Little Drips of Poison 2

What’s Chematter with You?

Last Friday I had my fourth round of chemo.  Originally, I was supposed to have only six treatments, one every three weeks.  The chemotherapy I first received was called TAC, which stands for some chemicals that start with T, A, and C.  My sister had the same treatment and went to work almost every day, so how bad can it be?

I recently reconnected with an old friend from summer camp who was coming up on her 90th dose over the last four years.  I'm pretty sure she's a superhero. If she wasn't before, she is now, what with all the treatment.  I thought, if Erin can do 90, even a huge wimp like me can handle six.

Several other survivors told me “It won’t be as bad as you’re expecting.” I was also told that day four would be the worst day of the cycle.  The people who told me these things are LIARS! Hey liars, maybe it wasn’t as bad as you were expecting, but it was way worse than what I was expecting. And as for the day four myth? Every day is the worst day.  I spent the first week in terrible pain.  I was convinced that the liars had messed with my expectations or that my sister and friend EG were freakish mutants with magical powers of pain tolerance.

When I finally spoke to my sister about the specific symptoms I was experiencing, she told me to hang up and call my doctor immediately because “that’s not right.” The on-call doctor explained that 1% of people who receive TAC experience a side effect similar to having battery acid poured through your stomach every two hours.  That may not have been how he explained it. 

They put me on a bunch of drugs, which seemed to work.  When I met with a nurse practitioner prior to my next dose, I naively asked if the same thing would happen again, she said—in a particularly snotty tone—“We’ll find out.”  For some reason I accepted that answer.  I figured if it happened again we’d go straight to the drugs and it would clear up right away.

So. Very. Wrong.  I spent another three weeks living the Verve song, The Drugs Don’t Work.  We went in and saw a new, much kinder nurse. She told me that, like 1% of people who try this treatment, I was experiencing a side effect that would feel like swallowing a gallon of pop rocks and soda and broken glass.  Maybe that’s not how she explained it.

A few days later we saw my oncologist.  After a few minutes of discussing my symptoms, she helpfully explained that 1% of people using TAC experience intestinal issues.  Most doctors describe it as a group of blind amateur ninjas practicing with throwing stars inside your belly.  Well, maybe she didn’t say belly.

Ultimately, it was decided that we should change my chemo treatment. Instead of TAC, my next treatment included just A and C. Three weeks out and I am thrilled to announce that the pop rocks, ninjas and other devices of torture have left the building. Of course there are new and exciting symptoms, and I've stopped losing weight but I’ll take it all ten times over what happened the first two rounds.

I’ve decided to come clean with you. The first six weeks hurt like hell. I know, I’ve been playing coy, but I should be honest with you.  Joking aside, it was probably the worst part of cancer so far.  I’ve probably said that about something else, but chemotherapy affects your memory. 

There were many nights when I never slept because the pain was so intense.  I was terrified to eat, which—while helpful with weight loss—was not ideal for my healing process.  There were days when I thought I would give up and take my chances without the treatment, because I could not imagine spending four months living in so much pain.  There were far too many times when Jason had to try and comfort me when there was nothing he could do to ease the pain.

I have tried to focus on the positive throughout this experience, but every month or so, cancer likes to remind me who is boss.   I am looking forward to another week of almost normalcy, with at least a few hours a day of productivity and nothing trying to kill me from my insides.  I am particularly excited to have been able to spend a few days with my sister and her kids.

What’s Next?

The next four cycles will leave behind the A and C and start with a new T chemical.  Not the evil one from before, but a relative.  When I asked my new chemo nurse what to expect, she was constructively honest with me.

“You’re going from two chemicals to one, so it should be easier.  And most people tolerate new T pretty well.  Of course new T is related to old T and….well… you’re special.”

Some days I wish I was a little less special.

I know they’re doing all this to help me, but sometimes it feels a little like torture.  I thought the surgery sucked, but I look back on those days fondly: pain meds, bed rest, presents, people waiting on you hand and foot.

How to Help the Chemo Victim in Your Life

While we may all be cancer survivors, anybody going through it is a chemo victim. My feelings about chemo are probably pretty clear if you read part 1. 

