OK, blog...blog like you've never blogged before. I have 10 minutes to the end of the news, and the arrival of a hubby and tiny hungry man to my sanctum sanctorum (better known as my hurricane-regularly-hits-it-bedroom/office/school room) So I may rant slightly off-kilter this evening...I'm on a time crunch.
Well, today is the end of Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. How many stories did you see on the news? How much Britney barf were you inundated with? See my point? How many "gold ribbon" products did you find in your local toy stores, children's clothing sections, or school aisles? Oh....you mean you didn't even know that pediatric cancer had a color? Yeah...me neither - until my daughter had been in treatment for over a year! Folks, I believe we have a bit of a PR problem.
I'd been contemplating this crazy Fat-A-Thon idea for months, before taking the sacrificial plunge. I chose to start the insanity this month - for an obvious, close-to-my-heart reason. I want someone, anyone, out there in cyber space to sit up and take notice! Our kids count!!! Our kids are suffering, fighting, and damn-you-cancer dying...and far, far too few people recognize that. I'm rather fed up with that.
Moms in our on-line group created a beautiful, moving, truthful video for this month. 60,000 people have watch it. This video tells the story of every cancer child - with raw honesty. It could change the world - if we could figure out how to get people to watch it. An uber-funny brilliant comedienne has a video with her singing perhaps the best ditty about mothers ever written. Its downright hysterical - no arguments here. Its been viewed over a million times. Do I remotely denigrate her? Nope. She's a hoot. Problem is, getting those same million to give a fig and a holler about our kids.
So here I sit. Eating healthy crap and writing oddball monologues about my masochism. Maybe, just maybe, if I can make people laugh, I can eventually make them sit up and take notice too. I may be the oddest duck diving in the pond...I could care less about publicity for me. I figure, if I can get someone to notice the Fat-A-Thon - then I can sneak in the cancer stuff. Asking directly, begging, and even the pity angle haven't worked a boatload so far. The way I see it, the only avenue left is humor.
Are our kids serious? Hmmm, let's see. Do bears, deer, raccoons, and the occasional eagle fart in the forest? Duh........ Are our *KIDS* also funny? Oh yeah. Have you ever met a 2 year old who wasn't? You haven't laughed until you've heard the shrieks from a 24 yr old nurse who's, again, been scared stiff by an ornery 12 yo patient hiding in a linen closet. 4 year olds may not skateboard well, but they can pole surf at near warp speeds. Our kids are KIDS first - they just happen to be patients in their spare time.
Have I made you laugh this month? Have you seen parts of your own round rear in my posts? Good! That makes me happy. Want to thrill my socks off? Share. Share my Blubber Blog, share my thoughts, share my mission...and maybe, someone new will share my passion. I don't want to weep for the empty arms of another mother. I feel their aching...its almost more than my heart can bear.
I want to feel the joy of end-of-treatment parties. I want to celebrate the glorious work of dedicated researchers - as they find new miracle cures. I want to sing from the highest rooftops and dance on the biggest stage...our kids matter!! Our kids count! If the universe is listening, next September 30, I'll be writing you about what a magical month it was. We'll be discussing last week's story on Good Morning America and last night's story on CBS Evening News. We'll be arguing over which story was better presented, and which network seemed more committed, rather than bemoaning the fact that no one seemed to care at all. We have 11 months, my friends. We can knock on doors, ring phones, and electronically stalk everyone in the media until they hear us.
Listen, if I can starve publicly, how hard can it be for you to share? Write to Oprah, Rachel Ray, Ellen, The Tonight Show, Good Morning America...I don't care who! But email your internet brains out. At least if they think I'm nuts - they'll talk about me or to me...and we can start the real dialogue...the important one...cancer kids.
As for the actual Fat-A-Thon, I've won and lost several battles this month. I started this quest at a whopping 258 pounds. At my lowest, I was 244 pounds. Then, a new medical disaster fell on my beautiful daughter's tiny shoulders - and stress began gnawing at my resolve. Over a weekend get-a-way at a cabin - I gained 3 .5 pounds back. I fought hard, and removed them a second time. Then...well, the news got a little worse AND it was my 40th birthday...and I rather lost my head. This time, I gained 4 pounds back - all the way back up to 248. As of today, September 30, I have solidly lost 3 of those elusive pounds again. For two days now, I've been 245 pounds. I count that as -13 pounds in my first month on the diet. Would I have preferred -20? Are you insane?!!! I would have been ecstatic! But, -13 is nothing to sneeze at - and its even been under an element of duress.
To those of you who are joining me by reading these mind meanderings...THANK YOU. I cling to your warm comments like floating doughnuts in a torrential sea of Koolaid. Knowing that I have to be honest with you...keeps me honest with myself. By the by...the whole "honesty" game is highly over-rated. I am, personally, finding accountability to be a major drag. I look at that lovely, whole-grain loaf of Panera bread in my fridge...and hear you all gasping if I eat it. I don't know how you've managed it...but you're making an honest woman out of a perpetual pudge fabricator. You may very well all be psychics in the making.
Let's use those unnerving powers for good...let's pester the pantaloons off of some media folks until someone caves and listens! Until then, I send you all a fruit-loopy queenly wave and a squishy-seat bummy wiggle.
Pickle lips and frog farts. Stop taking life so darn serious and embrace a smile!
- Alicia - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight, and my mind, for cancer kids http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Breakfast: 2 eggs, 1 oz cheddar cheese, 1/2 C onions, 2 TBS real bacon bits, 2 C coffee w/creamer
Lunch: We attended the Survivor's Picnic with our hospital. You will hear this often and repeatedly...I LOVE our hospital staff! I love spending time with them, I love them as humans as much as I do as medical people. They are kind, funny, silly people - and all of them make this happenstance world a better place. I ate chicken fingers covered in delectable bread crispy stuff. I drank water.
Dinner: buttered popcorn and a diet coke. Too busy trying to find my room under mountains of laundry to be bothered to make anything. Hubby's gourmet popcorn had to suffice.
PS - I LOVE our Heme-Onc staff!! And this took 1 hour to write, not 10 minutes. Good thing little man was pooped from fun in the sun! ;-)
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
September 29, 2007
I have a new idea. Shop-a-robics. This is day bleckity bleck, that I haven't done the skinny-minny picture perfect idea of exercise. ..........
**** We interrupt this regularly scheduled rant-o-blog, for a public service announcement. *************
You see, I started this blog last night, ON Sept 29, like it is labeled. However, my son woke up, needed to be nursed, the bed is comfy...I'm perpetually sleepy....wham, bam, thank you Sam - I'm finishing the blog a day late. This is what I was talking about the other day. I have high hopes and expectations...my children love to confound them. Just thought I'd share.
****We now return you to your previous blathering**********
I did, however, do what I feel is some decently strenuous exercise - and I want to know why-the-Hades it doesn't count?
