks pained, it really is a grin of epic proportions.  The facial palsy you see is temporary, caused by the vincristine, and since it was been taken out of the chemo rotation last month, his facial muscles have started to recover.  He has been pretty un-self-conscious about it, as only a 13 year-old boy can be; and even though it has brought some of our friends and family to tears, we look at it and see medicine working.  And also a possible built-in Halloween costume.

So, where's Mom?  

MA: Dan, take my picture!!

Dan: Honey, I'm driving.

MA: Oh, like you use both hands.  Hold the wheel with your knees, and take the camera...

Dan: HONEY, do you see the construction?

MA: Well, hit a red light, I'm ready to throw some gang signs.

Dan: ...?

MA: You know, for my homies in PEEP NATION, YO!

Dan: ...

MA: MY CAPS LOCK IS LOUD, AND SO IS MY CRAZY!

Dan: [sotto voce] ...no argument there...

MA: Red light!  Here!

Words fail me, y'all.
Free box of Peeps to the best caption for this face.
Good luck, and be kind.

Dan: Um...

MA: Aw, you can't see that I'm flashing a sign language P... you know, for Peeps Nation, get it?

Dan: Yeah, that's too -

MA: Here, try again!

This is my brain on drugs, just not enough of them.

Dan: You do realize we're driving through Newtown, and you could get us killed. 

MA: FINE, Mr. Party-Pooping Gang Awareness.  One more, I'll be normal this time.

Dan: [mutters darkly]

Ha! He bought the "I'll be normal" line!  SUCKAHHHH!

D: Are you pointing at the boner you keep saying you have over going to Spamalot?  'Cause that's pushing it, even for you.

MA: I am doing no such thing, sir.  This is a P for Peep Nation, and all those wonderful friends who are making this evening possible.

D: Good.  They'll like th-

MA: But maybe a crotch shot later?

I miss Boolean logic.

So after my one disastrous year at the University of Free Liquor for Freshman Girls, I came home to Sarasota, and I started taking classes at The School Formerly Known as MCC.  This is where I was introduced to Boolean logic, and oooooh, I love me some black-and-white-no-gray-area business.  Very cut and dried. If A, then not B.  If Y, then Z.  I was all over it, it made perfect sense, and my GPA started the long, painful climb up from the netherworld.

Fast forward to now.  I am here to tell you that life does not work like Boolean logic.  It should.  But, it doesn't.   If it did, then the following would be axiomatic:
* If your son is ill, then your parents stay healthy and NOT your mom, your rock of strength, goes through her own health crisis.
* If your son has a brain tumor, then NOT your oven blows up on Holy Saturday while you have your Easter cake baking in it.
* If your son goes through chemotherapy and loses his hair, then NOT he develops a severe palsy, resulting in facial asymmetry.
* If your son is granted a Caribbean cruise by the lovely and generous people at the Make-a-Wish Foundation, then NOT the State Department requires his biological mother's signature on the passport card application.
* If your son's passport application must be signed by his biological mother, then NOT due to her mental illness, she is unable to understand the paper or the need for her to sign it, thus necessitating a Statement of Special Circumstance to be sent to the State Department asking for an exemption to this rule.

The hits just keep on coming.   Plus, there is the usual day-to-day business of keeping a family running that I frankly found a tad overwhelming even in pre-cancer days: supervising homework, making dinner (except on Wednesday - YAY!), doing laundry, battling the crowds at WalMart, occasionally remembering auto maintenance and yardwork, paying bills, cleaning house, wrestling Peeps and Cadbury eggs out of the dog's mouth, finding out at 1 a.m. that both toilets are stopped up and there are no more clean towels in the house, threatening to throw that damn X-Box right into the damn lake if you don't put that controller down RIGHT NOW - well, you know.  The usual.

And then, there's the wire hangers.
Dear Lord, don't get me started on those wire hangers.

But what really sucks is that there is no rule that says "If you are feeling super-dee-duper sorry for yourself, then NOT other people have it worse."

Other people have it way, way worse than I do.  Lots of them live in my home state, Sweet Home Alabama, where homes and lives and entire communities were devastated on April 28 by some of the worst tornados in recorded history.  Thirty-five miles northwest of Birmingham, my hometown of West Jefferson (one blinkie light, one gas station, one school, and five churches) was spared, but communities less than an hour away were just wiped out.  It is beyond my comprehension.

