Headed Out

So...it's been awhile...

And somehow saying, "Greetings and salutations!" doesn't seem quite right.

How's the Stay Home Order treating you and yours? Who's on you're #quaranteam?

I mean, at least we don't have 36 goddamn inches of snow on the ground...which...depending on if you're a Stephen King fan or a Twilight Zone fan...has the potential for a little fun...Yeah....

Anyway, so my family is managing, like any family, to the best of it's current ability amid the Coronavius Pandemic. Many families are in survival mode. And survival mode sucks. Speaking from experience as a mom of a 13-year-old boy who is living with a rare form of epilepsy, and has been seizing since he was 3...I get it. Survival mode completely fucking sucks. Oh, and cancer in each parent in two years was also survival mode. Subsequently, this survival mode is just how my home functions on the daily because epilepsy, autism, and surviving cancers is, thankfully, how we roll here at The Anderson Family Circus.

At first, my husband and I largely took turns leaving our home during the Stay Home order. Since I'm the Purchasing Department and the Creative Culinary Force/Primary Food Source, I'd make a trip to Safeway...which is a blog in and of itself. My husband, in order to escape the Monkey House, would make the trip all the way into town to go to the Post Office. Which, in our world, is a guarantee of 40 minutes alone time, round trip. We discussed logistics of our new to us as a family version of survival mode, and agreed to use InstaCart for our Costco Purchases.

Anyway, so collectively, the four of us have not left our home together as a family since Wednesday March 18th. The weekend before, everything had come to a screeching halt, and our school district was emailing parents each day with the rapidly changing shit show in the earliest days of the Coronavirus Pandemic. Wednesday was the first day students were permitted to retrieve their

belongings, and, in this instance, better an hour early than a minute late. Get in, get out, get on with life. #LifeNeverGoesAsPlanned #StoryForAnotherTime But I will say that not everyone was able to pick up his belongings. Some people are amazing and get kids and understand how community works. Other people don't.

Annnnnyyyyyyyyway...third Saturday in May was our first venture out, as a family, in two solid months. And, yes, we wore our masks. Because it's all the rage. And alllllll the cool kids are doing it. #AndAlso the CDC says. In my house, tend to subscribe to the fascinating belief system called science!






Science is really cool.

You guys, I really captured our essences with watermelon, cats, Spirograph, and Star Wars fabrics. #Obvs

So aside from the fact that the CDC recommends them and I totally #NailedIt with these fabulous fabrics, and we look like a goddamn bunch of badasses, why am I wearing a mask? Because of my Cancer Adventure in 2015. My husband is choosing to wear a mask because of his own Cancer Situation (can we call it that? Cancer Situation? Can we finally name it?) in 2016. #AndAlso the American Cancer Society, who is responsible for a lot of sciencey stuff, says, "Most people who were treated for cancer in the past (especially if it was years ago) are likely to have normal immune function, but each person is different."

My family is different. We've been struck by lightening. Several times, actually. So I prefer to not call down the thunder. The Fates.

Because the stories of kids contracting Coronavirus...and a parent not being able to go in. What? You mean if one of my children contracts COVID-19 and is hospitalized, my husband and/or I would not be permitted to be with him? I can't even wrap my brain around that. What if it's my child who is disabled and what about his meds and how will he take them and can I get his CBD oil in him and how will he understand what you're doing to him and WAIT! 

So now up here in Washington State, and specifically in my little community, where you can get dirty looks at the Post Office for wearing a mask while walking towards your hybrid...maybe she just had RBF...but the sticker on her rig told me otherwise...we're getting ready to go into Phase 2. On Monday, June 1st. So, like tomorrow. And as a cancer survivor who was a cancer care giver and we have a kiddo with myriad neurological disabilities, reopening is fucking terrifying. My former home state of Arizona recently reopened and apparently Mill Ave was hopping like there wasn't a respiratory virus running around. WTF Tempe? Get your shit together. #FuckinMaricopaCounty #ScumDevils

Will communities that reopen see an increase in cases? Absolutely. The good thing about living up here on the North Olympic Peninsula, we have been lucky to have (a) a very low number of cases, and (b) no community transmission. Basically, everyone who's been diagnosed with Coronavirus in Clalllam County contracted the disease when they traveled outside of the county. So they got up and bounced over to Seattle...and then they got the 'rona, and then they brought it home. Does this concern me? Absolutely. I get it: sometimes we need to travel. But right now, we all need to figure out what's an essential trip and what's not. We need to make health decisions not only for ourselves, but for our community. And by wearing a mask, I'm saying: "I see you. I recognize that I do not know if I've been exposed to Coronavirus. But I do not want to risk your health."

It's kinda like saying, "Hey, I'm really sexually active and I need to use a condom, not because I am worried you're going to give me something, I'm more concerned I'm going to give you something, and that would really suck. So let's still have sex. But be safe about it."

In this example, we're saying we like to have sex. Right? Totally on board with that. But can you imagine if HIV was transmitted as easily as Coronavirus? "Hey, I'm really into breathing and being alive and I need to wear a mask, not because I'm worried you're going to give me something, I'm more concerned I'm going to give you something, and that would really suck. So let's breathe the same air. But be safe about it."

So, as a woman who's family has been the beneficiary of an incredible and selfless team of people who have picked up the shattered pieces of me, I wear my mask for you. I wear my mask for the kids who are dealing with all the health issues, and who absorb so many fuckin needle sticks and electrodes and tests and surgeries that an adult would cave. Those kids are already used to people wearing masks and gloves. Reading people's eyes. Knowing kindness. Or malice. Based solely upon the person's eyes.


And what is that going to look like for all of the people who were out protesting yesterday? Will there be an increase in the number of Coronavirus cases across the country? Absolutely. And how do you feel, knowing that the United States of America is leading the pack with the number of deaths caused by this disease? Is it a badge of honor for you? Have we, culturally, really become that desensitized to death?

Maybe the protesters aren't "just" protesting the systemic racial injustice that they have experienced for hundreds of years in a country they were forcibly brought to. Maybe there was a little bit of angst about the fact that blacks are dying at significantly higher rates from like, every goddamn disease, including Coronavirus?

So, when we re-open tomorrow, will much change for us as a community? No. However, our summertime tourist season is fixing to start and while we are all relying on that influx of money, it may or may not come immediately...but it will come, and with it will come an increase of cases. When we look at pandemics over time, let's say the Spanish Flu, which is also called the 1918 Flu, and, curiously, started on an Army Base in...wait for it...Kansas! It's called Spanish Flu because Spain wasn't involved in WWI and their press was free to report about this emerging illness, the US, France, Germany, and others, all perceived that the Spanish "started" the flu. Anyway a hundred years later, estimates of 20 million to an 50 million people died during the 1918/Spanish Flu Pandemic. That's a lot of goddamn people you guys...

So second wave...it's coming. For all of us. When? I don't know, you guys...because, again, I'm not an oracle. I'm just a mom that's gotta get dinner going for her kids, ya know?

Thanks for reading. Stay safe out there. And most importantly, please be kind. You can never tell what a person is dealing with, just based on the eyes above their face mask.

Boss Level of Being an Adult Child

You guys, I think I just arrived at the Boss Level of Being an Adult Child.

For real.

A few weeks ago, my Dad called me and left a voicemail saying he needed my "expertise on some medical issues"...which is a really big fat fuckin' deal in my world.

Who's calling?!

My Dad comes from a very traditional Southern Arizona Mexican Catholic home, which means the parents have the last word, especially the males because machismo is a thing. So asking for help, especially your adult female child...it's a big fat fuckin' deal in his life, too. So, I'm recognizing that it took some courage for him to reach the point of asking me. Alternatively, he's that desperate. But, let's see the good in this situation...since that's how I mostly choose to live...mostly.

Anyway, so my Mom has dementia, but we call it "memory issues" since "dementia" is kinda a bad word for them and forces them to face reality. Whatever word or phrase you'd like to use is up to you. But, just so ya know, it is well documented that people who experience this heartbreaking brain disease also suffer from abnormal sleep. While neuro-specialists don't know why this happens, they do know it happens...and my Mom hasn't been sleeping well at night. She has anxiety when she lays down...and I do to...so I completely understand. I'd reckon that many mothers have anxiety...and here's information about how to help yourself....