Have you ever gone shopping with 4 kids? I'm not talking run-of-the-mill in and out of Walmart stuff. I'm talking, 3 girls, one in a wheelchair, one 21 pound boy in a backpack., cramming ourselves up and down the aisles of re-sale shops looking for clothes...for hours....................
In our town we have these wonderful stores, Once Upon a Child, and Plato's closet (for teens). We were on a hunt for Ohio State anything, Blue Jacket anything, some things for a baby who's grown 2 inches this week, and maybe something fun or sparkly that was cheap. The direct translation is, I spent nearly 3 hours - rummaging through over-stuffed stores, in cramped conditions, negotiating a wheelchair, and doing Olympic-worthy gymnastics while wearing a hanger-grabbing, outfit-snatching, 11 month old octopus. I bent over, stepped over, reached for and returned to. I lifted, squatted, balanced, and teetered. I searched, stooped, organized, and carried. And even though I did eventually pay these lovely people for the privilege of leaving...it didn't end there.
Once we reached home, I got to carry it all in - and then the real work began. First, came the monumental struggle with child #3 who wanted to try on, wear, try on, wear, try on...ad nauseum. Then, came the epic battle with child #4...the boy. Trying outfits on a wiggly, squiggly 11 month old boy is roughly equivalent to wrestling a chimpanzee while holding an 8 foot octopus under your left boob. Suffice it to say...it ain't easy.
So, my rather long-winded query is this. Why must I don spandex and jump in time to corny disco music to get credit for "exercising?". I challenge that 20 something perfectly coiffed aerobics instructor to keep up with my brood in a discount clothing zoo. I welcome that well-heeled, park avenue nutritionist to try to survive my "corporate" jungle. I'm telling you, my monkeys would take her down!
So that's it. I've answered my own question. I did exercise today. I broke a sweat, my back and legs ached, and I feel like I've been ridden hard and put away wet. I conquered space, time, and budgetary limitations...and came out the victorious huntress with bargains o' plenty. I did exercise. I exercised my body, my wallet, my virtues, and my patience. I'd better darn well lose an ounce or two today. I do not have enough personal grit to survive another trip to bargainland.
I did exercise. That's my decision and I'm standing by it. I wouldn't suggest arguing with me...I'm sugar-deprived and on the edge...
- Alicia - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight, and my mind, for cancer kids. http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Breakfast: 2 eggs, 2 TBS real bacon bits, 1 oz cheese, 1/2 C onions 2 C coffee w/creamer
Lunch: 1 1/2 C fried broccoli with sesame seeds, water
Snack: Diet coke
Dinner: 1/2 C taco-seasoned beef, lettuce, 1 oz cheddar cheese, salsa, 2 Tbs sour cream
Exercise: see above notation...agree with me...or else!
**** We interrupt this regularly scheduled rant-o-blog, for a public service announcement. *************
You see, I started this blog last night, ON Sept 29, like it is labeled. However, my son woke up, needed to be nursed, the bed is comfy...I'm perpetually sleepy....wham, bam, thank you Sam - I'm finishing the blog a day late. This is what I was talking about the other day. I have high hopes and expectations...my children love to confound them. Just thought I'd share.
****We now return you to your previous blathering**********
I did, however, do what I feel is some decently strenuous exercise - and I want to know why-the-Hades it doesn't count?
Have you ever gone shopping with 4 kids? I'm not talking run-of-the-mill in and out of Walmart stuff. I'm talking, 3 girls, one in a wheelchair, one 21 pound boy in a backpack., cramming ourselves up and down the aisles of re-sale shops looking for clothes...for hours....................
In our town we have these wonderful stores, Once Upon a Child, and Plato's closet (for teens). We were on a hunt for Ohio State anything, Blue Jacket anything, some things for a baby who's grown 2 inches this week, and maybe something fun or sparkly that was cheap. The direct translation is, I spent nearly 3 hours - rummaging through over-stuffed stores, in cramped conditions, negotiating a wheelchair, and doing Olympic-worthy gymnastics while wearing a hanger-grabbing, outfit-snatching, 11 month old octopus. I bent over, stepped over, reached for and returned to. I lifted, squatted, balanced, and teetered. I searched, stooped, organized, and carried. And even though I did eventually pay these lovely people for the privilege of leaving...it didn't end there.
Once we reached home, I got to carry it all in - and then the real work began. First, came the monumental struggle with child #3 who wanted to try on, wear, try on, wear, try on...ad nauseum. Then, came the epic battle with child #4...the boy. Trying outfits on a wiggly, squiggly 11 month old boy is roughly equivalent to wrestling a chimpanzee while holding an 8 foot octopus under your left boob. Suffice it to say...it ain't easy.
So, my rather long-winded query is this. Why must I don spandex and jump in time to corny disco music to get credit for "exercising?". I challenge that 20 something perfectly coiffed aerobics instructor to keep up with my brood in a discount clothing zoo. I welcome that well-heeled, park avenue nutritionist to try to survive my "corporate" jungle. I'm telling you, my monkeys would take her down!
So that's it. I've answered my own question. I did exercise today. I broke a sweat, my back and legs ached, and I feel like I've been ridden hard and put away wet. I conquered space, time, and budgetary limitations...and came out the victorious huntress with bargains o' plenty. I did exercise. I exercised my body, my wallet, my virtues, and my patience. I'd better darn well lose an ounce or two today. I do not have enough personal grit to survive another trip to bargainland.
I did exercise. That's my decision and I'm standing by it. I wouldn't suggest arguing with me...I'm sugar-deprived and on the edge...
- Alicia - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight, and my mind, for cancer kids. http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Breakfast: 2 eggs, 2 TBS real bacon bits, 1 oz cheese, 1/2 C onions 2 C coffee w/creamer
Lunch: 1 1/2 C fried broccoli with sesame seeds, water
Snack: Diet coke
Dinner: 1/2 C taco-seasoned beef, lettuce, 1 oz cheddar cheese, salsa, 2 Tbs sour cream
Exercise: see above notation...agree with me...or else!
Friday, September 28, 2007
September 28, 2007
Farts. I had the highest of hopes that I'd be diligently blogging my brains out each evening. I had utterly ill-conceived notions that I'd tuck my angelic children into their perfectly-made beds and sit here, regaling you with my day's dietary conquests.
Pickle farts. The reality is, I normally manage to get the kids into their mis-matched, just-when-did-I-wash-those-things-last? sheeted slumber pits, only to try to catch up on 1001 emails. By the time I've dug myself out of e-communication e-nnihilation...I can barely manage to stitch together 6 intelligible thoughts. Maybe its the calorie deficit, maybe its the new medical stresses...but holy cow, Batman...my brain is starting to melt!
You know, I may be on to something with the brain melt theory. Think about it. As a hefty woman, I enjoyed a life of full fat, sugary goodness. Fat is gel-like, sugar is gooey. What if the fat and sugar have be the glue that held my brain cells together? I mean...my attempt to find my svelte self, may actually be disintegrating the very part of me that cares!