The day of chemo is usually okay, aside from the initial stab and the boredom.  Your chemo victim will likely sleep for the first four days. He or she will not be up for much socializing, unless you’re the kind of friend who can socialize in bed. Fortunately, I have one of those. You know who you are.

Sending food to a chemo victim can be tricky. Ask about preferences.  It is impossible to know what will taste good on what day.  For three days I ate only applesauce, the fourth day I was convinced it went bad and tossed it. I was wrong. You don’t even want to know what went down between grape juice and me. 

Stopping by and bringing room service is hugely appreciated. It is important the victim receive plenty of fluids and protein.  A nice plate of scrambled cheese eggs and toast, or maybe a milkshake, gatorade or a smoothie.  I’ve become a huge fan of pedialyte freezer pops.  Just ask and your victim will tell you what tastes good that day. Beware of false cravings.  A few days in I was convinced I wanted Chinese food for dinner. Jason tried to discourage me. I ate a ton of it and it actually tasted good. Two hours later I was begging for mercy.

Non-food presents are also appreciated to cheer up a chemo victim. Moisturizers, moisturizing gloves and socks, hand sanitizers, head coverings, warm socks and wraps and eye masks are some of the things I’ve enjoyed. Of course rides to the countless doctors appointments or company at chemo are invaluable gifts. Every chemo patient has a different experience. We’re all tired but other than that, the symptoms run the gamut. Just talk to your chemo victim and find out what he or she needs and wants.

This may be the time your friend with cancer needs you most.

In Conclusion

The really, really good news is that we’re almost done.  I’ve got four more treatments and then it’s time for reconstructive surgery.  That's about fifty more days of this torture. That may seem daunting, but looking back on what we’ve already been through, it’s just a drop in the pan.  Okay, a few drips of poison in the pan. See how I brought it back around?

As always, thanks for your love and support.

Little Drips of Poison Part 1

A Fairytale of Torture 

Once upon a time there was a man named Dr. Alfred Von Chemobottom.  His beloved wife developed a strange lump on her elbow.  After removing the offending elbow, Dr. Von Chemobottom was determined to prevent the return of the elbow and the lump. 

At first he tried serving her a steady diet of candies and cakes.  While his wife, Alfreda, enjoyed this regimen, he was uncertain of its effectiveness. She developed lots of lumps and bumps, but they were of a different sort, mostly around the belly. Next he tried exposing her to sunlight as many hours as possible.  Sadly, a new and threatening lump appeared which required removal.  Dr. Von Chemobottom tried everything he could think of to prevent the growth of more lumps. He tried hitting her with pots and pans, painting their house, even ironing her socks.  Still, he felt he had not found the answer.  Then it hit him, like a pot or a pan.

Every two weeks for four months he hooked his beloved up to a machine and sent poison into her body.  It was unpleasant, but not nearly as unpleasant as the effects that came after.  The symptoms included, but were not limited to…memory loss and confusion, stabbing stomach pain and exhaustion, hair loss and acne, nausea and a complete inability to taste food or drinks.  Mrs. Von Chemobottom, now a thin, forgetful, bald woman with terrible skin, begged her husband to stop his treatments.  Reluctantly, he agreed to stop poisoning the woman he loved.  Fortunately, the bizarre and aggressive treatment seemed to work, and the Von Chemobottoms never had to worry about lumps again. Except for the ones Alfred got when Alfreda hit him with pots and pans.

I don’t know. You tell me.  Who realized poisoning cancer patients would make them better?

What’s that? It was the Germans? Huge surprise.  Seriously, the origins of chemo are found in the Germans’ use of chemical warfare during World War I.  I’m starting to wonder if we should reexamine the cookie and cake treatment.  The Germans may just have gone with the poison thing cause it’s more their style.  

Hair Today

          

Great news, everyone! After chemo, surgery, radiation and another surgery, the doctors could not find any cancer left in my Sissy.  Fortunately, my mother is in the same position in her treatment. Now both of them have only a few surgeries to go before all this will be an unfond memory.  However, it does make me acutely aware that I’m in 3rd place for treatment completion. Do you think they’ll give me all my chemo doses at once?