But for seniors who are managing dementia, it's different. Watching your spouse decline due to disease...and not being able to leave them alone...I completely understand that...and it really fuckin sucks...but, cancer isn't the same as dementia. When I was supporting my husband as he went through his experience with HPV-caused tonsil cancer in 2016, there were times I was afraid he was going to die. There were times we'd have hard discussions about life and death, and how outcomes look different for individuals and families. There are so many variables with cancer...it depends on the type of cancer, the stage, how early it is detected, if it's spread, if it's operable, if the cancer responds to treatment, how the patient responds to treatment...the first round of chemo nearly killed my husband.

Yet, with memory loss, there's just this sense of her slipping away into this blackness from which she'll never surface. Like, give up hope, watch her decline, nothing we can do except keep her as comfortable as possible. Sorry, Charlie.

And the concept of "giving up" goes against pretty much every fiber of my being. When my older son was four, he was diagnosed with seizure disorder, at age six, he was diagnosed with autism and ADHD (and NO, it's not ok to give him a 20-ounce red fucking Power Ade as a reward #StoryForAnotherTime). Around the age of eight, he was diagnosed with a rare form of epilepsy called Lennox-Gaustaut Syndrome. And when he was little, each and every time we'd visit his pediatric neurologist at Seattle Children's Hospital, I'd ask his neurologist if, in the research, there are cases of kids outgrowing their seizures. Our doc, who's an incredibly gracious older gentleman, and has a wonderfully dry sense of humor, says things like, "Well, now, you're asking me to tell the future, and my crystal ball is cracked, so it's never accurate," and his eyes crinkle when he smiles at me. There's a chance, since my son has now entered the super-fun stage of Puberty that his seizures will decrease...time will tell.

Since I've never given up hope on my kid, it's counter-intuitive for me to give up on my mom...even though we aren't close geographically or emotionally. My parents are the least tech savvy people on the planet, so videoing is out of the question. I wonder if the family photos we took in November at my brother's wedding will be the last one of the four of us....?

And, yes, all of the above mentioned diseases suck in a big way. It's not that one's worse than the other. But, managing all of them at the same time is an incredible burden, which can feel oppressive on occasion. Like when I sit down and write about them all.

Anyway. So, Mom's not sleeping at night when it's easier for Dad to sleep, because let's face it, he's not nocturnal. Also, for those of us who are the primary caregivers, we need to sleep too, and it's much easier for everyone if everyone just sleeps at night, mkay?

So, my folks went to the doc a few weeks ago and the doc gave her a 'script for 90 days of Ambien. And then the pharmacist could only administer 30 days because it's a controlled substance, and Dad's not particularly happy about that, which I get, but dude, laws are in place because #JesusKnows we do not really need to have anyone misunderstand the directions on the bottle (can she still read?) and really you're only supposed to take Ambien for a short period of time...like 4-5 weeks...unless you have your doc's approval...but #SweetJesus can't ya give her something else?

Yes. Yes you can.

Soooo...it turns out Dad called me to ask me my expertise about giving Mom medical marijuana.

In Southern Arizona.

Holy. Jesus. You. Guys.

Does this really need a caption?

#Winning

#BossLevelOfBeingAnAdultChild

#HoldMyBong

So, lemme stop here and give you a little backstory that my parents were total stoners before Reagan's 1986 White House and the Just Say No anti-drug campaign. It was in 1988 that the Fed started mandating random drug testing for it's own employees and contractors. Dad worked for an international builder of private airplanes that, at the time, had plants in both Tucson, Arizona and Wichita, Kansas. #ThanksJesus for not making us move to Kansas when I was in Jr. High (because that's what it was called back then...I went to Fickett Jr. High. No really. Fickett. #WhatTheFuckKindaNameIsThat #GodBless and really, it's totally ok to laugh at this, #duh).

And, so because Dad built cabinets for these multi-million dollar private airplanes, and the company had contracts with the Federal Government, random drug testing became a reality for my Dad. Thankfully, he didn't want to loose his job due to a positive UA (and I don't mean the University of Arizona), so he and my Mom stopped smoking pot. It was a team effort, you guys. Worth noting: my Dad ended up loosing his job anyway because of Reganomics...or Voodoo Economics.

For the record, the 80's were a time of mixed messages for Gen-Xers: we had the White House telling us to not use drugs via the DARE Program (proven ineffective)...and then we had Nike telling us to Just Do It. It's a wonder my generation survived the 80's in America. #ThankJesus for movies like The Breakfast Club to help us understand ourselves. 

I'm surprised Dad called; Mochi's pretending.

So, like any girl who's dad just called for help, I advised him that, yes, it'll be ok...and no, you won't make her overdose. True overdose like your lips turn blue and you suffocate? No. Administer too much, she gets happy, eats a little too much, and then sleeps her ass off? Yes.

In fairness, my parents were hardcore smokers, and back then, edibles weren't a thing like they are today. In fact, the idea of eating marijuana was considered like "the next level" of using. Or wasteful. I'm not sure which. But, the purists were smokers.

My parents were looking at my mom having a tincture, which is used sparingly. "The key," I said to my dad on the phone, "is to start low and go slow. And absolutely listen to the bud-tender behind the counter at the marijuana dispensary. That person will provide you the most information about the product you're giving her."

We chatted for a few more minutes, he said he'd keep me posted on how it goes. "Dad, it's not going to hurt either of you to take a few hits off a joint. But use caution: the marijuana today is not like the marijuana you were smoking when you were younger. It's stronger. More potent. So you'll only need a puff or two, and you'll get high. In my experience of being a care-giver, there are days that I feel overwhelmed. And while I know those feelings will come and go, I think it's ok to use marijuana as a form of medication for people who need it. It helps with my son's epilepsy and his anxiety. It helped me get through breast cancer. It helped my husband with his tonsil cancer. So, based on the fact that three out of four of my immediate members of my home have used it in different forms, for over 5-1/2 years, I have confidence that it will help Mom sleep. It may be helpful for you to connect with her to smoke a little with her."

"Maybe," he said. "It's been a long time."

"Yeah," I said. "But maybe each of you will relax enough that you can both sleep. I love you, Dad. You're doing the right thing by looking into different options to help her. You're not going to hurt her by putting a few drops of the tincture onto a spoon or into some hot tea. She'll be ok."

He thanked me for sharing my knowledge and supporting him as he pursues this on her behalf. I reminded him that he needs to work within the laws that the State of Arizona has, since the laws in Washington State are going to be different.

And I'm happy to report that now, she's sleeping better at night than she has been in years. #ThankJesus for marijuana, you guys. It's an important plant and has so many different ways of helping people. That said, it's not a panacea and, like any drug, may not work for everyone. And I firmly believe that the Federal Government needs to stop fighting the cultural change that has been occurring in our country around marijuana. They need to be like Elsa and Let it Go.

Flying Solo

Due to events that are beyond my control, I'm flying solo to My Little Brother's wedding.

He and his Fantastic Fiancé have decided to get married in a church.

Not just any church. Like, if it was A Little White Chapel, in Vegas, my family would be more likely to make more of an effort swing that...maybe.

Alas, My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé are getting married on Saturday in Phoenix, in the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria. My future sister-in-law is an Egyptian immigrant. She and her family moved to America when she was about five years old.

And the ceremony is gonna be at least an hour.

By way of comparison, Vegas weddings are like 5-15 minutes, depending on the Chapel. When I worked at the Treasure Island Hotel and Casino's Wedding Chapel, the longer versions of the ceremonies were 15 minutes.

Yes. Yes, I was a professional Wedding Coordinator on the Strip. It was before grad school. I can tell you that not everyone is happy on their wedding day. So, being a Wedding Coordinator is actually part of the reason I went to grad school. My 9-month stint in Corporate America enhanced my record-keeping skills, and as a mom of a child with special needs, those skills are employed frequently.

My children are not church trained.

Circus trained? Yes.

Church trained? No.

And neither my husband or I have any desire to church train our children.

I certainly planned on taking them...My Little Brother's wedding...after all this is a once in lifetime event...and my kids worship their Uncle...and #JesusKnows in my family, with the myriad health issues that plague us, we certainly need to party and celebrate whenever we are given the opportunity.