Face it, my thighs have rubbed together so long...they're in no hurry to lose weight. They'll be lonely. And my arse? Oh honey, its so used to dancing its own private jig after the rest of me has quit hearing the music... Why, it may just file a formal protest if I whittle away at its inherent "groove-thing" quality. No no, the brain has to be the only part of me that really wants to be thin. Poor brain, its out-thought itself. In its unrealistic attempt to shave me down to semi-normal size...it may very well be its own undoing... (Hah! I crack myself up. Brain melting, "undoing"...Hah!)
So how on earth am I going to manage to stick my smarts together if I can't sugar-coat them? Hmmm...well, I could run down a skinny minny or two and steal some of their hoo-hah wax. (have you ever gotten that email?) Nah, I might stick something I need. Hmmm...I could borrow some of my under-the-hooter sweat that I'm desperately hoping to someday NOT have... Nah, what happens when I have perky little puppies? My brains would fall apart again. (Stop laughing! I might be able to pick them up off my knees and staple them in place...) Hmmmm...how about I just squeeze the brain juice from the next rat fink who tells me how much trouble they had loosing their whopping 12 pounds... No problems there, they obviously won't miss their brain goo. They couldn't possibly have been using it, if they told a rotund, hungry woman, something so incredibly inane...
Aww fishfarts. I can't go and goo-squeeze all the skinny people. My brain wants to be one. Man, I hope I'm never that self-stuck. I think I may sign my brain up for optional sqeezature just in case I am...
Yep, the best description of the last few days...farts. How's that for high-falootin'?
- Alicia Losing weight, and my mind, for cancer kids. http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Breakfast: 2 eggs, 1 oz cheese, 1/2 C onions, 2 TBS real bacon bits, 2 C coffee w/creamer
Lunch: Broccoli (1 C maybe?) dipped in egg, flour - then fried in Canola oil - 1 TBS sourcream for decadence. 1/4 piece of Panera so-good-you'd-sell-your-mother-for-it whole grain bread.
1 oz turkey
Dinner: 2 oz cheese, 1 apple, Diet A&W rootbeer, 4 fried cheese sticks from King o' de Burgers
(so shoot me over the cheese sticks. I didn't get a burger or fries!)
Aww frog farts. I'm going to have to go back to logging everything that goes into my rather vacuous pie-hole. When I eat it, it seems small. When I see it written down...well, boop boop be doo - it looks whoppin' porcine.
Fart.
Pickle farts. The reality is, I normally manage to get the kids into their mis-matched, just-when-did-I-wash-those-things-last? sheeted slumber pits, only to try to catch up on 1001 emails. By the time I've dug myself out of e-communication e-nnihilation...I can barely manage to stitch together 6 intelligible thoughts. Maybe its the calorie deficit, maybe its the new medical stresses...but holy cow, Batman...my brain is starting to melt!
You know, I may be on to something with the brain melt theory. Think about it. As a hefty woman, I enjoyed a life of full fat, sugary goodness. Fat is gel-like, sugar is gooey. What if the fat and sugar have be the glue that held my brain cells together? I mean...my attempt to find my svelte self, may actually be disintegrating the very part of me that cares!
Face it, my thighs have rubbed together so long...they're in no hurry to lose weight. They'll be lonely. And my arse? Oh honey, its so used to dancing its own private jig after the rest of me has quit hearing the music... Why, it may just file a formal protest if I whittle away at its inherent "groove-thing" quality. No no, the brain has to be the only part of me that really wants to be thin. Poor brain, its out-thought itself. In its unrealistic attempt to shave me down to semi-normal size...it may very well be its own undoing... (Hah! I crack myself up. Brain melting, "undoing"...Hah!)
So how on earth am I going to manage to stick my smarts together if I can't sugar-coat them? Hmmm...well, I could run down a skinny minny or two and steal some of their hoo-hah wax. (have you ever gotten that email?) Nah, I might stick something I need. Hmmm...I could borrow some of my under-the-hooter sweat that I'm desperately hoping to someday NOT have... Nah, what happens when I have perky little puppies? My brains would fall apart again. (Stop laughing! I might be able to pick them up off my knees and staple them in place...) Hmmmm...how about I just squeeze the brain juice from the next rat fink who tells me how much trouble they had loosing their whopping 12 pounds... No problems there, they obviously won't miss their brain goo. They couldn't possibly have been using it, if they told a rotund, hungry woman, something so incredibly inane...
Aww fishfarts. I can't go and goo-squeeze all the skinny people. My brain wants to be one. Man, I hope I'm never that self-stuck. I think I may sign my brain up for optional sqeezature just in case I am...
Yep, the best description of the last few days...farts. How's that for high-falootin'?
- Alicia Losing weight, and my mind, for cancer kids. http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Breakfast: 2 eggs, 1 oz cheese, 1/2 C onions, 2 TBS real bacon bits, 2 C coffee w/creamer
Lunch: Broccoli (1 C maybe?) dipped in egg, flour - then fried in Canola oil - 1 TBS sourcream for decadence. 1/4 piece of Panera so-good-you'd-sell-your-mother-for-it whole grain bread.
1 oz turkey
Dinner: 2 oz cheese, 1 apple, Diet A&W rootbeer, 4 fried cheese sticks from King o' de Burgers
(so shoot me over the cheese sticks. I didn't get a burger or fries!)
Aww frog farts. I'm going to have to go back to logging everything that goes into my rather vacuous pie-hole. When I eat it, it seems small. When I see it written down...well, boop boop be doo - it looks whoppin' porcine.
Fart.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
September 26 - Avalon medical update
I'm doing this part separate from the other, so you can choose whether or not to read it. I fully understand that some people coming here are here to relax, laugh, and walk away from their own stress for a bit. I appreciate that. Its why I'm addicted to several mindless shows on cable. Escapism is free and good for the soul.
But, some people coming the site do want to know about my daughter. For you, this is the easiest way to get you up to speed. (particularly, since her website is nearly 2 years out of date)
As of yesterday morning, I still had not heard about Avalon's lab tests from Thurs Sept 20. That's very unusual for our clinic, but I knew they'd run tests that required being sent to labs far and wide, so I wasn't too concerned about the time frame. I called clinic Tues morning, and left a message asking about results and leaving my home and cell number - knowing we'd be gone to my daughter's school. (with the stress they cause me, that stupid school owns at least a barn or two on my fat farm...) I did what I always do, and gave them permission to leave the results on the voicemail - its easier for them, rather than having to track me down.
When I never heard from anyone, I presumed there would be a voice mail waiting. Sure enough, when we got home at 5:45 - there was the hospital number in our caller ID. After threatening the kids to silence, (if there is no threat...people in China can hear them, and I can't hear squat) I called into our voice mail. When I got to the hospital number, I nearly fainted.