All conversations about cancer eventually turn to the topic of loss.  There are so many things you lose from the moment you are diagnosed.   There is loss of confidence, loss of normalcy and sometimes the loss of body parts.  However, I would like to focus on the most obvious loss, my hair.

Six weeks ago I had a port installed. Not my favorite thing.  I will never again allow someone called “Coop” to operate on me. If the nurses don’t call you “Doctor”, then you are not allowed to cut me open.  I’m pretty sure he used a serrated knife he stole from an Outback.

After the procedure, he closed the wound with medical super glue.  Based on the amount of glue I had all over my body, I assume he either let a child close up or tried to do it blindfolded. Maybe a prankster loosened the cap on the bottle and they all had a good laugh when it came pouring out.

A port is a small device inserted under the skin.  Jason wants to see if we can charge our phones on it.  When I receive chemo or fluids they just clip onto the port, and it’s way better than doing it through an IV because there is minimal stabbing.  I naturally have small veins. Chemo makes your veins smaller and squirmier.  At this point in my treatment, I will do anything to avoid someone trying to find a vein. I could do a whole post on people who have done absurd things to me and claimed to be medical professionals.  No, you cannot put an IV into the top of my foot. 

Next stop was my first chemo appointment. It was pretty uneventful. My new oncologist has a lovely infusion suite; lots of windows, big comfortable recliners and flat screen TVs.  Unfortunately the wifi went out and there was no living with Jason after that. 

At first some of the side effects were kind of awesome.  About two weeks after my first dose I noticed I no longer had leg hair! Finally, an upside to this whole cancer thing.

The good times didn't last long. I had a bad reaction to the chemo.  For the last six weeks, I experienced terrible pain. I’ve often described it as having a pointy dragon clawing his way out of my intestines.  It could also be Edward Scissorhands playing charades with some friends made out of broken glass.  We’re still working on fixing that. I’ll post about it when that story has an end. For now, back to the hair.

Jason wanted to be the one who cut my hair and shaved my head. We kept pushing it off, mostly, I think, because we were both worried about each other freaking out.  About two weeks after my first dose, I decided to take a shower before Jason got home from work.  I was shampooing my hair and when I looked down at my hand I saw a palmful of hair.  The average human sheds 100 head hairs a day.  I’m pretty sure I’ve always exceeded that.  This put all previous shedding to shame.

I responded as any normal person would; I started shouting “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”  I had to get the soap out, but every time I touched my hair it would come out in large clumps.  By the time I was soap free I had enough fallen hair to make my own family of shih tzus. After I collected myself, I returned to the scene of the crime.  It looked like a Wookie had used our tub for a long soak.  I gathered all the hair up in paper towels and hid it at the bottom of the trashcan.  I didn’t want Jason to think that I had been raising and then murdering woodland creatures. I’ve got a million of them, folks.

The next night in our dining room/barber shop, Jason finally made the cut.  If I can offer some advice, ativan and Cat Stevens can get you through this experience.  As I’ve always said, you can never be sad when listening to Cat Stevens or Van Morrison, especially if you’ve taken ativan.  I think they said something like that on Newsroom. I said it first.

Jason cut off my ponytail first.  It was almost a foot long. I’m donating it to Pantene.  They will make it into a wig and then donate it to the American Cancer Society. Many insurance companies do not cover wigs and a quality wig will cost $300 or more.

I chose Pantene for two reasons.
1. They have never misplaced $6 million worth of hair. Looking at you, Locks of Love.

2. When I went to the ACS office near me, they had no wig options appropriate for a younger woman.  I was disappointed since we could have used a free wig. It worked out for me, because my sister gave me her super fancy wig.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the next girl who walked in their and faced disappointment. It takes six donations to make a single wig. So if you’ve got a lot of healthy hair, please consider a donation.  Or if you know a heavy sleeper with a lot of healthy hair who’s kind of a jerk…I’m just saying.

After Jason gave me a buzz cut with his beard trimmer, I looked in the mirror and saw Sinead, GI Jane and Lt. Ellen Ripley looking back at me. Well, not literally. That would be super creepy.

I’ve gotten tons of compliments on my new look.  I never know if people are being nice or they genuinely like it.  I appreciate the support either way.  I’m still struggling to find my signature look, so let me know if you have any suggestions.