Rachel Stafford, a dear friend and former colleague, lives in Birmingham, and through her beautifully written blog, www.handsfreemama.com, she is coordinating family-to-family relief efforts.  Today, Rachel emailed me about a family of 4 who is grateful to have survived. Kenyardia, Jamal, and their two daughters (ages 5 and almost 2) lost everything they owned when the storm passed through their home in Pratt City, a less-than-affluent suburb of Birmingham.  They literally escaped with nothing but their lives.

Do I know how that feels?  Thank God, no.  Do I know how it feels when people come out of the woodwork to support you through a hellish nightmare that seems to have no end in sight?  Yep, I can sing all four verses of that song.  And that is why Team Grantham is taking a break from being the takers and trying on the givers' role for a while.  For Mother's Day, I am going shopping for Kenyardia, a mom whose home is in pieces and whose heart and life likely feel pretty well-shattered too.  I can't do as much for her as I would like, but I can do something, BY GOD JIM.  And because I am one pushy broad, I am asking you to help too.

Her kid has a brain tumor! You must give her what she wants! Resistance is futile!

If you have healthy kids and a roof over your head, go buy this family a gift card for WalMart or Target or Publix.  Seriously, even $10 will make a difference.  Send it to me, or send it straight to Rachel - you can reach her at rachelstafford@handsfreemama.com.

And by the way, about Nathan?  I learned on Saturday that our hairstylist, Kendra the Magnificent, is raffling off a basket of swanky hairstyling tools and products to raise money for Team Grantham.  And Nathan - chemotherapy-getting, hair-losing, partially-facially-paralyzed, exhausted-and-weight-losing Nathan - has decided to donate that money to Kenyardia and Jamal and their girls.

If you can help, THEN you must.

I love you guys, and I promise that the next post will be all about the wonder that is SPAMALOT, and why, if I were to have another child (which I most certainly am not), that child's name would be Patsy.

The Nana Report

A couple of years ago, Clare and I ran into the sister of a former student of mine while we were waiting for the public library to open.  Jamie and I did the usual double-take before we were sure we knew each other (Me: Holy cow, Jamie grew up!/ Her: Holy cow, Miss Landrum got old!), and we had a fine time catching up on all our news.  As we were chatting away, the young woman who had been sitting next to Jamie joined in our conversation,  and she happened to hop in just as the point when I was describing my dad's health setbacks.  I mentioned that I had spent about a month that fall sleeping in his rooms at the hospital and rehab facility where he recovered from gallbladder surgery to make sure he was OK and felt safe.  And that's when the twit who invited herself into the convo began to complain long and loud about what a drag it is to have to take care of old people.

Yeah, she really did.

Well.  You know what happened next, right?  I straightened that blockhead right the hell out gently pointed out the error in her thinking.

It went a little something like this: "I couldn't disagree with you more.  It is one of the great privileges of my life that I am able to help care for my parents after everything they have done for me.  As a matter of fact, it is a blessing, and one that not everyone receives, and I thank God that I have the chance to show my parents a fraction of the love they have shown me, BY GOD JIM."

"You go, girl! I got your back!"

In the last 3 years, there have been several times when my parents have needed my help - it has made for some stressful patches, but I truly would not have it any other way.  My plan was always for us to become the Waltons and live in a big house all together, but every time I suggest it, my mom starts to twitch graciously declines, so that's out.  Cool Rockin' Mary Alice is fiercely independent, and she likes having her own space, and I don't blame her (sometimes I would rather live at her house too) (don't tell my kids).

So dig, if you will, this picture:

Kind of like if Hannibal Lecter's hand had been the problem instead of his piehole.

While that is not CRMA's actual paw, that is a pretty good approximation of the splint she is wearing on her right hand.  She had tendon repair surgery on March 30, and as it turns out, it will take her about 8 weeks to fully recover, and as it turns out, she's can't drive during those 8 weeks.  You would think that a little Vicodin would be just the thing to take the edge off while dealing with heavy traffic using only your non-dominant hand, wouldn't you?  You would also think that this being-housebound-for-8-weeks thing might have come up in a pre-op conversation with the surgeon, right?  Wrong on both counts.

