June 1

I've said it before, and I'm sure that I'll say it again... I hate picking up my mail.

I mean, I don't always hate it. Sometimes I get cards or packages and those are fun days. But more often than not, the stuff that's in my mailbox is of a more ominous nature.

Behold:

That's right. Ominous.

Just what I needed to see, the week before I go back for another round of tests. The actual cost of my routine scans/appointments. Awesome.

(On the upside, I'm incredibly grateful that I have insurance. I mean, soooooo grateful! ... Just call me Pollyanna.)

PS - They're not kidding when they say that this country is in need of medical reform. I'll give that multiple MRI's and CT scans are gonna be pricey. That equipment is not cheap, nor is the staff that administers the scan and/or translates the data into a report, but $16,518?! For three scans, some blood work and a couple consults with the doctor? Really?! ... That seems excessive.

May 24

This morning, I had a work related question that led me to call my former workmates at the title company. (Was it a question that I probably could have asked my friend Google? Yes. But a little human interaction is always more fun. ... Well, maybe not always. Sometimes the Google Doodle is more fun than a person-to-person interaction, but almost without exception, I'd rather talk to a human friend than Google.)

Anyhoo, I called the title company and had a fun (also, work-related) conversation with my friend Kellie. At the end of the conversation, we exchanged email addresses (you know, in case I had any other "work" questions I needed to ask). She immediately followed up by shooting me an email to confirm my address.

This was the quote she had in her signature line:

"Faith is not about everything turning out OK... Faith is about being 'OK' no matter how things turn out."

How about that? It's my "everything will be okay" mantra, twisted just a little bit.

Yesterday, I had a friend intentionally send me a cancer comic that made me laugh out loud. Today, I had a friend unintentionally send me an inspirational quote that hit closer to home than I'm sure she ever thought it would.

I heart The Universe for the many (and diverse) ways in which my friends (and words) bless my life.

The End.

May 23

Today, my friend Myra sent me this comic of "Causes of Emotion by Year" with the accompanying translation:

Ken saw this and thought of you. Although I would change 'politics' to 'chocolate', 'code not working' to 'tv/internet not working', 'Josh Whedon' to 'Nathan Fillion', and 'people being wrong on the internet' to 'people having bad grammar'. Romance can stay the same.

It's a pretty accurate representation of my life, right? (Complete with the big, gray block of cancer-caused emotions starting mid-2010.)

I laughed out loud. Mostly because My knows me well enough to know that "people having bad grammar" is a serious stressor in my life. (And does anyone else love that the little pink "romance" line is one of the few causes of emotion that made it past the cancer blockage?)

My goodness, I love it when I (or one of my besties) can find a way to make me laugh at the cancer!

May 20 - Evening

Not to upset the current trend of funny stories and self-mockery that I have going here... but in the spirit of honest writing (and because I told myself that I'd journal the hard days, because experience has taught me that I'll just block/forget them later), I have to come clean and say that today was a hard day.

I mean, H-A-R-D.

This morning, at about the time that I pureed my last apricot, I had an overwhelming awareness that I am sick. (And I'm not just talking about my twisted sense of humor.)

As I was pouring my last batch of puree into a freezer-safe bag, I had to lean against the kitchen counter to rest. (Yeah, I know. I'm such a wuss that blanching three batches of apricots completely wore me out. Between the sore calves, the stupid scar tissue that gives me a backache and the hernia that makes my stomach hurt if I move the wrong way, I have a hard time standing for over an hour without hurting.)

And as I leaned against the counter and held my back and gave myself a pep talk that I was almost done and could sit down in a few minutes, I realized that I am sick.

I really am sick.

I have cancer.

Today, I am more aware of this than I have been in a long time.  Today, I am aware that this could kill me.

