aaannnnd repeat

 

 

I feel like all I ever do these days is throw out random updates.  Like when you run into a friend you haven’t seen for a loooong time and you try to catch them up on all the major events since high school – except you have minus twenty seconds to do it because you’re in the grocery store and you can feel your husband’s death ray stare from the produce aisle because the 6-year old has just knocked down an avalanche of baby tangerines again.

 

Yeah, that kind of warp-speed update.  Except you guys get pictures too.  And I’d say you’re lucky, except that the pictures are the only way I’d even remember what happened in the last couple of weeks.

 

 

 

 

Sooo… about that pink elephant in the room.

 

 

Not even going there.

 

Suffice to say that this week’s treatment follow-up scan sucked.  We get to come back for another one.  And because they sent us home to sit worry through the weekend, I’m just going to say that not knowing entitles me to pretend that I didn’t see what it looks like I saw.

 

Oh wait, I went there.

 

 

So I’m just going to give you the fun stuff.

 

They let me and Itty Bit stay in the room while they did the scans.  Over and over again (hence the worrying part).  This was Itty Bit’s chief activity:

 

That bugger can power through goldfish crackers and Star Wars books like nobody’s business.

 

Ever seen a nuclear medicine scan?  The detector screens show moving dots.  Do you figure I surrendered Mother of the Year when I told Itty Bit that the dots were stars and that Daddy had a galaxy inside him?  He got slightly freaked by the possibility of a droid/starship battle right there in the Radiology unit.

 

 

It was a long day.  Compounded by the hospital sending us home, then calling us to tell us to drive back.  Then sending us home again.  Hours and hours on the road and a certain little dude was not happy about abandoning the Science Center plans.

 

He cried.  Then crashed so hard he slept through lunch at Red Robin.

 

 

So while we’re waiting for more testing next week, lets torture you with pictures from last week.  Please note that pretty much ALL of the photos are less than tack sharp.  Would you please join me in rolling my eyes at the guy from the camera shop who said my sweet 50mm/f1.4 lens was DEFINITELY broken, but that my dropped camera was “fine”. Yeaaaah.

 

This little darling had a birthday.  Against pretty much everyone’s wishes, the stinker turned six. 

 

We celebrated my mom’s birthday too.  We’d also like her to stop aging, but she apparently agreed to that approximately 18 years ago.

 

And this is about .03 seconds before the panic about Grandma catching her hair on fire…

 

 

See those amazing little butterflies all over May-May’s & Mom’s cake?

 

We might have sort have totally turned them into the kind of entertainment that routinely finds itself on our blog…

 

 

(For all those crazy people who keep saying I have black hair.  Ummm…no).

 

 

 

 

Seriously… do I not have the coolest grandma ever?

 

 

I however, am the UNcoolest aunt.

 

Never listen to a Lego-crazed 6-year old who tells you he wants to pick out his cousin’s birthday present.  “Because she will love it.”

This is what you will get.

 

 

There may or may not have been some growling associated with that last scene.  I’m deaf, so I couldn’t tell you definitively.  But I think I’m picking up clues on the body language…

 

 

And when it’s all done?  Pick up your broken camera and try to capture your son’s reaction to learning those butterflies were edible…

 

 

You gotta love that the kid who will barely eat macaroni & cheese, bravely soldiers on and puts the other half of it into his mouth.  Please note: no one made him do this.  And he had approximately 2.4 gallons of chips and salsa, so he wasn’t starved for a photo op.

 

 

Don’t you dare feel bad for him… he thought he was hilarious :)  And I’m pretty sure potato starch tastes waaay better than a real butterfly.

 

~

 

And because I love linking up to some Etsy goodness, here’s the link to where you can find those little beauties:

{Sugar Robot on etsy}

 

They have no idea I’m writing this. But they’ll be glad to know that I broke all the rules… didn’t store them properly, used them past the recommended freshness date… applied them to numerous family members, etc.  And they were still completely amazing and even better than the pictures.

 

~

 

Thank you for praying for us.

Thank you for keeping in touch.

Thank you for sending cookies to us.  (Ahem GunDiva).

(I can neither confirm nor deny if those YUM chocolate Aztec cookies survived the drive home).