Rather than the typical, "Hi Alicia! Its Sue,..." Or, "Hi Alicia! Its Diane..." I heard, "Hi Alicia. Its Dr. R***...." At our hospital Docs don't normally call. I've talked to ours a few times on the phone...but my daughter has had some pretty nasty problems too. As much as I love our doc, his voice was the absolute LAST thing I wanted to hear associated with lab results. Worse, his message just said, "Hey, I'm going to call you on your cell phone." That's it. No results, no "don't worry"s, just a few sentences indicating that he didn't want to leave a message - he really wanted to talk to me himself. Ugh.
Here's where the torture ramped up to super level. I realized my cell phone hadn't rung all day. Then, I thought about the number I gave him, and realized, to my horror, that I'd goofed up the number, again. I don't call myself, and frankly - can't remember my number to save my life. I have absolutely no business ever giving it out - I get it wrong 90% of the time. Yesterday, was no exception. So here it was, 5:45, after clinic hours - with no way of getting a hold of the doctor. For a medical emergency, you can call the Heme-Onc on call. For being a dweeb and giving the wrong cell number - you just have to suck it up until morning.
First thing, I called Nick (hubby) and described the message - hoping he wouldn't think along the same lines. Fat chance on that. We've been together 25 years, we long since gave up having individual thought patterns. He went right to the ugly place I was. After much discussion, we managed to calm ourselves and rule out any cancer relapse scenarios, or life-threatening issues. We knew Dr. R*** would have turned the world upside down to find us if we needed to go to the hospital. That left less-than-stellar lab reports on the table. And basically, our only option was to wait it out. In Nick's case, that meant staying late at the house we're trying to sell, and working himself into a forgetful, exhausted frenzy. For me, that meant eating things I shouldn't. Duh...I'm a stress eater. And this, definitely, qualified as STRESS.
This morning, I called Heme-Onc again, and left a new message. I apologized for having the brain of a frog, and begged for mercy with a return phone call. I outed myself and my burgeoning gray hairs and heart condition as I waited for news... God bless those people - they knew I was a wreck. I got my phone call by 9:30.
Dr. R*** did, indeed, make the return call. Again, I adore this man...but again, his voice made my heart sink to ankle level. The news wasn't all bad, but it couldn't exactly be categorized as good. Quick review: Avalon has a high level of protein in her CSF (cerebral spinal fluid). This is not good. Option #1 - Best case scenario - we would find indicators of general body stress, showing that her body was not happy having some "hardware" in it (her shunt). We would put her on low dose anti-inflammatory drugs - and allow her body time to adjust. Option #2 - Worse case scenario A - we would find high levels of inflammation indicators and other blood values indicating shunt rejection. Avalon would be placed on anti-rejection meds like an organ transplant patient. Option #3 - Worse case scenario B - Avalon would show positive bloodwork for a new disease - and auto-immune disease. Treatment will depend on disease.
Well folks, it appears to be Option #3, Avalon has developed a new disease process. Avalon's neuro-optho had warned me that this was distinctly possible. She said that children with blood/immune system cancers, like lymphoma and leukemia, have a much higher possibility of developing an auto-immune issue. Add to that, we have a horrific family history of auto-immune problems, and this was our main fear. Oddly enough, I had questioned this possibility very strenuously back in Feb of 2007. (a fact that I forgot until my hubby and a close friend reminded me) In Feb, Avalon's CSF was only showing mild elevation in the protein level - still perfectly withing normal range. In Feb, the ANA (anti-nuclear antibodies) titers were normal. Now, she is positive for ANA. Without getting too medico on you, normal people just don't have positive ANA's. Its a definite indicator of auto-immune disease.
Also, she had elevated segs. For cancer people, or medical people - you know what that means. For everyone else, segs are a part of a blood work differential done on white blood cells. High segs can indicate impending relapse. Avalon's were not that high, and the rest of her counts were fine. Elevated segs indicate general body stress - and point to auto-immune disorders. Add that to her increased fatigue in the past few months, and the protein in her CSF - and now we have more than enough ammo to get an appointment with a rheumatologist to try to figure out what it is that's after her.
After checking into the most likely culprits, its also apparant that repeated anesthesia episodes are probably not the culprit for her hair loss. I've been asking for months, why her hair falls out so easily, and in such large clumps. You'd think someone would have put two and two together. Allopecia is also a hallmark sign of auto-immune dysfunction. I'm totally understanding how adults can go years without a diagnosis. This kiddo sees highly trained specialists and is constantly gone over with a fine-toothed comb - and they missed the signs.
On one hand, I'm glad that I pay close enough attention to her that I've been complaining about the fatigue and hair loss for months. I'm glad I know my daughter well enough to know she's been exhausted/in pain. I'm glad I can advocate for her, and I haven't been super paranoid crazy mom all this time.
But good grief, I'm damn sorry to be right. Just once, I wish a doctor would say, "No, its nothing." and actually be right. I've heard that phrase, they've just always been mistaken...
So, it looks like Avalon's chariot will likely be a permanent member of the family, rather than a visitor for a few years. And, we're gaining two new departments for her resume. I could sit and cry, but I don't have time. She's a grinning, happy, ornery 4 year old - who can't be bothered to sit still long enough to be pitied. She's got it going on. And she's kicking my whiny butt into moving on.
Thought you'd all want to know. At the very least, this better explains my recent hurdle off of the diet train...
- Alicia losing weight to raise awareness of pediatric cancer www.crazycancermom.com
But, some people coming the site do want to know about my daughter. For you, this is the easiest way to get you up to speed. (particularly, since her website is nearly 2 years out of date)
As of yesterday morning, I still had not heard about Avalon's lab tests from Thurs Sept 20. That's very unusual for our clinic, but I knew they'd run tests that required being sent to labs far and wide, so I wasn't too concerned about the time frame. I called clinic Tues morning, and left a message asking about results and leaving my home and cell number - knowing we'd be gone to my daughter's school. (with the stress they cause me, that stupid school owns at least a barn or two on my fat farm...) I did what I always do, and gave them permission to leave the results on the voicemail - its easier for them, rather than having to track me down.
When I never heard from anyone, I presumed there would be a voice mail waiting. Sure enough, when we got home at 5:45 - there was the hospital number in our caller ID. After threatening the kids to silence, (if there is no threat...people in China can hear them, and I can't hear squat) I called into our voice mail. When I got to the hospital number, I nearly fainted.
Rather than the typical, "Hi Alicia! Its Sue,..." Or, "Hi Alicia! Its Diane..." I heard, "Hi Alicia. Its Dr. R***...." At our hospital Docs don't normally call. I've talked to ours a few times on the phone...but my daughter has had some pretty nasty problems too. As much as I love our doc, his voice was the absolute LAST thing I wanted to hear associated with lab results. Worse, his message just said, "Hey, I'm going to call you on your cell phone." That's it. No results, no "don't worry"s, just a few sentences indicating that he didn't want to leave a message - he really wanted to talk to me himself. Ugh.