So God love her, CRMA is being the world's best good sport and doing her hand exercises (ouch) and trying to rely on Advil more than Vitamin V (really ouch) and staying at home unless I play chauffeur (so, so ouch).  

Pretty sure I know which finger she's going to show that surgeon when the splint comes off.  

*** BREAKING NEWS ***

Just received MRI results from Dr. O:

Nathan's tumor has shrunk!!  After only two months!!  It has gone from 18 x 14 cc to 14 x 13 cc!!  We were told that shrinkage was probably not in the cards, that the goal was to keep it from growing, and yet - IT SHRUNK!!

Who has two thumbs and and wishes she could hug the stuffing out of every single one of you?  Yeah, this girl.

For a Libra, I'm pretty lame at this.

One of the hardest things about being the mom of a kid with cancer (besides introducing that particular phrase into your vocabulary) is figuring out how to balance treating him like a kid and treating him like a kid with cancer.  From Day 1 my battle cry has been, "This is not the story of his life.  This is the story of 18 months of his life." As such, he has gotten precious little in the way of special treatment around the house and at school.  Unconsciously, I think I wanted him to get the message that while this is a crappy situation, it is not the end of the world - kind of like when you're in the hospital, the signal to panic is when everyone you know shows up at your bedside.  It's the "If you don't get much special treatment, you must not be too bad off" line of thinking.

Of course, allowances have been made.  If he doesn't like the looks of dinner, Nathan chugs an Ensure shake to keep his weight up.  If he's tired, we pry Clare off of him and let him sneak off to bed early.  He has a whole list of accommodations at school including being able to wear a hat or have a snack in class or take a rest in the clinic.  But I have tried my best to keep things as normal as possible and to keep bringing the wicked and evil back to stepmothering.

For Nathan, this means that he still has kitchen clean-up every other day, two rooms to clean on Saturday morning, and weekly laundry duty split with Matt.  He still gets fussed at for chewing with his mouth open and for spending too much time on video games. And with apologies to Erich Segal, chemo does not mean never having to do your homework.  He is still being held accountable at home and at school, and that's as it should be.

Until, of course, it isn't.  Tonight, the Teflon Kid is plumb wore out physically, emotionally, and every other kind of -ly you got.  Tonight, the stress is not rolling off his back, it's seeping into his pores, and it's insidious.  Tonight, he's a seabird covered in oil, looking at Dan and me and asking why we let this happen. Tonight, he's got a pass because there are zombies to slay, chicken fingers to chew like a cow, and a movie to watch - and that damn homework will just have to get to the end of the line.

Are we there yet?

I was diagnosed with ADD about 12 years ago.  Not ADHD, mind you.  There is no hyperactivity component whatsoever, just a attention system that is out of whack.  And I think this is why I am an incredibly useful person in an acute crisis situation. Funerals are my specialty.  I cowboy up, I do what has to be done, I do not cry, I am goal-oriented - I dare say I am Cylon-esque in my focus.  I can be Wonder Woman successfully for about a month, and then I am ready for something else. Long haul?  Yeah, not so much.

Guess what?  A month of this crap was up a month ago.  I'm not so useful anymore.  I'm damn sure not as entertaining.  I am bitter and angry and tired and hateful and SO ready for this to be over.  If self-pity were an Olympic sport, I could medal for the USA.  I am in control of absolutely nothing, and I hate that.  And if one more person tells me that God only sends us what we can handle and that He knows what big shoulders I have, I am going to point out in no uncertain terms that She has me confused with someone else - I am the one with the big ASS.

Nathan is struggling.  Here's what I unloaded on Hope via email yesterday:

N had a horrible day at chemo yesterday - Dan called me at 10:30, and they were both wrecks.  First off, N had lost just over 3 pounds in a week.  Then, his port was blocked, so they had to stick his finger for the blood draw, and he was dehydrated, so that was awful.  Then he showed them the enormous canker sore inside his mouth, and they scraped it for a tissue sample to make sure it's not the cold sore type of herpes - TWICE.  Then while they did the physical exam, they noticed that not only does his left eyelid not close all the way anymore due to the tumor, his eyes were pink and gunky, so they diagnosed pinkeye.  He had cried three times by the time Dan called me. 