 

So while we wait and try not to worry, I can tell you that God has answered one big prayer.  That fatigue that was knocking my husband out?  I finally feel like I’m getting Mr. Daddy back.

So keep ‘em coming – God is listening!

 

(Thanks.  And many apologies to any butterflies offended by the eating sequence.)

church was crappy

 

as in:

 

a bird pooped on me.

 

 

and my Bible.

 

Evil bird.

 

 

 

 

The sanitized version of the clean-up process, above.  After the hysterical screaming died down (thankfully it was a charismatic church, else I would have caused alarm), people were kind enough to tell me they heard the THWACK of it landing on my Bible.   Many apologies to Shem, Ham, and Japheth.

Belabor not the point that my skin is clearly showing the effects of this lovely Junuary weather.

 

As King Julien was so kind to point out the insanity of us wearing jackets and pants at the end of JUNE…

 

…the windy part does come with some benefits.  I would not trade this shot of little Cindy Lou Who for the world!

 

 

 

After surviving the Paper And Grass Diet for almost three weeks, the dude obviously couldn’t handle a combination of seafood and proper redneck hat placement.

But he was very, very happy.

 

 

 

And holy cow.  Who told this kid he could be done with Kindergarten?

(And who told him he could dress himself for pictures?  Mr. Dadddddyyyy?)

 

 

 

We have so much to get caught up on.  I miss you all.  Your comments and emails and prayers have been such a lifeline of support!

 

Tomorrow we head north for the big test.  I am totally ready to hear the words, “no more treatment – it’s all gone”!

 

Because this man… needs to get himself on the mend.  He’s got way too much trouble waiting to be caused.

 

If you wouldn’t mind, could you say a prayer?  That the cancer would be GONE.  That the fatigue would be GONE.  That he would be one big giant walking miracle.

 

 

And Good Lord Man… would you write a blog post once in awhile? :)

You know…

 

…when you can’t have something; that’s when you, like, NEED it, right?

 

 

 

I miss this guy.

 

(I miss being that skinny, too; but that’s beside the point).

 

After two weeks on the “paper and grass” diet, they whisked him away for the radioactive treatment.  Before I could even hug him one last time.

 

I blinked in surprise as they shut the door.

 

 

I couldn’t cry.  He’d know for sure.

 

(Anyone want to teach me how to pretty cry?  Like without the snot and everything?)

 

 

Leaving the hospital, he tried to stay as far away from the patients passing him in the hall.  It was almost comical watching him dodge them all ninja-like.

 

I sat scrunched against the passenger seat door on the way home.  The backseat wasn’t any further away, and at least I could read his lips without causing a traffic accident.

 

I didn’t know what to do with my hands.  I didn’t realize we held hands so much.

 

I like it.

 

 

Four days.

 

And yet a sweet friend reminded me that we are BLESSED.  To have this treatment even available to us.  To have yucky tasteless food to live on while waiting for the medicine to work.  To have a home with an extra bed so he did not have to be fully quarantined.

 

Talk about a reset button.  Perspective changes things.

 

I’m grateful.

 

Grateful for a God who cares deeply about the things that we care about.  Grateful that His shoulders are big enough for my worries.

 

~

 

Today was my mom’s birthday.  She gave up her special day to pick up an excited 6-year old from his last day of kindergarten.  He’s spending the night at Grandma & Papa’s house and not realizing one bit how melancholy it is here without him tonight.

Thanks Mom.  Thanks Dad.

 

 

~

 

 

Help me count these four days down.  Harass the dude to finally write a blog post, would ya?  No excuse mister… you are home tomorrow ;)

 

And just for fun… I totally want to make t-shirts out of this!

 

 

(Feel free to steal it, we appreciate all the prayers we can get! :)

 

 

And because every post is better with a bit of funny…

 

 

 

We have the BEST friends.  And that means you.

they say childbirth will kill your modesty

 

 

… but I beg to differ.

 

Itty Bit literally fell.out.of.me while I was WALKING, with my hospital gown still securely covering all active deployment zones; and while the doctor was out of the room taking a potty break.

 

(Serves her right for not believing the “first time mom” who claimed the baby was right there.)