Well-meaning friends who attend various church services said that most churches have a family room...? Like I could take my kids if they started acting like the monkeys that they are...?

Nope. Not happening. But thank you, well-meaning friends, for the suggestion.

When people who are autistic are taken out of their comfort zone, and expected to be on their best behavior inside of a place where they've never been in...a church for a minimum of an hour...and let's face it, it'll be more like several hours because pictures...there will be no chilling.

I hate to think of the discomfort and stress my older son would have...the increased case of the giggles...the increased chance of him wetting his pants. Not to mention the different shades of red my husband's beautifully bald head will turn trying to manage his own frustration and subsequent anger with the entire situation...no, thank you.

As parents, our primary job is to set our kids up for successful experiences. Yes, our kids need to fail every so often. But I'm not hauling my monkeys all the way from the North Olympic Peninsula down to Phoenix and expect them to sit quietly and not interrupt their Uncle's wedding...when they are hungover from traveling like they never have before in their entire lives...all in heat and sun they are not at all accustomed to...and, let's be honest, when it's 85 goddamn degrees outside, would you want to sit in a church with a fancy outfit on? No. You'd want your ass in the pool. With SPF 20 Million. Because my family of Pacific North Westerners have pasty white skin...and as a cancer survivor...SPF 20 Million is required, yo.

When My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé came up to visit us in July, which was the second time inside of ten months, they graciously told my husband and I that if we needed to not go to their wedding, they totally support us and our parenting decisions.

Due to life circumstances, My Little Brother is the only person from my family that came to help me, my husband, and our boys when I was going through breast cancer treatments in the summer of 2015.

My mom's brain health is declining; dementia is a bitch. And the way my parents tend to cope with life-altering health issues is to not address it. Denial is a powerful coping mechanism for them.

And I get it.

But I don't.

Because if I didn't speak up when my son was three and having these weird eye movements, who knows what would've happened. Turned out he has epilepsy.

And had I chosen to not speak up when I found a lump in my breast in February 2015, I'd probably be dead. Cancer sucks.

Had I not pushed my husband to persevere through his own battle with HPV-caused tonsil cancer in the summer of 2016...we'll he'd probably be dead...and my kids would be orphans...because that's just how life shakes out for some families...and that totally sucks.

My point is, I choose to parent my family very differently than my parents parented me. (Is it socially acceptable to use three different forms of "parent" in one sentence?) It's not good or bad. It just is what it is.

And, for those of us who are parents, we know our kids better than anyone. My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé know my kids pretty well. My parents, on the other hand, have no idea who my kids are...they have never seen me parent my children...the last time my parents were in Washington State, my older son was 10 months old; he is now 13 years old and in 7th grade. They've never even met my younger son, who is 10-1/2 years old and in 10th grade.

I know that this past springtime I said I was gonna train my monkeys to get on a plane, however, plans change...and ours sure did. Honestly, part of me says there's no fucking way I'm gonna haul my kids all the way the hell down to Arizona and back to Washington State at any time because my parents have put forth zero effort to get to know my kids. So, they don't deserve to spend time my kids, especially during the school year. And regardless of when you travel, traveling is expensive.

So, the best decision my husband and I made was for him to stay home with the boys, while I fly solo to Phoenix. Do I wish they were with me? Kinda. I'm not gonna lie, I'm thankful for the much needed break. Do I wish things were different. Of course I do. But I can't change it...so why waste time and energy on things you can't change?

The bottom line, My Little Brother loves his Fantastic Fiancé so much that he's willing to learn about the religion she was raised with and get married in that particular church. And my husband and my kids love My Little Brother so much that the best choice is for the Male Andersons to stay home.

Surprise! Surprise!

So, My Little Brother, who is 12 years younger than me and provided me the BEST form of birth control EVER as a teenager, showed up at my younger son's last soccer game of the season yesterday.

They boys had the biggest and best surprise of their lives! Because they really do love their Uncle Sammy. No, he's not Uncle Sam. Never has been, and likely never will be. Because, seriously? In this political climate? No, thank you. 

My Little Brother brought his girlfriend, and they are rather serious. Like, I'm pretty sure they're gonna get married type of serious. You don't trek all the way up to the North Olympic Peninsula from Phoenix, Arizona, with your lady, if you're not serious about this broad.

And it's great! For reals. Because she's an ophthalmologist and his vision has been shit pretty much his whole life. She's got an impeccable future-sister-in-law-bedside manner because, according to her: "he needs some pretty powerful lenses." But, really, we all know he's really just interested in her for her LASIK surgery abilities.

That and our mother is probably thrilled that her son the lawyer is marrying a doctor. Seriously. Because it's all about appearances with my mother. She's a "what would the neighbors think?!" type of a gal.

The last time My Little Brother was on the Olympic Peninsula, was the summer of 2015, when I was going through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer...and yes, he went with me to chemo...because he's a nice guy. My parents didn't come up. I'm still working on letting go of that...and it's not the point of this post.

The last time I saw My Little Brother I went down to Arizona in the spring of 2016, about 6 weeks before my husband was diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer. He was living with a different woman at that time...and they were completely different. And while I was disappointed they didn't work out, I'm also kinda relieved...because the new girlfriend he's living with...in a completely different house...is delightful.

Like, she doesn't miss a beat, has a quick wit, with a touch of dark humor. We're very much looking forward to getting to know her this week.

They are not staying with us, thank you Jesus.

Partly because we don't really have the living space. I mean, we could make it work if we absolutely had to...but we are thankful they are AirBnB-ing it.

Partly because they are vegan...and the logistics of cooking two dinners...and sometimes I have to throw corn dogs and Ore-Ida French fries at my kids to get food in them...right?!

Partly because I'm recovering from the Ear Infection From Hell...and while I just finished 14 days of antibiotics, I'm still using ear drops 4 times a day (only 4 more days of that)...and nobody wants to deal with house guests when they're recovering from illness. Not to be rude...just being realistic, you guys. 

She has no desire to have kids. And I'm ok with that. Because, really, in the event of something catastrophic happening to my husband and me at the same time, I'll need my brother to step up....

But, if she can survive the week with my crew, and learns more about the Anderson Family Circus, then she's in......

August 2, 2017

The kid sitters weren't available.

A-Team Leader Momma Christine wasn't available, since she had out of town guests. From Japan. When Momma Christine was Teenage Christine, her family hosted a Teenage Exchange Student from Japan, and now that lady was a Momma and she was traveling with her family to reunite, in person, with her American Host Family. Hence, Momma Christine was unavailable.

A-Team Leader Momma Bonnie was unavailable because her family had returned the day before from an extended road trip. I chose to not ask because it just didn't seem like the right thing to me. There was a no in me. And I know she would've taken my kids, had I asked, and it's totally cool, because seriously, I made the best decision I could for all 8 of us, Sister. It's all good.

A-Team Leader Momma Stacie? Working. I'm sure she was presenting some data sets at multiple meetings with administrators and physicians, because that's what she does. She's a Bad Ass Epidemiologist and dealing with data is her super power. So, in the interest of protecting public health, Stacie was not an option. Even though she's a good person because on March 20, 2015, the day of my lumpectomy, she was at our home before 6 am for the first round of Boy Duty. But, for this day trip to the city, I decided that it would be best for my family to be together.

So, Wednesday August 2, 2017, all four of us went. To Seattle, only a 90-ish minute car ride and a wait for the ferry, and a 30-ish minute ferry ride, and navigating the streets of a major city. No biggie. It was for the post-op with the Lady ENT, which was really a no-op, since she didn't really operate. We had to check-in at 10:30 am, the appointment was on a Wednesday in the summer, so traffic shouldn't be too bad. We'll have to get up early. Really early. What's the ferry schedule? Because we'll have to arrive two days before sailing, because summer in the Pacific Northwest means backups.

But Randy has super limited voice. And the boys are...the boys.... What the fuck am I thinking?

Oh! I'll get an audio book from the library. I've been wanting to read Wonder to the boys but I am unable to find my copy. Did I loan it to someone in book club? Or did I borrow it? Jesus I need that app that keeps track of my personal library. I don't have time to scan all of our books though. September is coming, maybe I'll find the time when school starts...? I think I borrowed someone's copy. But I returned it. That I know. Otherwise the book would be in my house. Ha. I have the best deductive reasoning skills, ever.