Here's where the torture ramped up to super level. I realized my cell phone hadn't rung all day. Then, I thought about the number I gave him, and realized, to my horror, that I'd goofed up the number, again. I don't call myself, and frankly - can't remember my number to save my life. I have absolutely no business ever giving it out - I get it wrong 90% of the time. Yesterday, was no exception. So here it was, 5:45, after clinic hours - with no way of getting a hold of the doctor. For a medical emergency, you can call the Heme-Onc on call. For being a dweeb and giving the wrong cell number - you just have to suck it up until morning.
First thing, I called Nick (hubby) and described the message - hoping he wouldn't think along the same lines. Fat chance on that. We've been together 25 years, we long since gave up having individual thought patterns. He went right to the ugly place I was. After much discussion, we managed to calm ourselves and rule out any cancer relapse scenarios, or life-threatening issues. We knew Dr. R*** would have turned the world upside down to find us if we needed to go to the hospital. That left less-than-stellar lab reports on the table. And basically, our only option was to wait it out. In Nick's case, that meant staying late at the house we're trying to sell, and working himself into a forgetful, exhausted frenzy. For me, that meant eating things I shouldn't. Duh...I'm a stress eater. And this, definitely, qualified as STRESS.
This morning, I called Heme-Onc again, and left a new message. I apologized for having the brain of a frog, and begged for mercy with a return phone call. I outed myself and my burgeoning gray hairs and heart condition as I waited for news... God bless those people - they knew I was a wreck. I got my phone call by 9:30.
Dr. R*** did, indeed, make the return call. Again, I adore this man...but again, his voice made my heart sink to ankle level. The news wasn't all bad, but it couldn't exactly be categorized as good. Quick review: Avalon has a high level of protein in her CSF (cerebral spinal fluid). This is not good. Option #1 - Best case scenario - we would find indicators of general body stress, showing that her body was not happy having some "hardware" in it (her shunt). We would put her on low dose anti-inflammatory drugs - and allow her body time to adjust. Option #2 - Worse case scenario A - we would find high levels of inflammation indicators and other blood values indicating shunt rejection. Avalon would be placed on anti-rejection meds like an organ transplant patient. Option #3 - Worse case scenario B - Avalon would show positive bloodwork for a new disease - and auto-immune disease. Treatment will depend on disease.
Well folks, it appears to be Option #3, Avalon has developed a new disease process. Avalon's neuro-optho had warned me that this was distinctly possible. She said that children with blood/immune system cancers, like lymphoma and leukemia, have a much higher possibility of developing an auto-immune issue. Add to that, we have a horrific family history of auto-immune problems, and this was our main fear. Oddly enough, I had questioned this possibility very strenuously back in Feb of 2007. (a fact that I forgot until my hubby and a close friend reminded me) In Feb, Avalon's CSF was only showing mild elevation in the protein level - still perfectly withing normal range. In Feb, the ANA (anti-nuclear antibodies) titers were normal. Now, she is positive for ANA. Without getting too medico on you, normal people just don't have positive ANA's. Its a definite indicator of auto-immune disease.
Also, she had elevated segs. For cancer people, or medical people - you know what that means. For everyone else, segs are a part of a blood work differential done on white blood cells. High segs can indicate impending relapse. Avalon's were not that high, and the rest of her counts were fine. Elevated segs indicate general body stress - and point to auto-immune disorders. Add that to her increased fatigue in the past few months, and the protein in her CSF - and now we have more than enough ammo to get an appointment with a rheumatologist to try to figure out what it is that's after her.
After checking into the most likely culprits, its also apparant that repeated anesthesia episodes are probably not the culprit for her hair loss. I've been asking for months, why her hair falls out so easily, and in such large clumps. You'd think someone would have put two and two together. Allopecia is also a hallmark sign of auto-immune dysfunction. I'm totally understanding how adults can go years without a diagnosis. This kiddo sees highly trained specialists and is constantly gone over with a fine-toothed comb - and they missed the signs.
On one hand, I'm glad that I pay close enough attention to her that I've been complaining about the fatigue and hair loss for months. I'm glad I know my daughter well enough to know she's been exhausted/in pain. I'm glad I can advocate for her, and I haven't been super paranoid crazy mom all this time.
But good grief, I'm damn sorry to be right. Just once, I wish a doctor would say, "No, its nothing." and actually be right. I've heard that phrase, they've just always been mistaken...
So, it looks like Avalon's chariot will likely be a permanent member of the family, rather than a visitor for a few years. And, we're gaining two new departments for her resume. I could sit and cry, but I don't have time. She's a grinning, happy, ornery 4 year old - who can't be bothered to sit still long enough to be pitied. She's got it going on. And she's kicking my whiny butt into moving on.
Thought you'd all want to know. At the very least, this better explains my recent hurdle off of the diet train...
- Alicia losing weight to raise awareness of pediatric cancer www.crazycancermom.com
September 26, 2007
The universe is gunning for my gams...and I'm just gonna have to say, "NO!"
That's right...I can hear the faint footsteps (that's a big fat lie. The footfalls are more like an elephant in combat boots) of the Blubber Behemoth. He's an ornery cuss. He gets his jollies from sneaking into unsuspecting bloomers overnight - and depositing his less-than-desirable bubbles of blubber. He's a right sneaky fellow...been pursuing me with a vengence this week.
Can I hear the great BB coming? Oh yeah. Have I, thus far, been successful in evading his evening deposit? That's a negative, good buddy. Mr. Behemoth has, unfortunately, had his way with my tush-ay the past few days. The soul-sucking sourpuss has added back a whopping 3.5 pounds! Argghhhh.................
Not that he didn't have plenty of help. The Birthday Blubber Fairy was more than thrilled to add her daily quota. Then, there's the king of Blubberdom...the master of all of Fattington...the Stress Distress. Damned Stress Distress. What in the Sam Hill did I ever do to him? Cripes. You'd think I'd at least have the joy of whacking someboy upside the head or something. No...I just had to go and reproduce. Kids = stress. And a medical kid? Well a medical kid bumps you into an entirely new stress zipcode. A medical kid with an emerging, and decently serious, issue...and heck, you may as well whip out the checkbook...you're buying yourself a Fat Farm.
Between the three, the Blubber Behemoth, the Birthday Blubber Fairy, and the Stress Distress...I've managed to whittle my weight loss from 14 pounds, down to 10.5 pounds gone. Bat crap! I mean, seriously, when I lose this 3.5 pounds, again, that will make the THIRD stinkin' time I've had to do it! ACK!!!!!!!!!!
And let me tell you, forewarned is forearmed. Anyone foolish enough to say, "Oh, don't worry about it - things happen..." stands the very good chance of being hunted down by the light of the moon - and beaten senseless with a week-old bagel. Not kidding... I'm on the edge here....