A lot of the time I just walk around showing my naked head to the world. Not that I leave the house that much.  There’s a part of me that says this is a statement about cancer.  Maybe if chemo patients didn’t hide their bald heads everyone would think about cancer more often. And maybe then they would donate more, or make sure to get checked or volunteer to help patients. I could start a revolution leading an army of bald badasses and change the world.  I could totally use that as a reason to walk around bald, but the truth is, my head gets really sweaty whenever I put anything on it.  Let’s just go with the hero thing.

I started this post by talking about loss, and now I’d like to talk about what I’ve gained since I lost my locks.  I gained a true appreciation for the support system surrounding me.  White lies or not, so many of you have made me feel good about how I look and that helps more than any medication.  I’ve also gained a sense of progress.  In a few months this part will be over and I’ll just have two minor surgeries remaining. 

Less important, but a definite fringe benefit is that I have gained cancer street cred with my shiny melon. Every time we go to a store the staff falls all over themselves to help me.  No longer do I get dirty looks when using a scooter to do my shopping.  There’s something to be said for looking more cancery. Not that I’m exploiting my cancer, but it’s nice to see that so many people in this world are compassionate and kind when they can see what you are going through. 

I hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season. I am truly grateful for all the love and support I have received from you, my friends, family, neighbors and even complete strangers. I don’t know how I would have survived this experience without you. Now get out of here before I start crying.

In Memory of Ezra

When you have cancer, or any serious illness, the universe should not allow anything else horrible to happen to you or the people you love. Unfortunately, like a pleasant trip to the P St. Whole Foods, it never happens.  Four weeks ago, a dear friend lost her husband to a heart attack. They had been together for twenty years, married for ten, and brought two beautiful and bright children into this world. He was 39.

I have not spent nearly enough time with Jill and Ezra over the years. I was one of those obnoxious city dwellers who refused to visit people living in Virginia, despite the fact that their home was less than a mile from my apartment in the city. That will forever be my loss, but I am grateful for the time I did have with him. You only needed to meet Ezra once to know he was an amazing man with a kind and gentle heart. It takes a special kind of guy to spend years coaching a women’s tackle football team. Go Divas!

I’m not worried about Jill because she is one of the strongest people I know. She has been a source of support and comfort for me since my sister’s diagnosis and throughout my treatment.  In addition to her strength, Jill has two incredible families supporting her, Ezra's and her own. On top of that she has every player Ezra ever  coached, men, women and children. Every time Ezra should be next to her, one of us will be there in his place. I cannot fill his shoes, because his feet were like three times the size of mine, but I, and so many others, will be there for her to lean on.

It may surprise you, but I do believe in the possibility of an afterlife. As adults we can choose what we believe, unless you were raised in some kind of crazy cult. I choose to believe that Ezra has not missed a second of watching over his family. I choose to believe that someone so full of life and joy does not simply disappear from the world. I choose to believe that everyone I’ve ever lost is still with me in some way.

We are all so lucky that Ezra will live on within his two wonderful children. The love that Jill and her children share will help them make it through this difficult time. It is completely unfair that this happened to this lovely family. But life is not fair, as we learned from Jim Henson’s seminal “Labrynth.” It is up to us to even the odds by supporting our friends and family in need.

Please consider making a donation to help Ezra’s family now and in the years to come.

http://www.gofundme.com/50h7sg

If you’d like to know more about Ezra and his coaching career, check out this article:

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/nov/7/loverro-remembering-ezra-
cooper-bright-spot-local-/?page=2

Ladies Who Luncheon

Last week, my mother, sister and I were honored at the Triangle Ladies Power Lunch. Each month at this fantastic networking event, they honor a breast cancer survivor, or shero. Since it is breast cancer awareness month, they decided to go for the gusto and honor three of us. It was a wonderful event and I am so grateful for the invitation. To top it off, we got to ride in a pink limo, they gave us lots of great stuff and my mom bought me a really cute dress that is also a skirt.