Abby will be fine. She can hold it. She can skip lunch. But just to be safe, Stace has keys and can get in, so she can be on standby for the four-legged dog-child. Summer traffic can mean a later than planned on ferry. Or a bridge opening. So, just in case, Stacie's got Abby if need be.

Randy and talked about it, and below is the jist of our conversation. Well, really I talked, and he whispered, even though he wasn't really supposed to, as directed by the Lady ENT. He's a rule breaker, though, you guys. 

Me: Nope. You're not going alone. You don't get to make that choice because the Lady ENT is going to do do some kinda procedure where she's gonna laser warts off your throat and you don't know if she's gonna give you a little sedative or something to help you relax and make it easier to get the goddamned warts off your vocal cords.

Him: silence, nods once. 

Me: Second, what if the pathology report is cancer. Again. Do you really want to get that news ALONE? Because I don't want you to get that news alone.

Him: silence, nods once. 

The smoke-filled sky on our incredibly early drive to Seattle Aug 2017

Me: Finally, you're a guy, obviously, and ultimately, even if you're in pain and you're gonna go through cancer  again, you're going to try and muscle through this and drive home, but do you really want to fucking drive HOME, regardless of the results, after she's gonna laser off more warts? We're talking Seattle. We're not talking a quick jaunt to Sequim.

Him: (whisper) fine. What about the boys?

Me: I's cast is off, so they will be capable of waiting in the waiting room with our old their iPhones with their headphones, like when we went over and the Man ENT biopsied your tonsil and you had a PET scan done. You know, when the Man ENT said, "Cancer"? It'll be like that for them and hopefully a lot different for us.... I'll be able to check on them as time permits while I'm supporting you during your appointment. It's a Team Anderson effort and event, dude. It'll be fine, just fine.

Him: (whisper) Ok. Thanks for thinking this through and planning. I love you.

Me: I know. And I love you too, dude. And you're welcome. I don't have a Master's Degree in Health Education for nothing, you guys.

And so our alarms each went off at 4:30 am. Got that? Fourgoddamnedthirtyam. That's before Steve Inskeep is on the air. I really, really, really love my husband. And I really, really, really needed to be with him at this appointment. Dealing with health issues is my super power.

My husband drove like Batman, because that's what he does. And we listened to "Wonder" on CD, which was brilliantly done. We got to the ferry with plenty of time to spare.

Plugged in, complete with headphones, for two hours

And the boys rocked it in the waiting room like the bosses that they are. For two hours. TWO WHOLE HOURS while I accompanied their father into the back of the house, if you will, so they could get him ready for the Lady ENT to use her Laser Wart Removerinator on the inside of his throat.

Laser.

In his throat.

Again.

Fuck me. Can this stop? Because seriously, I'm starting to crack a little under all the Wonder Woman pressure. I'm not her. She's a God. I'm a mortal adult woman who has found herself in incomprehensible, extremely stressful, mind-blowing, situations in a very short time frame, that have changed the way I live and breathe. I have been forced to become proficient in dealing with multiple life-threatening health issues for three of my four immediate family members, including my oldest son, myself, and my husband.

I suppose this is why I have two degrees in Community Health Education. I know it's my super power; what I've spent years in college and grad school studying and teaching: Health. I'm highly trained in the art of Health Communication and I really do know when to be diplomatic and and how to effectively speak with individuals who are highly trained in their professions, including but not limited to:

• Pediatric Neurologists
• Neurodevelopmental Psychologists 
• ABA Therapists 
• Pediatric Epileptologists 
• Pediatric Otolaryngologists (ENT)
• Pediatric Sleep Specialists 
• Speech Therapists
• Physical Therapists
• Occupational Therapists
• General Surgeons
• Medical Oncologists (Chemo Doc)
• Radiation Oncologists (you're not alone; I didn't know there were different types of cancer docs until I was diagnosed, either)
• Certified Lymphedema Therapists (because you don't EVEN want lymphedema in your boob after you have a lumpectomy)
• Otolaryngologists with specialties of head and neck cancers as well as voice disorders
• Orthopedic Surgeons

As a patient, parent, wife, and caregiver, I know when to advocate, and even push, for myself and my family to receive the adequate health care we deserve. And I know when to back off...but only a bit. I'm academically and professionally trained to research what current scientific research and data show regarding the multiple health issues my family faces. I know I'm only one click away from ending up at ScareTheHellOuttaMe.com and I do my best to avoid that.

And I know when to drop F-bombs; I'm really good at that: FUCK Universe, stop dropping so much fucking shit on me and my family! Please. For the love of all that is fucking holy. Just fucking stop, motherfuckers! See? I'm pretty good at the use of the word fuck. I know how to employ it as an interjection and a noun. Sometimes I unpack it as an adjective.

And, no, I don't think I've ever said "fuck" to a practitioner. Except those two separate times I gave birth to each of my lovely little boy babes. I'm sure I said fuck at least once during each of those situations. Laboring women get a free fuckin' pass on that. And my doc is awesome and didn't bat a fuckin' eye.

But ain't no amount of schooling gonna teach a person how to best manage the cards I've been dealt. There is no class called "how to effectively raise your oldest child with life-threatening neurological disorders while you homeschool him and do drug trials to stop his seizures, WHILE you go through breast cancer surgery, chemo, and radiation, AND THEN your husband is diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer less than six months after you finish your treatment for breast cancer, and let's throw a broken arm on the younger son, just for the sake of it" because who in their right fuckin' mind would sign up for that shit storm?

I guess now I know why some of my professors in college and grad school had us use the book they wrote: not because they were egocentric jackasses, but because they had knowledge to impart. So I'm imparting my knowledge via blogging.

Annnyyywaaayyy...

Back in the prep room, they had slathered cotton balls with some type of bullshit numbing agent and stuck those cotton balls up my husband's nose. They also sprayed some serious numbing stuff up his nose and it slid down his throat...or maybe they sprayed it directly into his throat through his mouth...? I don't know exactly what was sprayed where...but they numbed the shit out of his nose and throat because LASERS were coming at him.

We went into another room, and were given some very fancy orange tinted glasses to put on over our eyeglasses, like the cool shades senior people wear, because the laser she was going to be firing onto my husband's vocal cords could really fuck up your eye sight. I don't know. I didn't ask. But I did put my glasses on and I did occasionally steal a glance at the monitor that the camera was attached to and I also sat in the corner like a good wife. I may have even crossed my legs at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am.

So the Lady ENT came in. And the Speech Therapist. And the Laser Guy, who literally takes this big ass machine around the hospital to different clinics and helps get it set up. And the medical transcriptionist, because that woman was recording everything that the Lady ENT said and did. Standard. Who the hell else is going to take notes? I mean, that's usually my job, but nope, not today. Today I'm the one responsible for transporting my family home.

Because at this point, my husband is so numb and the Lady ENT has got scope up his nose and down his throat and I don't know if the laser was attached to that but she turns the laser on by stepping on a pedal like it's a goddamn sewing machine, and the laser makes a noise and goddamnit technology is so cool this better work, please Jesus, let the laser fuckin' work and let the warts be burned off. For reals.

The Lady ENT working the laser, my husband, and the Speech Therapist

And, please Universe, don't let the Lady ENT suddenly sneeze. Because if she sneezes, she's gonna laser his vocal cords right off and he'll never speak again. I don't know if that last part is really true. I didn't ask. Because there's some stuff I don't want to know so I just sit there and am quiet about, with my legs crossed at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am, and in a skirt, no less, because it was hotter than a motherfucker outside. Because it was AUGUST, and August is hot no matter where you live in the Northern Hemisphere.

Let's just say the room started to smell...burning flesh...she didn't sneeze...and yes, it really took two hours for all of this to go down.