So here I go, back to starvation/craving/carb-deprived Super Hades. Bleck. If you have ever been asked if you would jump off a 200 foot suspension bridge, without a bungi, to fall into jagged rocks - coated in salt water and broken glass...then maybe you can appreciate my *excitement* over my next few days. If you haven't...then, lucky you. Kindly don't share your good fortune...I'm going to need exercise - and I'm not above hunting you down for sport.
- Alicia, the miserably-regretting-poor-food-choices Crazy Cancer Mom - suffering to make you laugh - and maybe to make you think about our kids www.crazycancermom.com
That's right...I can hear the faint footsteps (that's a big fat lie. The footfalls are more like an elephant in combat boots) of the Blubber Behemoth. He's an ornery cuss. He gets his jollies from sneaking into unsuspecting bloomers overnight - and depositing his less-than-desirable bubbles of blubber. He's a right sneaky fellow...been pursuing me with a vengence this week.
Can I hear the great BB coming? Oh yeah. Have I, thus far, been successful in evading his evening deposit? That's a negative, good buddy. Mr. Behemoth has, unfortunately, had his way with my tush-ay the past few days. The soul-sucking sourpuss has added back a whopping 3.5 pounds! Argghhhh.................
Not that he didn't have plenty of help. The Birthday Blubber Fairy was more than thrilled to add her daily quota. Then, there's the king of Blubberdom...the master of all of Fattington...the Stress Distress. Damned Stress Distress. What in the Sam Hill did I ever do to him? Cripes. You'd think I'd at least have the joy of whacking someboy upside the head or something. No...I just had to go and reproduce. Kids = stress. And a medical kid? Well a medical kid bumps you into an entirely new stress zipcode. A medical kid with an emerging, and decently serious, issue...and heck, you may as well whip out the checkbook...you're buying yourself a Fat Farm.
Between the three, the Blubber Behemoth, the Birthday Blubber Fairy, and the Stress Distress...I've managed to whittle my weight loss from 14 pounds, down to 10.5 pounds gone. Bat crap! I mean, seriously, when I lose this 3.5 pounds, again, that will make the THIRD stinkin' time I've had to do it! ACK!!!!!!!!!!
And let me tell you, forewarned is forearmed. Anyone foolish enough to say, "Oh, don't worry about it - things happen..." stands the very good chance of being hunted down by the light of the moon - and beaten senseless with a week-old bagel. Not kidding... I'm on the edge here....
So here I go, back to starvation/craving/carb-deprived Super Hades. Bleck. If you have ever been asked if you would jump off a 200 foot suspension bridge, without a bungi, to fall into jagged rocks - coated in salt water and broken glass...then maybe you can appreciate my *excitement* over my next few days. If you haven't...then, lucky you. Kindly don't share your good fortune...I'm going to need exercise - and I'm not above hunting you down for sport.
- Alicia, the miserably-regretting-poor-food-choices Crazy Cancer Mom - suffering to make you laugh - and maybe to make you think about our kids www.crazycancermom.com
Monday, September 24, 2007
September 23, 2007
Well, the universe conspired against me. I've gained weight back...lots...and it was dad-blasted fun! Hee hee hee.
As you may remember, my dear hubby tried his best for a fantastic 40th birthday. Problem was, he actually chose this year to shop early. (never before, possibly never again after this) Early would normally be commendable - except for the fact that he bought his dieting, carb-deprived wife a gift card to The Cheesecake Factory. Torture, pure unadulterated torture.
Of course, being the frugal femme fa tale I am, I simply had to go and use the fateful card. By arranging to go to lunch today, with my sister, I figured I had armed myself with a portion-limiting timeframe, and a voice-of-reason companion. Nerts on that! The lunch portions at Cheesecake Factory are megalomaniac in nature, and my sister is about the WORST voice-of-reason on the planet. She whole-heartedly embraces positive mental health exercises. Translation, she's an advocate for periodically chucking responsibility out the window and loudly singing Ce La Vie!
In all fairness, she tried to lead by example - and only ate a reasonable one or two pieces of the pre-food bread. However...she also didn't tackle me and threaten to beat me with a sourdough breadstick when I behaved like a carb-crazed basket-case. I embarrassingly scarfed up 6 or 7 butter drenched hunks of yeasty, wheat-laden loaves of death. And it was gooooooood..........
I mean, knowing that the first tiny taste would cause catastrophic diet dismemberment. I felt it was my duty, as a dieting diva, to fully explore the fall from grace. While I know a simple bite can halt any progress, I decided it was scientifically prudent to investigate what a complete annihilation of dieting protocol could do to a body. In that respect, I felt compelled to further my research by ordering a delectable pasta dish with mushrooms, chicken, and tomatoes - all swimming ever so beckoningly - in a white sauce. Being utterly committed to my dissertation, I had no choice but to also order the artichoke/spinach/hot cheese dip with chips as an appetizer. I mean, honestly, I couldn't leave out such an important step in my scientific method. (work with me, I'm on a "roll"...Ah haa haa haa) (yeah, I crack myself up)
There was, however, an enormous flaw in my research protocol. I forgot to factor in a "cheesecake allowance". Yet again, I found myself waddling out of the big CF - more stuffed than the common T-day turkey - and utterly, totally, devoid of cheesecake. I nearly wrote the mission off as a failure , then I remembered the multi-loaf assault at the beginning of the battle. Ultimately, I decided my research methods only ranked a "C", but my willingness to "suffer" for the cause, was undeniably "A" material.
Post Cheescake debacle, my chauffeur and I laboriously worked our stuffed selves through a few stores at the shopping center. We ogled furniture we couldn't afford, and clothing we can't currently fit a single boob in. I'm telling you - I lose this weight, I'm so going to enjoy dressing to embarrass my children! ("Geez, mo'om, do you have to dress like my friends?!) Oh yeah, I plan on making a nuisance of myself...
All too soon, we had to wing our way home to my waiting hubby, and his list of places he had to go. Or so...I'd been told.
In reality, we winged our way home to my 40th birthday Surprise Party! Wahooooo!
We walked in and there stood Daddy and the 4 minions, grinning like a pack of Cheshire cats, surrounded by decorations a go go. Then, one by one, people I love kept appearing from either side of the kitchen, each wearing a bigger grin than the next! Hee hee hee......
What followed was a whopping boatload of FUN! I opened rotten, ornery cards, received thoughtful, generous gifts, and withstood COPIOUS amounts of abuse about my recent arrival on the far side of the Hill. And in the interest of a dieting blog...I also ate cake, chips, nachos and cheese, and several sugar-free mini-cheesecakes. Oh yeah, I took my oath of investigation pretty damned serious. I decided it continued as long as my birthday "celebrations" did. (I know I'm delusional...I'm okay with it...)
In all, I had an absolutely PERFECT day. Friends made special trips to join us, my family turned themselves inside out to make it special and memorable, and my daughter's god-daddy even managed to make me teary by taking a personal day from work on Monday, to be able to come to the party and spend the night with us. I had the most amazing time I could have possibly hoped for, and it was worth every calorie eaten, and every ounce gained.