I have often struggled with the concept of being a survivor. At what point have I survived? My mother was a survivor for ten years, till she got cancer twice more. And what if I did ultimately die of cancer, would they come take all the presents back? Recently my sister said “I wish someone would just say that it’s over.” My response, both insensitive and full of self-pity was “We don’t get that. The best we ever get is “as far I as I know, I do not currently have cancer. That’s it, for the rest of our lives.”

Surprisingly, and conveniently, I found peace with the term survivor on my train ride to North Carolina for the luncheon. I was lucky enough to be allowed to sit in a reserved disability seat. Just another reason cancer is totally worth it. A woman sat down in the seat across the aisle from me, and read for most of the trip.

I don’t even remember how we first started to speak to each other, but once we did, it only took a few minutes to identify ourselves as members of the breast cancer club. She told me she was a survivor of 10 years, Stage III. She also told me she recognized the bandage I had covering my recently installed mediport for my chemotherapy. We compared treatments and experiences. I told her why I was heading south.

"Yeah, they’re honoring us as survivors. I’m not sure I count yet. I’m not sure when you ever really do."

She responded without hesitation and with the wisdom that comes from being a real grown up, not a 36 year old self-absorbed idiot. I don’t remember her exact words, so I won’t try to quote, but just attempt to capture the sentiment. She explained that being a survivor wasn’t about being done with cancer, it’s about getting treatment, doing everything you have to do to get better, then following up when you’re in remission.

That’s what makes you a survivor, not that you survived it, but that you’re doing what you need to in order to survive.

And just like that, I became a survivor. I am surviving this disease and will continue to survive it until the day I die, which will not be for a very, very, very, long time. So please stop giving me those looks. You know the ones that say "She's so brave..."

My trip to North Carolina was… too many things for me to sum up with any string of adjectives. I spent time with my family, and most importantly my incredible niece and nephew. I must figure out some way to stop them from growing up anymore. They’re quite perfect as they are right now.

I visited my sister’s cancer treatment center, which I confess was just as swanky as she portrayed it to be in all her bragging. I even stole some free medical advice while I was there. I also picked up some port pillows, which you place over your port to prevent irritation from seatbelts, bras, etc. And, in a pinch, they make terrific substitutes for a prosthetic breast.

I even had a chance to visit the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation office where my sister works. First, excellent snack supply. Second, it is amazing that a group of women who deal with such a horrible disease can be so happy and friendly. I can rest a little easier knowing my sister has plenty of other sisters taking care of her.

It was good to be with family again, no matter how much we annoy each other. It has been hard being apart while we all go through this strange and often unpleasant journey.

Below are my remarks from the luncheon. I think this is an excellent way for me to tell you a little bit more about my big sister.

________________________________________________________________________

Thank you so much for inviting us here today. Although I must admit, it seems strange to honor us for getting sick. It seems like you should honor women who don’t get tumors instead.

I have not seen my big sister in six months, after her diagnosis but before mine. This of course supports the theory that she gave me cancer, but I digress. Thank you for inviting me here and giving me an excuse to get on the train. I start chemo in two weeks, so I probably won’t be back again for a while.

My sister, like my mother, has spent most of her life helping others. From her work with Holocaust survivors at the Shoah foundation, to her current position at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, not to mention countless other charities she has supported over the years. After all her good deeds, I could not imagine what she had done to deserve breast cancer.

Then a few weeks ago, I figured it out. The night before her biopsy I had a conversation with God. I asked, “Let me have cancer instead of her.” God must have misheard and thought I said “Let me have cancer in addition to her.”

It does not come naturally for a little sister to say nice things about a big sister, but my sister is an incredible woman, an amazing daughter, a wonderful mother and an adequate sister. She has faced this idiotic disease with grace and strength.

The hardest part of cancer is loving someone who has it. The people who really deserve honors and thanks are those who support us, like my father, brother in law and my brother and his wife. And of course the world’s most amazing boyfriend who can’t be here today, family, friends, neighbors and people like you.

Thank you so much for acknowledging my family and our current struggle. And thank you for supporting and celebrating breast cancer survivors every month, not just in October.

________________________________________________________________________

As I mention above, I will be starting chemo soon, November 1. The coming days are going to be extremely busy preparing for this next phase. Tons of doctors’ appointments, tests, and, of course, my birthday party. After much deliberation I decided I am not skipping that this year. Birthdays are way too important to let a slight case of cancer get in the way.