 

 

But the modesty that has to do with presenting yourself as a normal blogger who wouldn’t do something shamefully hilarious and then write about it?

 

Yeah… I think we can’t quite unring that bell, eh?

 

 

So dive right in with me… where you’ll feel saner with each paragraph.

WHO DOES THAT?!?, Dressed For Success edition.

 

 

 

The cumulative effect of weeks of sleep deprivation was impossible to deny today.

 

For your reading pleasure (and because I apparently have no more shame now that y’all have seen my husband in a spa robe), walk through my day with me, k?

 

5:04am:  Mr. Daddy wakes me up.

5:06am:  I realize that nice work pants #1 are in the dryer.  And have been for 2.5 days.

5:07am:  Pull out nice work pants #2.

5:10am:  Step into shower and nearly drown while yawning.

5:17am:  Try to wrestle my curls into semi-obedience.

5:18am:  Hair dryer diffuser flies off at 58mph and nearly beans me.

5:24am:  While smugly congratulating myself for avoiding the deadly diffuser, burn my hand on the still-hot hair dryer plug.

5:32am:  Realize that pants #2 were retired for a reason.

 

A reason that has to do with a certain “seam separation”

 

5:33am:  Trade green stripey underwear for black underwear. 

5:34am:  Grab sweater that covers my black-clad rear end.

5:35am:  I’m a ninja, I’m a ninja.  They won’t even see a gap.

 

(see, I told you… no shame)

 

 

fast forward

 

 

7:00am:  Consume coffee.  Imperative for sleep-deprived dummies.

 

7:30am:  Consume bottle of water.

7:32am:  Bladder emergency.

7:33am:  Realize that a certain carefully coordinated undergarment is INSIDE OUT.

7:37am:  Weigh critical factors in deciding whether it is worth nearly completely disrobing in a public restroom… just to feel better about carrying the secret that my underwear is now right side out.

 

 

fast forward

 

 

(what?  You thought I was going to TELL you if I did that?  Shame on you!)

 

8:21am:  Bladder emergency #2

9:47am:  Bladder emergency #3

11:38am:  Bladder emergency #4

 

(and that’s going to be my little secret, whether or not I’d already handled the situation, or whether I couldn’t stop laughing as I washed my hands)

 

fast forward

 

3:45pm:  Tell Mr. Daddy about my colossal faux pas.  He rolls his eyes.

5:30pm:  Home for dinner.

6:00pm:  Throw load into washing machine… so that I can add wet clothes to work pants #1 in the dryer to ghetto iron them.

7:20pm:  Transfer wet clothes to dryer.

7:21pm:  Fill washer with new load, add associated cleaning ingredients.

8:36pm:  Check dryer.  “Smart” sensor shut it off 20 minutes earlier while still wet.

9:42pm:  Almost dry.

10:21pm:  Remove dry clothes and beautifully wrinkle-free work pants.

10:23pm:  Realize that I never STARTED THE WASHING MACHINE, and the load I was staying up waiting for… was still original scent.

10:47pm:  Work up the nerve to actually post about intentionally wearing a pair of pants to work that had a split down the backside, and the dilemma of deciding whether it was worse to bare it all in a public restroom or risk a paramedic giggling over a new version of the clean underwear story.

12:01am:  Decide that was the longest sentence I’ve ever written.

12:02am:  Hit PUBLISH and hope I don’t have blogger’s remorse when I awake.

 

 

Oh… and for the record?  My hair still turned out like this:

 

(And I would claim my super sekrit photo ninja skills for this, except that I turned to look at Itty Bit, and the lady cutting his hair actually grabbed my phone to look at the cover, and accidentally snapped this picture.  And yes, they were very confused at the hair salon when I said the appointment was for Itty Bit. Hush)

 

in the midst

 

 

Him:  Do I always look that tired?

Her:  What?  Umm… umm… not always.

 

It was the conversation that made me sad.

 

We headed to the Outback, courtesy of a birthday giftcard, and decided to celebrate the last day of food freedom before the dreaded cancer treatment prep diet.

 

Instead of the celebratory time I imagined – complete with steak and shrimp and bread and everything forbidden on the diet – he was quiet.

 

I snapped a picture.

 

“Do I always look that tired?”

 

I didn’t know what to say.