I suppose that's the lesson I learned today. My sister's refusal to body slam me, shows that my "baby" sister may have a better grip on life than her geriatric sibling. She knew the value of completely letting go and LIVING life today. No one can be perfect all the time. At least, no one should be perfect all the time. Its our flaws that make us human.
I let my metaphorical hair down today - and will inevitably see the scales go "up" as a result of it. But ahh....this time my wagon tipped for fun, instead of fear. I'll take a few bruises in the name of celebration any day.
Fish paste and turtle haste,
Alicia - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight to raise awareness for pediatric cancer
http://www.crazycancermom.com/
As you may remember, my dear hubby tried his best for a fantastic 40th birthday. Problem was, he actually chose this year to shop early. (never before, possibly never again after this) Early would normally be commendable - except for the fact that he bought his dieting, carb-deprived wife a gift card to The Cheesecake Factory. Torture, pure unadulterated torture.
Of course, being the frugal femme fa tale I am, I simply had to go and use the fateful card. By arranging to go to lunch today, with my sister, I figured I had armed myself with a portion-limiting timeframe, and a voice-of-reason companion. Nerts on that! The lunch portions at Cheesecake Factory are megalomaniac in nature, and my sister is about the WORST voice-of-reason on the planet. She whole-heartedly embraces positive mental health exercises. Translation, she's an advocate for periodically chucking responsibility out the window and loudly singing Ce La Vie!
In all fairness, she tried to lead by example - and only ate a reasonable one or two pieces of the pre-food bread. However...she also didn't tackle me and threaten to beat me with a sourdough breadstick when I behaved like a carb-crazed basket-case. I embarrassingly scarfed up 6 or 7 butter drenched hunks of yeasty, wheat-laden loaves of death. And it was gooooooood..........
I mean, knowing that the first tiny taste would cause catastrophic diet dismemberment. I felt it was my duty, as a dieting diva, to fully explore the fall from grace. While I know a simple bite can halt any progress, I decided it was scientifically prudent to investigate what a complete annihilation of dieting protocol could do to a body. In that respect, I felt compelled to further my research by ordering a delectable pasta dish with mushrooms, chicken, and tomatoes - all swimming ever so beckoningly - in a white sauce. Being utterly committed to my dissertation, I had no choice but to also order the artichoke/spinach/hot cheese dip with chips as an appetizer. I mean, honestly, I couldn't leave out such an important step in my scientific method. (work with me, I'm on a "roll"...Ah haa haa haa) (yeah, I crack myself up)
There was, however, an enormous flaw in my research protocol. I forgot to factor in a "cheesecake allowance". Yet again, I found myself waddling out of the big CF - more stuffed than the common T-day turkey - and utterly, totally, devoid of cheesecake. I nearly wrote the mission off as a failure , then I remembered the multi-loaf assault at the beginning of the battle. Ultimately, I decided my research methods only ranked a "C", but my willingness to "suffer" for the cause, was undeniably "A" material.
Post Cheescake debacle, my chauffeur and I laboriously worked our stuffed selves through a few stores at the shopping center. We ogled furniture we couldn't afford, and clothing we can't currently fit a single boob in. I'm telling you - I lose this weight, I'm so going to enjoy dressing to embarrass my children! ("Geez, mo'om, do you have to dress like my friends?!) Oh yeah, I plan on making a nuisance of myself...
All too soon, we had to wing our way home to my waiting hubby, and his list of places he had to go. Or so...I'd been told.
In reality, we winged our way home to my 40th birthday Surprise Party! Wahooooo!
We walked in and there stood Daddy and the 4 minions, grinning like a pack of Cheshire cats, surrounded by decorations a go go. Then, one by one, people I love kept appearing from either side of the kitchen, each wearing a bigger grin than the next! Hee hee hee......
What followed was a whopping boatload of FUN! I opened rotten, ornery cards, received thoughtful, generous gifts, and withstood COPIOUS amounts of abuse about my recent arrival on the far side of the Hill. And in the interest of a dieting blog...I also ate cake, chips, nachos and cheese, and several sugar-free mini-cheesecakes. Oh yeah, I took my oath of investigation pretty damned serious. I decided it continued as long as my birthday "celebrations" did. (I know I'm delusional...I'm okay with it...)
In all, I had an absolutely PERFECT day. Friends made special trips to join us, my family turned themselves inside out to make it special and memorable, and my daughter's god-daddy even managed to make me teary by taking a personal day from work on Monday, to be able to come to the party and spend the night with us. I had the most amazing time I could have possibly hoped for, and it was worth every calorie eaten, and every ounce gained.
I suppose that's the lesson I learned today. My sister's refusal to body slam me, shows that my "baby" sister may have a better grip on life than her geriatric sibling. She knew the value of completely letting go and LIVING life today. No one can be perfect all the time. At least, no one should be perfect all the time. Its our flaws that make us human.
I let my metaphorical hair down today - and will inevitably see the scales go "up" as a result of it. But ahh....this time my wagon tipped for fun, instead of fear. I'll take a few bruises in the name of celebration any day.
Fish paste and turtle haste,
Alicia - the Crazy Cancer Mom - losing weight to raise awareness for pediatric cancer
http://www.crazycancermom.com/
Sunday, September 23, 2007
September 22, 2007
Baby...baby baby baby. I had a baby day...it was kind of fu-un. ;-)
Today was a friend's baby shower. I spent the morning working like a meth-crazed marathon runner, trying to finish my "assignment" for the shower. I should probably pause now to let you in on one of my giant life secrets. I procrastinate. I mean...if I could figure out how to procrastinate breathing...I probably would. I don't ever start anything on time. All billion and three college papers were written the morning they were due. Laundry is done when the skivvies drawer is empty. Floors are swept long after the dust bunnies should have been named. I...procrastinate.
Not that I didn't do the research for the papers. Not that I don't gather, sort, and carry the laundry downstairs. I do the prep work, I'm just really, really bad at the follow through. I tend to "follow" other things...until I'm "through" with any extra time. I...procrastinate.
For this particular shower, I was dad-blasted proud of myself. I not only purchased the first part of the gift two months ago, I quickly followed through with buying the parts I would be making. Then, to the shock and utter disbelief of my family, I actually immediately made the gifts I had purchased material for. You see, I am definitely in the running for the She-Who-Has-The-Most-Material-Wins award. I have a rather bad habit of buying fabric with grandiose notions of what it will become...and then looking at it, folded, for years. Oh yeah, did I happen to mention? I...procrastinate.
For once, I had conquered my procrastinating proclivity. I actually had the gift done, ready to go, weeks ahead of time. Sounds great, but the story doesn't end there. Rats. As one of many women who love this family, I was on a long list of people willing to help. As the only one on the list with 4 kids, they were kind and gave me the simple assignment of nametags. "Bee" nametags, to be exact. Something creative and fun. Not a problem, unless - you...procrastinate.