I'd flit in and out of the room to check on the boys and make sure they had not completely destroyed the waiting room. Because my kids are feral monkeys. And sitting in the car for 90 minutes to get to the ferry and then sitting another 2 hours in the waiting room for their father, and then sitting another 90 minutes to get home would make anyone batshit crazy, and my kids are fucking clowns who go batshit crazy if they have to sit for five seconds, so I was deeply worried about what five HOURS of sitting was going to do. Apparently my kids were so well behaved and so quiet playing in our old their iPhones that the front office staff forgot they were there...? Huh. Well good for me that my boys to be that well behaved. Seriously. I'm one fuckin' fantastic ring leader! And, thank you boys, for behaving like gentlemen. I love you both and am proud of you. I know you each have a lot on your plates.

Also, my husband is the toughest motherfucker I've ever known. Because I just watched him take a tube the same width as a pencil, up his nose, then it went down his throat, and he allowed the Lady ENT to use a laser on his vocal cords to remove warts in order to prevent them from growing and possibly developing cancer again. He said that at one point, he could feel it being burned off, but that he knew she was nearly done and he just wanted to finish, so he didn't speak up. I get it. Not that he could speak up, because, duh...but he didn't notify her that he could feel it. And, again, I get it...but, dude....

The Lady ENT finished lasering off the warts, and then we had to get the fuck outta there, because it had been two fucking hours...and I was beyond the point that I needed to eat. I asked the front office staff for a ferry pass, because by this point, well after lunchtime, none of us had the ability to wait for what would probably be a couple of hours in line for the ferry. And, no, I'm not driving around through Tacoma. Fuck that.

Since providing medical passes for the ferry is not something that her office usually does, they had to scramble, and it took a lot longer than anticipated. Fortunately for all four of us, they got their shenanigans together and made it happen, given our situation, they were as helpful they could be. Thank the goddesses for compassionate physicians providing direction to their support staff. We loaded up and headed to the ferry dock; I drove, because my husband was not capable. I think the boys ate lunch in the waiting room...? I know I packed lunch, and I know they ate, because their lunchboxes were empty. There was no food stuck to the waiting room wall, so I presume their tummies were full. Let's go, dudes! We got a boat to catch!

After a full day of sitting in the car, and in the waiting room,
we're finally heading home to the Peninsula. Run, boys...run.

When we got near the downtown ferry dock (don't judge me; I HATE driving up to Edmonds!) the line was...longer than a bunch of fucking bullshit! Are you fucking kidding me? I have a goddamn medical pass! Here! Thanks! I zipped us over to the ferry terminal, paid the $50 million fare and we cut way ahead of the line. Sorry, bitches! My husband just had his throat lasered because HPV on your vocal cords is a thing and he's a hot goddamn mess. I was given the choice of being near the bathroom or the stairs; my husband said bathroom, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get out of the car for the entire ferry ride across Puget Sound; I know he was mentally and physically exhausted.

The boys and I got out, because we all needed to move our bodies and use the potty. Because we go when we get the chance. My husband has a bladder of steel but didn't get out of the car until we got all the way home; I know he slept on and off and I'm so thankful I used my super powers to be there with him.

And, thank the goddesses for whoever made the decision to put family bathrooms on those boats, because my Family Circus uses them. Not that it saves my sanity to have my boys watch me pee, because they think it's weird that I squat over a potty and the less things I can fucking touch in a public fucking bathroom, the better, right? This includes the paper that is supposed to be for my protection. No. I'll squat. Work on my glutes, yo. I always go last, and remind each of them to not flush, because the toilet's too goddamn loud and everyone has sensitive hearing. No my boys don't pee at the same time to save everyone's sanity. Don't even get me started about that bullshit.

Please don't wash your hands. I have a gallon of hand sanitizer in my purse. You don't live through cancers without that shit.  

OH for fuck's sake! Don't touch the goddamn faucet! But it saves my sanity to not leave my boys alone on a ferry.

WHY DID YOU TURN THE HAND DRYER ON?! JESUS IT'S LOUDER THAN THE TOILET!!! We all make choices that are best for us.

NO! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR WITH MY SLEEVE!!! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!! 

The boys and I spill out of the family bathroom and begin to walk around the ferry for a while, waving goodbye to the city, looking forward to docking at Bainbridge Island. We are always on the look out for Orca, but instead see cargo ships and sailboats and, of course, the ferry headed to the city, which always causes my older son to say,  "Like 'Yellow Submarine'"and I know he's referring to the scene when the Beatles see themselves going backwards in time. So we wave, and he says, "Just like the Beatles, Mom." And I reply, "Yup. Just like Yellow Submarine, kid." It's a comforting exchange for both of us.

We go back to the car, load up, disembark the ferry, and drive a solid 90 minutes before we get home in the summertime traffic. It's been a long and arduous day. I'm thankful we are home safe and sound.

The Lady ENT keeps a close watch on my husband, and he's seen her about every 10 weeks for a check-up. And her "check-up" always involves numbing ointments and sprays, and a scope up the nose and down the throat. It's not easy, but he does it. He usually goes by himself, but when he went earlier this month, on September 10, 2018, which happens to be our older son's birthday...he had the opportunity to be driven by a dear friend who recently relocated from Seattle to Port Angeles. And in spite of the fact that our older son thought Brother Jeff (we're not Mormon, it's just their thing to call each other "Brother") was there to see him on his birthday at 6:15 am, and our day was super stressful and my son and I fought on and off throughout the day...this is the same friend who, when my husband had tonsil surgery two years ago, provided me with the support I needed in the city. So, when my husband and our dear friend went to see the Lady ENT in Seattle last week, it was a much needed opportunity for my husband to have a break from us. He went in alone, because that's what he wanted to do. But Jeff picked Randy up and they went to a fantastic Mexican restaurant. It is incredibly helpful to have a great friend who knows the city well.

The Lady ENT said that Randy's throat looked pretty good, and that the warts on his vocal cords are stable. She compares all of the pictures each time she's seen him, which makes me thankful for the technology that she can just pull that stuff up really quickly. Randy will see her again at the end of November. And in December. Because, just in case she needs to do another laser treatment in the clinic, like she did on August 2, 2017, she'd rather have it on her calendar, because it's easier to cancel the December appointment than it is to find room in her schedule for him...since it's a long two fuckin' hours, and it would be rather pressing. And, she's accommodating his needs in a huge way since she scheduled it right around the time we're done teaching, but before the boys get out for the winter break, so he can spend a little time resting his voice.

Or at least he doesn't have to listen for me yelling at the boys on the ferry.

WALK ON THE BOAT!!! WHAT WOULD THE CAPTAIN SAY!?!?

Thanks for reading. xo

Camp

My kids are going to camp tomorrow.

Like, here are my children, see you in two days, out at the lake, thankful they can swim, please be sure to feed them, and give the big one all these different meds, sleep.away.fucking.CAMP!!!!

Because my 9-year-old son has friends in high places. This is why this is working out. Seriously.

But also because there really and truly are good people in this world who care about kids and care about inclusion and care about families and care about helping others be successful. And it is for these people I hold an incredible amount of respect and gratitude.

I know that a lot of kids go to sleep away camp. I'm sure that my kids are considered "old," at the ripe old ages of nearly 12, and 9, to be going away to camp for the first time ever. But we tend to do things a little...slower and methodical...here at the Anderson Family Circus. And, yes, it really is like living with monkeys.

So, they'll be gone for a full 48 hours. Pretty normal. And I'm only freaking out a little bit, you guys, mkay....?!

They are going to the mini-session, which is two nights. There's another session that's three nights (I think). The small, locally-owned business that runs the camp has different sessions, over the course of three weeks in July. The week before my kids go, and the week after my kids go, are week-long camps. So, like, here's my kid on Sunday night or Monday morning...and I'll see you bitches on Friday...or maybe Saturday...? I don't know because we're not at that level yet. That's a whole 'nother level that my family hasn't named yet because we're not there yet because if we think about too much then we get anxiety and can't breathe and we start hyperventilating!!!

Stop.

Breathe.

And slow the fuck down, little dudes, because we're at Level 1: Two Nights.

Kinda like a Spontaneous Weekend Getaway...kinda not.....

A few friends suggested The Math Man and I skip away to the Emerald City for the two nights. Nope. Nice idea. Not for us. Thanks though. Because trauma. We've been there and done that...a few times. But it involved a hospital stay... and a lot of appointments and a couple of surgeries...so, no thank you.

My family has been through too much trauma, in too short amount of time...from which I am just now starting to feel that I can start to put it behind me...us....and the deep, dark thoughts and the fears for all of us, and each of us, have mostly gone away. Mostly.