As it turns out, it's not herpes, the pinkeye antibiotic is working, and N is learning to drink water like I drink Diet Coke.

It just sucks right now, and I HATE telling you all that because you all have been some every kind of wonderful, and we get tangible and intangible reminders of your love and concern and support every week, and I need to focus on all the good that has come out of this.  It's just that lately, I have not been able to do that.  I am considering putting up posters around town that say "Have you seen my sh*t?  'Cause I have lost it.  Call 1-800-THIS-SUX."

This poster is pretty awesome, too.

I think I need to have dinner with some friends.  Maybe Ben and Jerry or Big Olaf.

Man down. Send help.

Nathan is losing his hair.

You know how something can be right in front of your face, and you still don't see it?  I have been not seeing this development for a couple of weeks, and yesterday, I couldn't not-see it anymore.  More to the point, neither could Nathan.

It was a rough, rough, rough, rough night.

For a chemo patient, hair loss is an unmistakable sign of your other-ness.  You're not like everyone else who is healthy.  You're different, very obviously so.  And for a chemo patient in middle school, being different can be a fate worse than death.  This is what is weighing most heavily on our boy's mind, the fear that he will be a target for mean kids.

As a teacher, I know that some of those mean kids also feel different or ugly or left out or just plain wrong.  They try to cope by drawing attention to others whose brokenness is more visible.  "If everyone is looking at that kid," they figure, "they're not looking at me and at everything that is wrong with me."  And as a teacher, I feel for them.  Middle school sucks, their brains are not fully formed, they are trapped in a hurricane of hormones, their families don't understand them, yadda yadda yadda.

BUT.

As a mom, if some mean kids picks on MY kid?  I hope God has mercy on them, because I sure as hell won't.

So, this is one of the hard days.  Rationally, I know that the staff at Nathan's school is going to do everything possible to ease his way during this part of the journey.  I know that he has good friends who are his friends, no matter what.  I  know that, given the chance, most kids will rise to the occasion and do the right thing and treat his balding melon as no big deal.  But I am still scared, and so is Nathan.  So,  I'm doubling up on my prayers and asking Jon Jetton to watch over my boy - he walked this walk, and many of you walked it with him.  I'm asking for the rough places to be made plain.

And if they're not, I may be back to ask for bail money.

No news is good news. Really.

So Elizabeth and Melissa have both let me know that while it may have been OK for me to be a slug about keeping in touch with people in my pre-blogger-celebrity days before Nathan was diagnosed, I now have  a fan base  an adoring public  a compelling reason to keep my friends informed about how our journey is progressing.

So here's how it's going.  I worked last year with a woman who was battling some pretty heavy-duty personal and professional issues.  And regardless of what new fresh hell visited her on a given day, her standard response to "How are you?" was "I am BLESSED and HIGHLY FAVORED, my SISTER!!" That is how we're doing.  We are ridiculously blessed and highly favored.

Nathan has completed 5 chemo treatments, and his side effects have been as minimal as you can imagine.  On Nathan's I-Feel-Like-Crap-o-Meter, getting braces beat chemo side effects by leaps and bounds.  He has not lost the first strand of hair, and according to the nurses, if it hasn't happened by now, it won't.  Nausea makes a half-hearted appearance infrequently, but it retreats in the face of meds within a few minutes.  Nathan's experienced a little loss of appetite, and he lost of couple of pounds one week, but we have discovered Carnation Instant Breakfast and whole milk, and that is a hit (regular dinner vs. chocolate milkshake?  hmm, let me think about this...).  The cocktail Nathan receives can cause some hearing loss, but he passed his first audiogram yesterday with flying colors ("superior hearing," thank you very much, so there will be no more of this "Sorry Mom, I didn't hear you tell me to ______.")  He is having the easiest imaginable ride through Chemoville, and we are shocked and awed (but in the good way).