Kids and Kidsicles

On my street there lives one of the most emotionally complex people I have ever met. He’s four. No matter what I am about to say or do, I can never accurately anticipate his reaction. He is incredibly thoughtful and has already mastered the art of changing the subject if someone brings up an uncomfortable topic. A few weeks after my surgery, I opened the door to check the mail in my hot pink housecoat. He smiled at me and said “Yay! You’re all better.” This is my favorite diagnosis to date.

Unlike my doctors, who have occasionally made missteps in my treatment, the children in my life have never failed me and have done more than anyone else to improve my health over the last several months.

The complex little boy has a 9 year old brother, the oldest and, by default, wisest in the group. He is extremely kind and always lets the little kids win. Sometimes we talk about Star Wars and play video games together, when he hasn’t had his video game privileges revoked for fighting with his little brother. When I told him I was going to lose my hair, he suggested a blue wig. He then showed me a picture on a Pokemon card to demonstrate the specific shade he would prefer. A few weeks later, when I showed him my PICC line, he told me I was like Luke Skywalker, when they had to rebuild his arm. I instantly felt much cooler.

Across the street lives a 5-year old who abhors society’s obsession with shoes and pants. I don’t know his last name, but by default it has become Pantalones. He doesn’t speak much English and I speak even less Spanish, so I regularly find myself shouting “S…! Pantalones!” I once saw him come outside completely naked and play with matchbox cars for a solid five minutes. That, America, is the very definition of freedom. Also, I need to learn Spanish. Or at least how to say “Your son is outside naked, again.”

Then there’s the amazing little girl down the street, a very dramatic five year old who is generous with her hugs and her original compositions. I once heard her write nine separate songs about balloons, arguably an album’s worth, in about an hour. When I showed her that my niece and nephew had sent art for my bedroom wall and commissioned her for a submission, she returned the next day with four new pieces for the collection. Most prominently feature purple, our shared favorite color.

Her one-year old brother can make any drug side effect seem manageable when I see his adorable smile and his wobbly walk. He used to have bruises all over his forehead because his giant adorable head weighed so much that it kept falling to the ground when he would try to crawl. His mother says he’s too heavy for me to hold, but I occasionally break the rules when she’s not looking, or sometimes when she is looking.

Then there’s my niece and nephew. I have always doted on these two, but I have to give them extra credit for the last few months. My nephew is 10 and his sister is 5. He’s too smart for his own good and she is a tiny evil genius. When they heard their mother had cancer, the boy was deeply concerned. He explained that while Grammy had a proven record against cancer, 3 and 0, his mother was untested against the opponent. Not exactly the vote of confidence she wanted to hear from her son. Strangely, my diagnosis seemed to ease their minds. Now, as far as they know, cancer is just a thing that happens to grown up women. They even thought it was nice of me to get it at the same time as their mom, so we could do it together. Arguably, these two are handling all this better than anyone else in the family. He now runs around shouting “Off with your boobs” and she is obsessed with breast size, not unlike many other people I know.

Most days, I would rather spend my time with children than adults. They are honest without malice, they ask questions and they can use their imaginations to create entertainment in any situation. Recently we spent over an hour playing a game with a rope tied to a tree. I’m not totally clear on the rules of this game, but it mostly involved either tying yourself to the tree or tying other people to the tree or tying yourself to another person.

Kids don’t want to talk about how I feel, or when my chemo starts or how J is handling all this. They want to talk about flowers and marshmallows and jedis. It would be completely inappropriate for me to give them the daily health update, information, which I seem to randomly blurt out to any adult I see.

My pool of tiny companions is not just limited to the children in our neighborhood. Many of our friends have spawned and we periodically get to see their offspring. This summer we spent time swimming with kids, snuggling and napping with little ones, playing with our cats, Sid and Tupac, and plenty of other amazing and adorable stuff.

Of course, all of this contact with children serves as an obvious reminder of our fertility situation. If we still lived in the city we could go weeks, even months, without seeing a child we knew. Rather than thinking about the possible obstacles we face on our road to parenthood, I take comfort in these moments. I see how much we both love children, which tells me how hard we’re both going to work to find a way to be parents together. This is not bravery or courage, it is denial, but it’s what I’m working with right now.