So, since the boys will be gone for 48 hours, we're more than happy to stay home, walk around naked, smoke pot, and have sex whenever we want...like you do when you're semi-reclusive, semi-hippie, middle-aged college instructors. Because I can tell you, that there is nothing else that compromises your sexuality like cancers. I mean, all major health issues do, including but not limited to, giving birth and being a caregiver of a child with special needs. But cancer is it's own special type of clusterfuck. And two cancers in two years: supermajorclusterfuck.

When people ask how I'm doing, I tell them I feel like I'm winning at summer because, so far, knock-on-wood-praise-be-thank-the-sweet-baby-Jesus, that of the people who live in my home and I get to see everyday and I get to love and I get to take care of: nobody has cancer, nobody is having any surgery regarding any cancers, and nobody has any broken bones. And on the one hand, because survivor's guilt is a real thing, it feels icky just typing it....thinking it....and saying it....

As if a person can hex themselves. Right? Jesus, Rachel, stop it...you're not fucking omnipotent.

But on the other hand, I am so thankful that I get to be here...and I get to send my kids to camp, that I feel like it's ok for me to feel good about being alive, and about the things I get to do...that the survivor's guilt mostly goes away. Mostly.

So we're getting ready to send them to camp for the very first time ever. And while it's not the first time they've been away from us...because we have an incredible group of supportive friends who were able to take wonderful care of our boys while my husband and I each went through our own surgeries and treatments...this is still a huge milestone for my family. We are a pretty close-knit crew, and we maintain a pretty tight ship, because meds and special needs dictate what happens when. 

My family is together a lot. Like a LOT during the summer because my husband and I are both college instructors...who happen to teach online...so we juggle like a pair of motherfuckers, giving each other space and support to get our work done.

We've had the talks with the boys about expected behaviors when they are away at camp. I have two worries, one for each son. My first concern, of course, is for my older son who requires meds to not seize...I'll send everything he needs and trust that the good folks who are in charge will give him his meds as scheduled (in the morning and before bed). My second concern is for my younger son, who will be learning to suck it up and eat the food they'll provide...he's not keen on hot dogs. You're going to camp, kid; it's not the spa...there aren't any free upgrades. Regardless, I'm sure we'll all survive.

And I know that my younger son's BFF, who is a girl and who really is in charge out there, will fill me in on all the things they did. She's my girl on the inside, if you will. And my boys know she'll tell me all about whatever shenanigans go down out at camp.

And then when we pick them up on Wednesday, we'll return to our regularly scheduled shenanigans here at The Anderson Family Circus, where it really is like Living with Monkeys.

Springless Breaks

Collectively here at the Anderson Family Circus, our spring breaks are coming to a close. Thankfully. Three weeks of gray skies, rain, some major wind, sickness, jury duty, a perimenopausal mommy, and a full moon to boot. Fuck dude. Thank the universe we're in the final stretch before summer break.

My husband and I had our usual two week spring break, the first week was taken up by one boy missing school Monday and Tuesday due to a GI thing. Wednesday is my day to volunteer at school; I love volunteering and working with the teachers who choose to help my kids and our community each day, and I'm thankful I have the opportunity to give back in this way.

Thursday and Friday were spent catching up on grocery shopping and meal prepping and picking out new glasses...you know...like you do…. It was a day date...and one of the only days we had together to enjoy each other. Since both becoming cancer survivors, we tend to not take days like this for granted, and spend as many of them as we can together. We've been looking forward to spring break for a while.

But, alas, it wasn't in the stars, naturally, since the second week involved my husband serving on a jury for three days. Monday we did our prep for the spring quarter, which started on April 2, the same day our kids’ spring break started; I’ll get to that in a minute.

This is my husband’s second time to serve on a jury. The first one was when we lived in Las Vegas. In my family language we speak in levels, and my husband was on the Boss Level Jury: Double Murder Trial. Of course he was. So everything else is going to just not be as...much...fun? I don’t remember the specifics, other than it lasted a full five days and they found the defendants guilty. That was his first ever time. And he enjoys learning about the process of the court system and how our legal system works. I did too when I served on a jury...but it was like a Level 3 trial...DUI...guy drove his car into a lady’s home, and she was fine. Dude. Seriously? That doesn’t compete with the Boss Level Double Murder Trial.

Anyway...so he had jury duty that took 2-½ days...and we just didn’t get a lot of quality time together...but we also got to spend the comfortable quiet of a couple who’s been together for an extended time...and who’s children are...safe?...at school.

It’s there now. It’s always there. That voice. That one that I didn’t realize wasn’t my own shit and paranoia until I read this article that my one friend who’s a mental health therapist and my other friend who’s an elementary school teacher shared on Facebook and Jesus is my data missing? In Russia?

I mean that article is on Oprah.com and I've never really been an Oprah fan. Not that she’s a bad person or anything...she’s just never been my jam. Did I just use "jam" in a sentence as a substitute for "thing?" Oy. Maybe I'm not 500 years old after all.

So we started back to school at the college on Monday April 2. And that was the boys’ first day of spring break...because that’s just how it goes down around here every year. We never align spring breaks. It’s unfortunate, but it is what it is. Or perhaps it’s fortunate. Because my family isn’t the family that travels to warmer, sunnier climates for spring breaks. I have a love hate relationship with Facebook right now: it’s painful for me to see pictures. Literally hurts me to not be warming up. But, it is what it is. Spring is coming to the Pacific Northwest. I can feel it in my bones; or maybe it's my body's ache for the desert sun. What? Supposed to be 97* in Tucson on Tuesday? No thanks. I'll keep my 54* and rain.

But we didn’t have a spring break. I feel badly for my kids. We were at home a LOT the week of spring break, partly because as an on-line educator, I needed to work; and partly because I didn't feel like working and dragging the boys--or being drug by the boys. It's a push-me-pull-you type of relationship. Right?

My younger son has had a fire lit under him within the last two weeks because he was given his Hapkido book; it's a manual that his sensei gave him that has everything he's been studying for the past several years. He received it at this point because it's what is required in his training. Basically, he knows a lot of shit, and it's a lot to expect anyone to have all of it in their heads, so the teachers provide a manual of everything he needs to know; he'll add to it as he progresses upward in rank.

And it's motivated him. He's now required to have helped teach The Littles (the kids younger than him) a total of 25 times and he has to have one of the school's owners sign each time. The child is on fire to get it done before he turns 9 on April 30. We even counted out how many times he needed to go in order to earn X number of signatures per week. Seriously.

But, little dude, tone it down. It's not mathematically possible...even if you went four times on Tuesday during spring break and because next week you get to go back to school and soccer academy starts and there are only so many ways I can say "we'll do our best to get you to Hapkido as much as possible but a more realistic date to accomplish this is by the end of the school year, in the middle of June, or better yet, by July 4th" before I completely loose my load! Please stop fucking bugging me! Jesus! I'm doing my best, people!

Goddamn hormones suck. And the chemo-induced menopause? Fuck that noise. Even though I use Clue, I never know when my period is coming. And thank the goddesses I read that article on Oprah.com because now I know this is also a serious thing that a lot of women my age are dealing with. Not to mention I'm the only human female in my home, causing even further isolation and anxiety...making me secretly wonder if I'm suffering from some kind of neurosis. Nope. Apparently it's not just me.... And this is where I'm thankful I'm not trained to diagnose people. And I'm thankful I don't go to ScareTheHellOuttaMe.com and self-diagnosis. Red Rover, Red Rover! Send Oprah right over...? Ew. Really, I'd call Ada Calhoun over. Since she penned the article. Definitely keepin my eye on her.

Anyway, at some point, midweek, when they'd harassed me about swimming for the umteenth time, I considered writing them a note:

Dear Boys,

I'm not sure which one of y'all started the rumor between the two of you that we're going swimming today, or at anytime during spring break, but we're not. Sorry. 

Societal expectations, as well as my own comfort level, mandate that I shave my legs, armpits, and bikini line prior to putting on a bathing suit, and I'm not planning on doing all that, because it requires a tremendous amount of energy from me, not to mention a shit ton of water, which also costs money. 