As for Dan and me, our ride is a little more like a roller coaster.  On up days, we look at Nathan, and we shake our heads in amazement at our Teflon boy and his ability to always, always see the bright side of any situation.  On up days, we open envelopes stuffed with gift cards and Mass cards and thinking-of-you cards, and we marvel at the thoughtfulness and generosity of our friends.  On up days, we hear from characters from our past lives who bowl us over with love and support and brisket and origami cranes and the greatest hits of the 80s and prizes of all shapes and sizes, and we wonder what we ever did in those past lives to deserve such enduring friendship.

Then there are down days.  On down days, Grouchy, Bitchy, Impatient, Thoughtless, Selfish, Self-Pitying, and Congested stop by, and they are nowhere near as fun as the other Seven Dwarves.  On down days, we poison the pot of what-we-have with toxic amounts of what-we-don't-have.   On down days, we forget that we are blessed and highly favored and loved to pieces by all of you and by the One whose strength is made perfect in our weakness.

Those down days are fierce, but they will be no match for the latest elaborate black-op our Angels have cooked up.  Next weekend, Dan and I are headed to Cedar Key for the weekend - without the kids!  The covert team behind this surprise has arranged for us to stay in a friend's home and eat at the best spots on the island, while Matt and Nathan hang with a Big Cousin, and Clare heads to Camp Nana & Papa.  I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it - honey, I am all three Pointer Sisters rolled into one.

So, that's how we're doing.  How are you?

An Embarrassment of Riches

In the mail yesterday:

* Two "thinking of you" cards from a woman I have never met and her son, a Cub Scout; she heard about us third-hand and wanted to let us know their troop is praying for Nathan.  I hope Josh receives a badge for huge-heartedness and generosity of spirit, and I hope the badge features a gorilla picking its nose, just like one of the cards.

* A Mass card and a Publix gift card from a dear man we know from church and his adult son; they lost a wonderful wife and mother to cancer last year.  They know this walk, and they are willing to take it with us.

* A Kindle from someone who knows what it's like to sit for hours in a hospital room with your son, trying to stay positive and non-panicky and productively occupied.  She actually fussed at me for adding her name to the Wall of Angels and will probably fuss at me for mentioning it here because she is not one to seek glory for herself, but I will take my chances.

* A framed poem written for me by a long-admired friend; she is who I want to be when I grow up.  I cannot do the poem or the poet justice with my own words tonight, so you will have to go read her work at her beautiful blog.

And the two wonderful men pictured below - the ones who, in my mind, will always be 17 years old?  The ones I looked up to in high school?  Who are even more look-uppable-to these days? Those dudes get their own post tomorrow.

He's covered in Awesome Sauce.

So is he.

My heart is full, my mascara is all over my face, and I may very well electrocute myself if I keep crying on my laptop.  It will be all your fault.

I hope you're proud of yourselves.  

Love you all.

Maybe he IS Iron Man.

You know how you can tell when it's the day Nathan has had chemo?  You CAN'T.  Seriously.  We have just returned from dinner at Applebee's (danke, Cathy and Carsten! xo), where he put down his usual chicken tenders, fries, and Sprite - and as I type, he is packing his lunch for tomorrow: "Um, can I bring some of those chocolates to school? Tell your friend they are really good!"  (thank you, Kara! xo)  He seems to have a cast-iron stomach so far, and from what the nurses have told us, if the drugs haven't made him sick yet, they probably won't.

All his numbers looked good again today, and especially for the future Dr. Kirkpatrick of Vienna, Virginia, here's a little more detail on what the doctors look at and why.

* Hemoglobin: This is the protein in red blood cells that's full of iron and carries oxygen throughout the body.  Patients undergoing chemo need to have super-efficient oxygen transport because lack of oxygen actually stimulates the growth of the cancer cells and makes them resistant to the chemo.  Weird, right?

* Platelets: These are the little sticky fellows in blood that make it clot - especially useful for boys like Nathan who regularly run into things lead an active lifestyle.  They split and reproduce quickly in order to make new cells, and that makes them susceptible to the effects of chemotherapy.  These drugs work best on rapidly dividing cells.  This makes chemo effective on cancer cells, but other rapidly dividing cells (in your blood, hair, and the lining of your GI tract) can end up as collateral damage.