These are not thoughts that I usually have. ... Usually, I process more along the lines of "Gosh, I wish my oncologist would hurry up and cure me and then marry me" or "I wonder how much money Nathan Fillion could draw at a fundraiser" or "I sure hope that I don't have to live like this for the rest of my life". But today? Today, all day, I have been incredibly aware that life is short. And that I am sick. And that this could kill me.

Like I said, it's been a hard day.

May 20

So, uh.... remember how I climbed a tree yesterday? And how I reached and jumped for the really (REALLY) good fruit on the high branches?

Yeah, so do I. And so do my calves, thanks for asking.

I can hardly move.

I'm not kidding. I stepped out of bed this morning and thought I might just die from the pain of my feet hitting the floor. Darnit, if my calf muscles stretching out won't be the death of me, I don't know what will...

It turns out that when your calves are accustomed to a (very) leisurely stroll around the block, and then are subjected to the kind of insane workout that only a fruit-crazed fiend can put them through, there are serious consequences to be paid.

......................................................................................................

And in other fruit-picking related news, let me just tell you (in case you didn't already know this), that it is not a good idea to carry eight pounds of peaches around in a WalMart bag. It turns out they give away boxes at fruit orchards for a reason. And that reason would be so you can carry fruit that's been boxed evenly. While the WalMart bag may be easier to carry (it requires one hand/arm), the fruit bangs around and gets bruised (read: ruined). By the time I got around to unpacking my plastic bag of peaches last night, they were a soupy mess.

Not all of them were completely mashed and ruined, though. I saved five peaches. ... That's right. I had five salvageable peaches in my eight pound bag. The rest of them, I peeled and pitted and pureed. I am now the proud owner of 9 cups of frozen fruit puree. Not that the puree won't be delicious on waffles or in ice cream... it will be, and I know it... but so much for my plan of eating fresh fruit all week.

Don't be like me, people. Box your fruit. I can't say it strongly enough... Box. Your. Fruit.

May 19

This morning, Jo and I went to Schnepf Farms Peach Festival. Together. Just the two of us.

It was the best time ever.



I mean, E-VER.

The day started with The Breakfast of Champions (Sausage Egg McMuffins and a Coke), and then when we got to Schnepf's, we had dessert.

As in, we ate fruit right off the trees. Hello, sun-ripened fruit.... Where have you been all my life?

(Seriously. Would you look at those peaches?! They were clustered, LIKE GRAPES! And all perfectly ripe and delicous to the taste.)

Also, there were apricot trees. For those of you who aren't lucky enough to be both Blog Stalker AND Facebook Friend, I give you the lovely shot that Jo took of me climbing in the apricot tree. (Yeah, I said climbing. So what if I only made it two feet off the ground before I got too scratched up to go any further? I'm still saying I climbed that sucker.)

And like the fruit wasn't enough of a good time... There was a little booth area where some locals were selling these fine (FINE!) hand-crafted onesies.

Like a 0-3 month old doing the free "My mom's single" advertising isn't WT enough... We have obvious apostrophe errors here, people.

Egads. Who buys this stuff?! (Answer: Not me. I just take pics and then mock the lack of punctuation. Publicly.)

I tell you what, this has been a great day! A solid 4 hours with Jo, all to ourselves to talk and laugh and pick and eat fruit... Seriously, it was the best morning ever.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with the 8 lbs of peaches and 3 lbs of apricots that I have sitting on my kitchen counter...

May 16

As some of you may already know, one of the more bizarre after-effects of my abdominal surgery of 2011 is a surgical hernia. It was found in September 2011, when I realized that I had a hard, kind of pokey-outy area in my belly button area. ... When I had my follow-up with the oncologist for my Sept scans, I asked about it and was told that it wasn't anything to worry about and should heal itself - in the next year or two.

Awesome, possum. Just what I wanted. A weird, bulging, area in my stomach that should heal itself in two years. ... But good news! Now I have another tumor that will have to get cut out of me, and the hernia will be corrected with that surgery. (And then I'll be super duper careful and ridiculously obsessive with the wearing of the binder to be sure this doesn't happen again.)