I have no plans to placate you guys and succumb to your male dominated, completely oppressive, misogynistic view of women. Thanks for making every effort to understand my perspective and finding another way to exercise. I really prefer you do this outside, where you can have a nature break. As a gentle reminder, if you make a lot of noise away from me, you'll keep the wild animals away. Furthermore, I know it's a little drizzly, but you're not made outta sugar!

If you don’t get it, then please fuck off. Thanks. 

Love always, 
Mom

However, I decided to not give them a note.

Instead I took them to the Spit on Friday, where we saw a severed dragon's head, a dead mouse, and a lot of other natural things. Like rocks. And the ocean. And we were all fully dressed, and I didn't have to shave.

Big Weekend

We had a big weekend. Actually, it was huge weekend, because my husband turned 50 years old. This post isn't going to be all mushy, maybe, but, we'll see where we go...

I will say that the last time I threw this man a party we were living in Las Vegas, several friends were in town, we ate dinner at The Cheesecake Factory at the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace, then went to see Steven Wright at some other resort. So, that was in like 2000, or maybe 2001....it's been a while...and we've had a lot of life happen since then.

And now that I have children and a big backyard and a forest, I throw a different type of party. Duh. Right? You don't party in Las Vegas in your 20's without kids, like you do in Port Angeles in your mid to late 40's, with kids. Obviously. Well, we don't anyway. More power to ya if you do, I suppose....

So, once he decided he wanted a party, since 50 is a half a century and not to be taken lightly, although as a mathematician, he'll say "it's just a number" but seriously? It's not. Not after what you've been through. Mmm...no...because in 2015, you watched your wife go through breast cancer surgery, and then chemo and radiation treatments. And that same summer, you watched from far away as your father died of prostate and skin cancers. And then in 2016, you went through tonsil cancer caused by HPV. And there's the daily medical needs of our child with a rare form of epilepsy which causes intellectual and developmental disabilities. And then there's his autism. So, it's not just a number, dude. It's 50. Five. Zero. And you've dealt with, and deal with, a lot of shit, so I'm throwing you a party. Ok?

I rarely ask his permission...I usually ask forgiveness and not permission...so this was more of a persuasion. I'm good at persuading. A persuader, if you will.... But really, it wasn't a hard sell.

Annnnyyyyway, our people showed up and we all partied like rock stars, including one person who shall not be named, who passed out in a chair. In his defense, he's not double digits yet, and had a rather busy night the night before, as little boys tend to do....

I only took a few pictures, mostly of aforementioned sleeping child, who wasn't mine, by the way, because I really wanted to give myself the opportunity to enjoy the moment. The beauty of enduring friendships. The sun shining through the three southern facing sky lights. My family. I am thankful for so much. I survived breast cancer for this.

Having snippets of beautiful views of life. Our living room filled with friends. The island in our kitchen spilling over with delicious foods people generously brought and shared. My First Port Angeles friend, who is nearly six feet tall, knowing exactly when to breeze into my kitchen, without me asking, and without having to drag over a chair to stand up on, she easily reached inside the cabinet to the top shelf above the stove for the little container of blue birthday candles I happen to keep up there because Boy Mom and...that's all I got...?

Shit. Shit that's only like 10. Maybe 12...candles.

HOLY SHIT I FORGOT TO BUY CANDLES!!!! HOW IN THE GODDAMN DO I FORGET TO BUY A 5 AND A 0!?!?!? Randy and I even talked about it and he said he didn't want 50 individual candles and Isaac tried to figure out how to get fifty candles represented and....

Jesus, Rachel.

It's not like you weren't busy earlier this week. Who in their right mind plans an over night medical appointment in Seattle and throws her husband's Biggest Birthday Bash because he's fifty in the same week? Me. Yup. It's what I do. Oh well....

I've got jumbo emergency candles, which are horrible to light during an emergency because you could end up burning the whole goddamn house down. Why do we even have those? Let's just keep them and throw them away in a few years. Or keep them in case of emergency.

What about this 10" ivory taper candle...which apparently also like a communion candle (or some bullshit...in my house? Seriously?) Yup! Totally works! Let's use that in one cake, and then put four blue birthday candles around it. And in the other cake we took five more blue birthday candles and five plus five is ten and ten goes into fifty nicely so there you go! Besides, fifty candles would take too long to light. This totally works! What could go wrong? I mean we have a first responder at the party, so we're good!

And, yes, you get two goddamn cakes from Costco when you turn 50! Or at least at this party you do!

Because when you've been through tonsil cancer treatment and the radiation changed your taste buds I didn't know which chocolate cake, exactly, you were going to like so I got two different ones. Also, there were damn near FIFTY PEOPLE at your FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY PARTY, YOU GUYS!!! One cake ain't gonna cut it, Randy Anderson.

Because you wanted a party, so I threw you a party. It's my job. It's what I do. I love you. You can thank me later....mmmm...hmmmm.....

Anyway the party was fantastic, even through I totally forgot to serve hot coffee and hot tea. Whoops. Sorry. It was a little crazy because there were a ton of people in my small house! But I did serve cold lemonade, a rare treat in the Anderson Abode. And water. Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus we got purified water coming outta the fridge.

I absolutely did not permit anyone to discuss work. Because it's a BIG PARTY at MY HOUSE and it's MY RULES and NO WORK. Stop. It. Thank you.
 
I threw all the kids outside a lot because Anderson Park was open and it was a beautiful day. #optoutside

Thank you to everyone who came to the Anderson Abode to celebrate Randy's Fiftieth Birthday Bash! We truly appreciate all of you! And to those of you who were unable to attend, we missed you and appreciate you anyway!

And, dammit I throw an awesome party!

My family, with all 10 candles accounted for (note the communion candle)

Happy Birthday, dude!

Two cakes, we had very little leftover (thankfully!)

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday!

Spring Into Action

I had an opportunity to spring into action early yesterday morning.

You know, like I'm some kinda goddamn super hero or something. 

Thanks Caitlin for texting me at 8 am and asking for a lift.

From Port Angeles to Sequim.

Seriously.

This is the type of thing that's going on in my life that helps me.

I know I'm the logical choice because my family lives between PA and Sequim.

And I know she ain't gonna ask unless she's in need. This woman knows me and the daily struggles my family faces.

I'm not saying you get text me at 8 am and ask me to pick your ass up in Port Angeles and get a ride to Sequim.

Especially when there's snow on the ground.

And you gotta cross 27 bridges to get to where your going. And you've slipped on one of those 27 bridges on black ice and totaled your 4Runner.

Actually, Randy did that. I was the passenger. We were the only vehicle. But he broke the shit outta my first 4Runner. Then he bought me a newer one. Because he's a good egg like that.

Luckily, we didn't go over the McDonald Creek bridge on 101. We are living proof that those cement barricades are really, really fuckin' solid. And, no, it wasn't recent--it was many years ago; pre-children. That's how life is defined now...pre-children : since children; pre-cancer : since cancer.

But, yes, I'll pick up my dear friend and fellow breast cancer survivor who I've known since well before either of us was diagnosed because she needs a ride. Because you know when one of your closest people calls on you early in the morning you know something's going on and she needs help and that she's not fiddle-fartin' around.

Wheels turn because you need to go to Safeway because ultimately, you're Mrs. Claus and need to make sure there's some goddamned milk for Santa. Jesus.

And since you're going to Sequim, you may as well go to Costco because COSTCO.

On the Friday before Christmas.

No part of this was thought out.

But, my dear friend was willing to go to both stores, in two different towns. Twist her arm. Heh.

And then we ended up going to the Safeway in Sequim because I picked her brain and figured out what the hell to eat on Christmas Day because Jesus, this pressure is similar to Thanksgiving and fuck that! I was not into Halloween and at Thanksgiving I had an epiphany...so why not do it in three? The Big Three. Right? Even though we've been eaten the latkes, mmm-hmmm....

Make change. Less pressure. Less stress.

No tree.

Yes, child, Santa will still come. Mrs. Claus is on top of planning the route with the GPS. No, not the elves. They're total minions. Mrs. Claus is in charge. It's cool, she'll see to it that he gets here. Trust me when I tell you Santa gets all the credit. Yes, Mrs. Claus is a Bad Ass.

Less stress. Less pressure. Make change.