* Neutrophils: The Marines of the bloodstream, these bad-ass white blood cells are the first ones on the scene when infection hits (can you tell the boys are playing "Call of Duty" while I'm blogging?)  If there is a major malfunction with Nathan's white blood cells, he'll be far more likely to pick up infections - and that could mean hospitalization and postponement of chemo to allow him to get better.

So basically, a good blood count means that Nathan's body is repairing itself sufficiently between chemo treatments.

Dan tells me he managed to get a few photos today - look for them this weekend, along with more Q & A.

Have we told you lately that we love you?  That's not just the 2-for-1 Applebee's happy hour talking.  We really do love you.

Nathan 1, Chemo 0

We were dreading this weekend and the possible side effects that might make an appearance.  And guess what?  Aside from a little jaw pain and fatigue from the vincristine, Nathan is F-I-N-E.  No nausea or vomiting or GI issues at all.  He is, in fact, eating like a standard issue 13 year-old boy, (i.e. "Is there any more pizza??" "Hey, is that Chex Mix??"  "Where did the brownies come from??" "If Clare isn't going to finish that, can I have it??").  We know that every week will be different, and this may be only a temporary reprieve, but you know what?  We'll take it.

And now, reader questions:
Q. Isn't ACH a depressing place?  All those sick kids...
A. Not just no, my friends - HELL, NO.  I am filled with gratitude every time I see a child at ACH because he or she is receiving the best care possible from compassionate and skilled people who are dedicated to healing little ones.  Of course, I am also the rare mommy who did not cry when her baby received shots  and howled - I thank God I live in a time when my child can be protected from diseases that used to kill children.  What makes me cry is thinking of the kids who need medical care and don't receive it.

Q. Can we see a photo of the actual chemo process?
A. You bet.  We were a little slow on the draw last week (thanks, Xanax!), but this week, Dan is planning to take photos and show you how not-scary this is, compared to what the imagination can drum up.

Q. So, how about the hot oncologist? You're taking photos of her, too?
A. As long as she's cool with it.

Thanks for keeping us company - keep those prayers and good thoughts coming!
MA

What It Looked Like

Mom's reading, and Nathan is watching TV.  Just another day.

Pudding makes everything better.

Robert Downey Jr. dropped by.

And so we begin.

Live blogging today during Nathan's first chemotherapy treatment:

8:53 am   Apply the lidocaine cream to Nathan's chest to numb the skin above the port.  Realize I would not wish this moment on anyone, ever.

9:03 am   Check Facebook profile.  Cry and giggle all the same time.

9:11 am   Break up fight between Dan and Nathan over who gets to use the iPod first.  Suspect it will not be the last time.

9:37 am   En route to ACH, discover that the finger I used to apply the lidocaine is now numb!  Speculate out loud on what it would be like to pick my nose with a numb finger.

10:10 am   Check in at ACH.  Vitals taken.  First magazine of the day stolen from lobby.

10:30 am   Nurse Sonja arrives to take blood via the port; this involves sticking a needle into a target about the size of a quarter. Dan's offer to give it a try as he is good at darts is politely but firmly rejected.  Nathan's chest is as numb as my finger - YAY -  so it's a painless procedure, and he is back to his iPod by 10:40.

11:00 am   Physical exam by Dr O, who looks like she's about 25 years old and is dressed to kill and deserves her own blog post - she is that awesome.  She is very matter-of-fact as she gives Nathan the standard neuro mini-exam.  Dr. O is looking for asymmetry in his face and body, so she asks him to squeeze his eyes shut, wiggle his eyebrows, stick out his tongue and wiggle it from side to side, squeeze her hands in his.  Nothing is out of order, so she reviews the day's plan with us and heads out.

11:17 am   Nurse Sonja is back with the results of Nathan's complete blood count (CBC).  The stats we are concerned with are hemoglobin, platelets, and a subcategory of white blood cells called neutrophils, and all of them are excellent.  Since chemo does a number on the immune system, this will be a weekly routine to monitor for infections.

11:28 am   "Pee in this cup."  "Um, I don't have to go."  "Well, try anyway, or I'll have to track you down and make you pee later.  And leave the iPod here." I love Nurse Sonja.