 

 

 

 

Truth is, the man is tired.

 

I’ve hesitated in sharing – partly because of that ridiculous redneck code that means you must pretend you are healthy until someone hauls your unconscious self to the doctor.  And partly because it feels personal – asking you to see the fatigue as incredible fortitude for what he faces daily.

 

His cancer diagnosis came three weeks after his mom died.  An incredible one-two blow for anyone – but especially for someone who physically cared for her, and watched her get robbed by the same “c” word he faced just days later.

 

 

It was surreal in a way.  Losing her so quickly.  The changes happened so fast that it somehow felt like it wasn’t HER that we lost… it was someone who looked and seemed like another person.  And as eight months have slowly passed, the hole she left fills the house.

 

Some of the grief that got cut short with the hard distractions of Mr. Daddy’s own diagnosis, the ice storm, the multiple rounds of sickness… just quietly waited for us.

 

Watching Dad miss her is hard.

Watching my husband miss her is hard.

Missing her is hard.

 

And that incredible legacy she left… shows itself daily in the unbelievably stressful “thing we can’t talk about”.

 

I see her face in my mind - her pained and compassionate expression as she says gently, “Stay blameless.  Stay blameless.”

 

There is no escaping the collateral damage.  The worry I see in my husband’s eyes.  The years of patience in waiting for wrongs to be righted.  The way he forces himself to swallow unfair insults.  To hear him say that it is altogether more difficult than his diagnosis?  Painful.

 

Getting through these next few months will be because He is carrying us.  Don’t dare doubt – God is still doing BIG things in our lives.  He doesn’t wait for a convenient time to do amazing things.

 

 

 

And because every blog post should have something to make you snort… a little Facebook humor:

 

 

 

 

Ich Liebe Dich!

SOS

 

 

So the man is heading for his “peeing neon” radioactive treatment soon.

 

And that isn’t even the hard part.

 

The worst part is being quarantined from his little buddy.

 

His mini-me who wants to be just like him when he grows up.

 

Apparently being exposed to radioactive hugs doesn’t give kindergarteners Spidey powers or anything.  Who knew?

 

To add insult to injury?  The Limited Iodine Diet (otherwise known as the “paper and grass diet”) to prep for treatment.

 

GAH.

 

 

Y’all already know how he feels about veggie burgers…

 

You guys know I can’t even do brownies right.  And pretty much every single recipe in this special book references another recipe.  As in everything has to be made from scratch.

 

You know… like “SPAGHETTI RECIPE” on page 12.

Which refers to the “HOMEMADE WHEAT PASTA” recipe on page 36.

And the “ HOMEMADE SPAGHETTI SAUCE” recipe on page 89.

And the “HOMEMADE FRENCH BREAD” recipe on page 117.

And the “HOMEMADE ITALIAN SEASONING” recipe on page 146.

 

(and forget cheese because they haven’t figured out how to fake that yet)

 

 

I wish I were kidding.

 

Do you know I’d have to make my own ketchup?  My own mayonnaise?  My own seasonings?  My own bread?  My own marinades?

All without anything that has ever been in a can.

 

 

I can’t even use anything remotely dairy… take a wild guess why?  Because they use IODINE to clean cows teats.

 

I said “teats'” on my blog.  Welcome all you agricultural folks who were searching for something else and wound up on a blog yelling at you for cleaning your cows’ udders with something that somehow winds up in milk, cheese, yogurt, coffee creamer, cottage cheese, ice cream, and ohmygosh I’m going to go eat some right now.

 

Help me.

 

I’ve been researching like mad online.  But frankly… getting a little overwhelmed.  I think we’ll be munching on veggies A LOT – assuming I can figure out homemade ranch dressing without dairy.  Good luck me.

 

Any of you been on a Limited Iodine Diet?  I figure you guys are a better reference than Google when it comes to things that won’t make me cry into my homemade wheat pasta flop.

 

Help a girl out?

 

Otherwise I’m guessing we’ll be seeing a lot of this

 

and this at the dinner table…

 

 

And as always… we covet and appreciate your prayers!

 

(and before anyone calls the modesty police on me for saying “teats” and having pictures of butts on my blog… click on the picture above for my get-out-of-jail-free card :)