In fairness, we have a tree, it's just mounted on the wall. Thanks Pinintrest then YouTube.

Because we live in a small house. It's beautiful and I love it and I'm thankful for it. But I'm tired of displacing our beloved 4-legged child so the tree can be where she sleeps because she's 10 and she deserves better. And the allergies I have from the tree? Done.

But really: stop wrestling and leave the tree alone and we can't even put presents under it because there's no room and Nathan would struggle to keep his hands off of the presents and we need to set him up for success as much as possible but it's a pain in the ass and a lot of work and all the presents are in our bedroom closet and this is super stressful so why in the goddamn are we doing this?

Because at the end of the day, what matters is that we are alive and have each other.

Yes, child, it's hard to feel festive and merry when our friends are hurting and in deep pain like nothing we've ever known. His cancer was different and much more aggressive. Good question; it means "mean." Yes, meaner than mine. Way meaner than Daddy's. Yup. It was just as mean as Pop-pop's.

Well, we can help by being good friends and loving them and offering help. What helped us as a family when we were dealing with our own traumas? Hugs. Yes. And love. Yup. And sure, pray, or think or meditate or light battery operated or full flame candles or whatever it is that you do to bring comfort to yourself as long as it doesn't infringe upon whatever it is that she decides she and her children need. Because she is in charge.

It could be that what helped us helps them. It could be that they need something completely different. I do not have the answers; only she does, and she'll let us know when she's ready.

She's a mom and she's got it but she's blazing a trail nobody wants to blaze and she's got no map, no guide. And even though she's got a bunch of other moms trying to take care of her, and we all want to help but some of us feel frozen because we were so close with them but cancers changed all of it for both of our families and the unspoken could've been that my beautiful friend who needed a lift and who is a survivor and I know all too...takes my breath away....

When I'm sorry isn't adequate.

And neither is Fuck.

Fuck you, you fucking disease. For taking him. From her. From them. 

I don't know because I am not in charge, little dude. I know. That's a tough one for me to swallow too, dude. But whenever I am notified of the plan, we'll spring into action. I know you guys are worried about your friends and that you love them, my sweet boys. I hope we can see them soon, too. Yes, I will get in touch with her.

I know honey. I love them a lot too. And I'm sad too. I wish his outcomes were different. I wish the outcomes for their family were different. When Pop-pop died, Grandma said she felt a little relieved because Pop-pop wasn't hurting anymore. I imagine, perhaps they do. But there are some things that are not in anyone's control. Let's be thankful they're not in physical pain anymore. And we can do our best to help them learn to live differently. Very, very differently.



You has a voice and teach others to speak. I do not speak for you; nobody else should either. You are capable. You are strong. You have courage like nobody I've known. I am thankful for you and our friendship.

All my love always.
xo
























We also

Epiphany

I had an epiphany this weekend.

My family has been participating in an annual event out of obligation, expectation, and tradition.

But, being The Parents, we get to decided what type of family traditions we get to do in our own home. Right? I mean, seriously. Just because our parents did things a particular way doesn't mean we are in any way shape or form obligated to do it that way too.

And this weekend, I decided this was the last traditional Thanksgiving dinner I will cook.

It's not the holiday itself. Believe me when I tell you I am thankful for a LOT. Like being able to afford the anti-seizure medications my older son is on. Like surviving breast cancer. Like having a husband that survived tonsil cancer. Like our amazing community who has supported us through all of my family's major health issues. We are incredibly thankful for the roof over our heads and reliable vehicles. Heat. That's kinda important. Food. Running water. Both are vital. So, it's not that I'm not or we're not finding ways to express gratitude or teach our children to be thankful. Gratitude. Check.

What gets me is the amount of planning and time and energy and money and logistics that goes into making a meal for only four people and knowing that not everyone is even going to taste everything because everyone has food anxiety and texture issues and ultimately I need to take care of me and my stress and making a huge meal is really really REALLY stressful.

So I'm done.

Mac and Cheese Maker

It's not that I don't enjoy cooking, because I do. Cooking for my family is one of the things that brings me a tremendous amount of joy, it is something I truly love doing. The secret ingredient is always love. Well, sometimes when my kids are acting like jackasses, I throw in a little hate. But mostly I cook with love. Mostly.

And because autism runs rampant in our home, and because each of us has food issues, I've learned over the years how to accommodate who has what food issue. Because that's just what you do, right?

Right.

But I've also learned that I'm done making certain accommodations around food for each of the individuals in my home. I'm not a short order cook. I was. But no longer. Will I still puree the onions? Totally. But, you can pick out the mushrooms brown peas if you don't like them. I do. Learn to eat around things, kids, you'll thank me later.

Part of this is where each of my kids are developmentally. For the past several months, we've been implementing the "cook your own lunch" method on the weekend. And so the boys have stepped up. My older son, who is developmentally disabled, is now able to cook his own Annie's Mac and Cheese on the stove, including draining the pasta into the colander that is in the sink (and my heart is in my throat every.single.time.). And my younger son, who is so developmentally advanced that he intentionally failed the testing for the highly capable program, chooses to make a homemade quesadilla on the griddle. In his defense, he grates his own cheddar cheese.

Mashed Potato King

Rule number one: One boy in the kitchen at a time.

Rule number two: You may not light the stove or turn on the oven.

Rule number three: Stay safe: use the timer (prevent a fire) and use oven mitts or hot pads (prevent a burn).

Rule number four: Either Mom or Dad supports and helps. And if Mom or Dad need to move in fast, you move outta the way faster.

I think when we start to have contempt for something, it means we're done with it. For years, I've been feeling contempt towards cooking on Thanksgiving, but didn't even realize it until my younger son said at the beginning of the month: "I don't like Thanksgiving because we always fight."

Thanks kid. Knife to the heart. At least he spoke his truth.

Well, the holidays are stressful. But why? Because I have always made the decisions about what we're going to eat on Thanksgiving. And I'm tired of that. What am I teaching them about food if I don't involve them in the decisions about what to eat? What am I teaching them about food if I do all the cooking? What am I teaching them about gender issues if I do all the shopping, planning, prepping and cooking? Because I'm not their bitch. I'm their mother. And I'm a Health Educator. What's the healthiest thing to teach them? If I get them to buy in to this meal from the beginning, will they have a different level of appreciation?

Perhaps.

Randy's Granny's cornbread dressing recipe

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, the four of us planned the menu together. We ended up with nine dishes, and I, being the Head Chef, made six of those. Nathan chose Annie's Mac and Cheese (obviously). Isaac picked mashed potatoes: he scrubbed, peeled, cut, and mashed. I supervised and suffered with the small burns from the scalding hot water drained the potatoes. Randy made his Granny's cornbread dressing. This is important because I have her handwritten recipe on a scrap of green paper that she wrote down for me like 20 years ago, and in September she left this earth to be with her Lord and Savior. I am thankful she chose to share her recipe with me.


So we cooked and we ate lunch about 1 and then we ate leftovers for dinner at 5:30. And then my family was done with Thanksgiving. So, like many Americans who are stuck with a shit ton of leftovers, I'm trying to be creative and clever and hitting trusted sites for leftover recipes...and it's going ok. But really, my family would be happier if I just roasted a chicken and made mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner, and then we had the same thing on Friday night. And then we moved on to an entirely new dinner on Saturday and Sunday.

For the record, this is the best recipe we found for leftovers: Thanksgiving Leftover Hand Pies is the official title at Campbell's. However, in my home, these are called "Thing-a-ma-jigs" which was nominated by the 8-year-old, and voted on with three yeas and one nay.

Thing-a-ma-jigs

And of course, I had to modify the recipe, because everyone's got a texture issue and some people despise cranberry sauce.

But, whatever. I'm done with cooking that big of a meal and dealing with insane amounts of leftovers that create even more stress that force me to "create" better tasting bullshit that they just ate yesterday. The max I can get out of one night of cooking is two meals. Two dinners. Unless it's tacos. Duh.

Ultimately, I have to make healthy choices for myself and how to best spend my time. By choosing to not make a traditional Thanksgiving meal out of some imaginary obligation I have to my family is a healthier choice for me.

This Thanksgiving has provided me a time of reflection and an opportunity to decide what my priority is: be happy.