11:35 am  It's showtime!  Nurse Sonja flushes the port with saline to make sure it's clean from the blood draw, and in goes the first drug, Vincristine.  Possible side effects include constipation, thus a lively conversation on stool softeners ensues.  Nathan iPods through the entire episode which lasts all of 2 minutes, and says, "Is that it?"

12:22 pm  On to the infusion lab, where drug #2 will be administered.  This is going to be a more lengthy procedure, so the first step is to order room service for lunch.  Nathan asks for pepperoni pizza, fries, a salad, chocolate pudding, and Coke; I am so hungry, I look at Dan's arm and see London broil.

12:30 pm   Vitals again.  Then, Nathan is shown to his chemo cubicle.  It's about 10 by 12 and features a chair which looks like a hospital version of a La-Z-Boy. He has his own TV monitor programmed with movies, and this finally distracts his attention from the iPod.  He gets comfy with a blanket and pillow, finds Iron Man 2, and barely notices when Dan and I ask if it's OK for us to get some lunch.  We get cleared by the patient and by the nurses who are still waiting for the OK from billing to begin treatment.

1:15 pm  We're back from lunch, and as cafeterias go, it was pretty nice.  Nathan has an enormous tray of food in front of him, and is plowing through it as his anti-nausea drug is administered through his port.    Ah, the ferrous smell of irony.

2:15 pm   Enter Carboplatin, the other ingredient in the cocktail.  If Nathan gets nauseated later, this will be the responsible party.  The nurse handling the drug is wearing a surgical gown and blue gloves; apparently, this stuff is one step below battery acid in terms of getting it on your skin.    She hangs the bag on his IV drip, checks that he's comfy, and estimates that it will take about an hour to empty.  Dan starts taking photos, and I start wondering if there are scrapbook materials with a chemo theme.

3:15 pm   The bag is empty, and all that's left to do is make sure there is no immediate adverse reaction.  We hang out for another half-hour before the nurses disconnect Nathan and argue over which one he likes best.  He feels fine - a little tired, but not nauseated at all, thank God.   We get our instructions for follow-up, and they're rather lengthy.  If he gets constipated, throw some Miralax in him.  If he gets nauseated, throw some Zofran in him.  If he's achy, give him one dose of Tylenol, but no more - if he gets an infection, the Tylenol could mask the fever, and then we would be headed near Shit Creek.  Remember to give him his antibiotics twice a day on Saturday and Sunday as a pre-emptive strike against infection.  And yes, he can still do chores on Saturday, and of course he should plan to go to school tomorrow.  That is the only time a grimace of pain appears on the boy's face.

4:45 pm   We rendezvous in the school board parking lot to pick up Matt, who has spent the afternoon at this best friend's house.  Josie, Max's mom, is a lifesaver - Matt will be spending every Wednesday afternoon with them during the course of Nathan's treatment.  As Matt gets in the car, Nathan describes the horror of chemo: "And I had my own recliner, and they brought me pizza and fries and Coke and Gatorade, and I had my own TV, and all I had to do was sit there!!"  Matt's jaw hits the floor, and he replies, "Talk about a blessing in disguise - AND you get to miss school!"

6:10 pm   Dinner arrives, courtesy of my so-wonderful-she-also-deserves-her-own-blog-post friend, Billie-Jo, who delivers a Mexican feast complete with chocolate lava cake.  She congratulates Nathan on a successful first day, and he grunts his thanks without looking up from the TV - he is back to protecting the Pentagon from zombies.

And that, my friends, is exactly as it should be.

Thanks for riding along today.  We literally could not do this without you.

Scarred, Shmarred

Just in case you're wondering how our boy is recovering from his procedure yesterday...

Nathan was instructed to take it easy for the next couple of days and let his body regroup.  This is VERY difficult for him, as he and Clare spend the weekends pummeling each other in a mostly friendly way (think lion cubs).   So when Matt and Clare started tearing through the house this afternoon, Nathan began referring to himself as "Old Mr Jenkins" - whenever they got too close, he yelled, "GET OFF MY LAWN!" and shuffled after them, shaking his fist and muttering darkly.

When asked if he is behind the mysterious goings-on at the amusement park, Nathan had no comment.