Every once in a while, I look down or feel my stomach and I roll my eyes at how lopsided my stupid stomach is. ... But when I mention it to a friend, they invariably say something along the lines of "I just don't see it."

People, my friends are liars. Well meaning and loving liars who are making an honest effort to draw my attention away from this (very obvious, thanks) flaw in my body. But still, they are liars.

Behold, the bump of 2012:

Note that I only look preggers on the left side of my stomach.

I mean, we're a far cry from the bump of 2010:

But I'm sure that no one's going to disagree with me that the (lopsided, thanks) bump of 2012 is a real thing and not just in my head.

I have my next scan in about 3 weeks. I'm curious to find out if my bump getting bigger is a result of my tumor getting bigger, or if it's just me eating too much cake combined with an unfortunate hernia that's making me even more pokey-outy. The upside? I can still breathe. So even if this tumor is growing, no way is it 22 pounds. ... This was the voice of experience, people. As long as I can breathe, I can live with a malignant growth inside me. (No pun intended, I promise.)

May 13

This is a small picture, so I don't know if you can see it, but.... there's TOILET PAPER on that giant pine tree at the golf course.

HAHAHAHAHAHA... HA!

I went on my walk this morning before church (since we're in the triple digits, I figured I may as well take a stroll at the crack of dawn vs. once the sun has had time to rise... walking a mile in 90 degrees is a whale of a lot better than it is at 105) and when I saw that some hooligan kids had ignored the "Workers Only" signs posted and jumped the fence, just to TP the trees at the golf course, I laughed. Out. Loud. I laughed out loud. (And then I totally jaywalked - across traffic - to get to the other side of the street so I could take a picture.)

Why? Because this is how I spent my youth. Growing up in a small town without so much as a roller rink to keep us busy (darn the Roller King for closing its doors in the late 80's, anyway!), we did a lot of toilet papering.

I'm not kidding.

I toilet papered boys' (yeah, multiple) houses to ask them to dances. Boys TP'd me to tell me they liked me. True story: On my first date of all time, the four of us (Diana, Scott, Charlie and I) left the dance early to go TP our band teacher's house. (Don't worry. It wasn't a malicious TP job. Murph was in the house, watching us and actually yelled out advise or correction/counsel on how we could do a better job.)

Now, if we were going to talk about malicious TP jobs, I'd tell you about how Travis Cartwright saved every dime he made for months, just to spend it on over 300 rolls of toilet paper that he carted over to Greg Sheppard's house in the middle of the night. (I say "carted", because I don't know what the actual term would be. Travis didn't have a car, so he hooked up a trailer of sorts (if I'm remembering right, his trailer had its roots in a little red wagon) to his 4 wheeler and then took mulitple trips on the back roads - in the middle of the night - to get several cases of toilet paper to Greg's house.) That TP job was a thing of beauty. I mean, he covered literally acres with toilet paper. The house, the trees, the fence, the grounds... It was awesome. (I promised Travis I'd never tell that it was him, but I figure it's been 20 years. That should be long enough for Mr. Sheppard to have forgiven that TP massacre.)

Or... here's another funny TP story. Once, we TP'd the Crowther's house with PINK toilet paper. (This was a household of boys. No daughters. They had three sons and a nephew living with them.) They had a sweet front porch that made for some fun decorating. ... We threw the pink TP over the rafters to create a faux curtain of toilet paper, and then tied the "curtain" into sections with big, fat, toilet paper ribbon bows. It was beautiful. Literally, beautiful. ... I could not have been more proud of that job. -- Until Monday, at school, when Lance (the nephew) told us that Uncle Larry had made them take down the TP and put it in a bag in the bathroom so they could use it. ... Yes, you read that right. Those boys had to actually use the pink TP that we'd decorated their yard with. (I don't recall ever TPing the Crowthers after that.)