A few weeks ago J and I completed our second and final round of egg harvesting. We are pleased to announce we have two more embryos in the freezer, bringing our total to 3 kidsicles. We are so grateful that the second harvest went well. Of course it would be great if we had dozens of frozen embryos, but this is what we have and what we have is potentially 3 children. We won’t be pursuing another round because, even with the help of charities, it is really fricking expensive. Besides, I can only put off chemo for so long. Also, if we had dozens of frozen embryos people would be suspicious we were raising some kind of army.

Don’t worry world, you have a few years to prepare before any potential Jason/Beckys arrive. We’ve got some stuff to do, you know, I need to get back to work and get a driver’s license, beat cancer, renovate an entire house and become extremely wealthy. Maybe we’ll even get hitched. Not necessarily in that order.

In the meantime, we’ll enjoy time with the children in our lives, our neighbors, friends and relatives. We’ll focus on spoiling our cats and look forward to the day we become the sleep deprived proud parents with spit up on our shirts. Till then, feel free to bring your kids by for a visit.

Rosh Post

Due to some complications from my surgery I spent a week at the Sibley Hospital Spa and Resort. You're probably imagining this was an unpleasant experience. You're right.

On our way home from the hospital Jason and I stopped at Whole Foods to pick up some traditional Rosh Hashannah food for dinner.  After everything that had happened during the last few days, suddenly the token raisin challah I bought as an afterthought at Trader Joe’s last week didn’t seem sufficient.

Both exhausted, we cleared off the dining room table, picked up the kitchen and began pulling together our dinner. For J, some brisket, matzoh ball soup and a salad. For me, fake chicken nuggets with honey and a latke with sour cream.  And, of course, the round raisin challah.  The one from Trader Joe’s had actually turned to stone, so we dove into the fresh one we picked up today. It's funny how a bite of food can be so familiar and comforting.  The cats were sentenced to an hour in the basement. Their crime? Loving brisket.

This is approximately my 35^th High Holiday Season. Some years I have been surrounded by my extended family, cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Other years I spent alone, too busy or disenchanted to observe the holidays.  Some years I invited my mostly non-Jewish friends to my home and served a Rosh Hashannah brisket or a Break Fast and explained the traditions to a mildly interested audience who were mostly concerned with the wine related aspects.  Yet tonight, sitting with J in our dining room eating reheated store bought Jewish soul food, was one of the greatest holiday nights in my memory.

I think it’s because I was able to appreciate this night for all of the future nights to come. Like a Kleenex commercial or a video for some hipster band (do music videos still exist?), I actually saw the rest of our life together flash before me in a montage.  I saw long tables crowded with plates, children, grandchildren, friends and neighbors gathered around celebrating together year after year.  I could hear my family shouting over each other to be heard as we have for generations and forks clanging against plates.

I saw a grey haired version of myself looking down this long table at a handsome older version of J, smiling at the family we had created. And that’s why he’s not allowed to burp at the table, even when it’s just the two of us.

But in all seriousness… I would like to thank all of you, our friends and family, neighbors and community who have supported our family during these difficult times.  Old friends and new have stood by us and even helped us to stand. If Lifetime made a movie about a woman and her two daughters all facing breast cancer at the same time, nobody would believe it was a real story.  But that’s our story right now.  And while I am often angry at what we are facing, tonight I am grateful. 

I am grateful for all of you. I am grateful that my sister has finished her chemo and is recovering from her surgery.  I am grateful that my mother has beaten cancer for the third time and faces just a few more procedures before she is finished with this difficult journey.  I am grateful that I am home in my own bed, infection free, preparing to meet with our fertility doctor in the morning so someday we can make that noisy family a reality.  And I am grateful that I can now shower without any special equipment, assistance or saran wrap.

I know I glossed over my hospital stay, and maybe I'll come back to that some day. For tonight I just wanted to say thank you.

May you all, Jew and gentile, have a sweet New Year.  And may we all look back on these as the tough times and be proud that we got through them.