I came up with a killer idea (no bee pun intended there). I designed polar fleece bees, with the intention of embroidering guests names on them. Then, post shower, I would applique the bees onto a blanket as a shower memory quilt. Cute, huh? Fat chance. Did you somehow miss my previous paragraphs? I...procrastinate!
Back to today. Here I was, scissor-wielding wack-a-doo, cutting bee parts like a mass murderess. I cut, I glued, I swore from the third degree hot-glue burn on my middle finger, I cut, repeat... You get the general idea. With the exception of my damaged digit, all was going rather well - until I attempted to use the $65 hand-held embroidery machine purchased for said bees. In a word? Failure. Dismal, gut-wrenching, I-felt-like-a-giant-walking-boob failure. Fantastic.
Now my dreams of cutsie beedom, became nightmares of no-faced, no-named scary bee zombie thingies. Great. I caved and decided the only viable option was fabric paint. Easy enough - if your paint isn't from a former presidency and therefore about as easy to obtain as sucking an elephant through a garden hose. Not pretty. Thanks to Herculean efforts of Mondo the Super Hubby - we did finally manage to create some funky lookin' bees with names on their bellies. Problem was - paint said 72 hours to cure, we had 90 minutes. Stupid procrastination.
Super Hubby to the rescue! As I water blasted my frustrated self, he lovingly hair-dryered the offending bees. I stressed, he blew. I freaked when I couldn't find shoes and began winging things with no regard to life or limb - and he aired some more. I railed at myself and my short-comings, he heated with gusto. I lost my mind...he fixed my bees. Mondo scored MAJOR points. He saved my bees! Mondo does NOT procrastinate. Can't figure out how he hasn't killed me.
In my frenzy, I hadn't bothered to eat breakfast. No time, no interest in smelly eggs when heading into a hen-fest. As for lunch - torture, torture, torture. There were bowls of candy, bee-hive shaped cakes that reportedly tasted even better than they looked (and they were stinkin' CUTE), and be still my heart...Panera bagels. Sure, sure, there was pasta salad and chips and dip to torment me too - but they couldn't begin to compare. I mean...bagels.... Oh, and did I mention? There was cream cheese too, three kinds. Uh huh...it was there. Strawberry cream cheese. Oh, the agony................. (look at previous posts, you'll find the answer to what you're wondering)
To be fair, there were veggies and three separate fantastic salads that I could eat. I actually did fine diet-wise, I just wasn't happy about it. Stupid diet. Stupid strawberry cream cheese winking at me from between the stupid bagels.
Man, I wish I could find a way to procrastinate FAT.
Fishfarts.
- Alicia - your gonna-be-dreamin'-bagels-again Crazy Cancer Mom
www.crazycancermom.com
Today was a friend's baby shower. I spent the morning working like a meth-crazed marathon runner, trying to finish my "assignment" for the shower. I should probably pause now to let you in on one of my giant life secrets. I procrastinate. I mean...if I could figure out how to procrastinate breathing...I probably would. I don't ever start anything on time. All billion and three college papers were written the morning they were due. Laundry is done when the skivvies drawer is empty. Floors are swept long after the dust bunnies should have been named. I...procrastinate.
Not that I didn't do the research for the papers. Not that I don't gather, sort, and carry the laundry downstairs. I do the prep work, I'm just really, really bad at the follow through. I tend to "follow" other things...until I'm "through" with any extra time. I...procrastinate.
For this particular shower, I was dad-blasted proud of myself. I not only purchased the first part of the gift two months ago, I quickly followed through with buying the parts I would be making. Then, to the shock and utter disbelief of my family, I actually immediately made the gifts I had purchased material for. You see, I am definitely in the running for the She-Who-Has-The-Most-Material-Wins award. I have a rather bad habit of buying fabric with grandiose notions of what it will become...and then looking at it, folded, for years. Oh yeah, did I happen to mention? I...procrastinate.
For once, I had conquered my procrastinating proclivity. I actually had the gift done, ready to go, weeks ahead of time. Sounds great, but the story doesn't end there. Rats. As one of many women who love this family, I was on a long list of people willing to help. As the only one on the list with 4 kids, they were kind and gave me the simple assignment of nametags. "Bee" nametags, to be exact. Something creative and fun. Not a problem, unless - you...procrastinate.
I came up with a killer idea (no bee pun intended there). I designed polar fleece bees, with the intention of embroidering guests names on them. Then, post shower, I would applique the bees onto a blanket as a shower memory quilt. Cute, huh? Fat chance. Did you somehow miss my previous paragraphs? I...procrastinate!
Back to today. Here I was, scissor-wielding wack-a-doo, cutting bee parts like a mass murderess. I cut, I glued, I swore from the third degree hot-glue burn on my middle finger, I cut, repeat... You get the general idea. With the exception of my damaged digit, all was going rather well - until I attempted to use the $65 hand-held embroidery machine purchased for said bees. In a word? Failure. Dismal, gut-wrenching, I-felt-like-a-giant-walking-boob failure. Fantastic.
Now my dreams of cutsie beedom, became nightmares of no-faced, no-named scary bee zombie thingies. Great. I caved and decided the only viable option was fabric paint. Easy enough - if your paint isn't from a former presidency and therefore about as easy to obtain as sucking an elephant through a garden hose. Not pretty. Thanks to Herculean efforts of Mondo the Super Hubby - we did finally manage to create some funky lookin' bees with names on their bellies. Problem was - paint said 72 hours to cure, we had 90 minutes. Stupid procrastination.
Super Hubby to the rescue! As I water blasted my frustrated self, he lovingly hair-dryered the offending bees. I stressed, he blew. I freaked when I couldn't find shoes and began winging things with no regard to life or limb - and he aired some more. I railed at myself and my short-comings, he heated with gusto. I lost my mind...he fixed my bees. Mondo scored MAJOR points. He saved my bees! Mondo does NOT procrastinate. Can't figure out how he hasn't killed me.
In my frenzy, I hadn't bothered to eat breakfast. No time, no interest in smelly eggs when heading into a hen-fest. As for lunch - torture, torture, torture. There were bowls of candy, bee-hive shaped cakes that reportedly tasted even better than they looked (and they were stinkin' CUTE), and be still my heart...Panera bagels. Sure, sure, there was pasta salad and chips and dip to torment me too - but they couldn't begin to compare. I mean...bagels.... Oh, and did I mention? There was cream cheese too, three kinds. Uh huh...it was there. Strawberry cream cheese. Oh, the agony................. (look at previous posts, you'll find the answer to what you're wondering)
To be fair, there were veggies and three separate fantastic salads that I could eat. I actually did fine diet-wise, I just wasn't happy about it. Stupid diet. Stupid strawberry cream cheese winking at me from between the stupid bagels.
Man, I wish I could find a way to procrastinate FAT.
Fishfarts.
- Alicia - your gonna-be-dreamin'-bagels-again Crazy Cancer Mom
www.crazycancermom.com
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