I tell you, TPing was a rite of passage in my hometown, and Diana and I were the absolute queens. We had a standing date at our English teacher's house on either Tuesday or Thursday every week our Junior year. (I only wish I were kidding when I tell you that she gave me a "soaping kit" for my birthday when I turned 16. It had toilet paper, soap, corn flakes, forks, vaseline (don't ask), colored chalk and all manner of other evil substances in it. ... It's still one of my favorite birthday presents to date.)

So... this post was probably a bit of an over-share. Many of you (including my mother) were probably not aware that I had such an ill-spent youth. But now you know. I totally did.

Ahhhhh.... Toilet paper. It's not just for the bathroom. (Just cracked myself up. Sorry, Mom!)

Gosh, that was a fun little trip down memory lane. Thanks for coming with.

May 11

Yesterday, I noticed that one of my FB friends had posted something about having bought Jester'Z tickets for a fundraiser that's happening in Snowflake next month. My first thought...

GENIUS!

Hello, who's in need (or will be in need, shortly, if my current medical costs keep up) of a fundraiser? ... Me.

And who loves Jester'Z? ... Again, me.

I mean, I love Navajo Tacos as much as (or even more than) the next girl. And I do hail from a great and wonderful part of the state that is known to throw a mean Navajo Taco fundraiser for hometown folks in need. ... But JESTER'Z?! That would be an even better (as in, more personal and suited to me) fundraiser than fried bread would be. (Not that I am dissing the fried bread. We all know that I am a big fan of the You Fry It, I Like It food category. ... I'm just saying that I prefer funny men to beans on bread. Amen.)

Tonight was my friend Christian's birthday party at... drumroll... Jester'Z. (My friends know how to party.) After the show, I talked to Jef (yeah, with one F) and asked how, exactly, their fundraiser thing works. He couldn't give me a lot of details, because he doesn't manage that part of the business, but he gave me a basic rundown of how it works (they take enough money to cover the cost of putting on the show, roughly $400-$600), and anything over that is profit. He explained that the amount of money made varies by advertising, the cause, etc...

Good thing I happen to be the CEO of Cancer Girl Enterprises and a few of my friends have been known to call me "PR Girl" instead of my actual name. Advertising shouldn't be a problem. Between Facebook, my blog, my connections at the printer, the contacts in my phone and my complete and utter lack of shame when it comes to asking people to donate to what I consider to be a good cause, I should be able to make a go of this.

Now, I just need to find some time in my hectic life to make some phone calls, do some research and start getting this put into motion. (Because I am leaning towards broke just paying for my routine medical costs... If and when I have surgery and have to be out of work for a minimum of two months (without any kind of disability pay coming in), the financial status around here is gonna go straight from unseemly to downright hideous.)

Wish me luck, folks. I'm crossing my fingers that I can play the cancer card (we all know that I like to) and get my own personal Jester'Z dream team to perform at the fundraiser. (What can I say? I dream big.)

May 9

So, I'm looking pretty peaked these days.

As in:

peak·ed2    /ˈpikɪd/ [pee-kid]


adjective


pale and drawn in appearance so as to suggest illness or stress; wan and sickly.

How do I know? I will tell you. ... I've seen two friends in two days (neither of whom work with me or otherwise see me on a daily basis) and the first thing out of both of their mouths was, "Are you feeling okay? You look really tired."

Awesome.

And this is what my friends say. (My friends who love me and are truly and honestly concerned for my welfare and want me to sit down and rest while I drink a glass of water.) ... Who knows what strangers are thinking when they see my peaked self?

Just yesterday, I was so proud of all this energy that I have these days. (Seriously. I really was patting myself on the back that I now have the energy to come home from work and cook something for dinner before I have to lie down on the couch to rest. ... Six - even two - months ago, I used to come home and eat cereal for dinner before I had to lie down on the couch.)

Oh, well.