sad fingers

my fimgers are sad and in pain, so please exucse my typos you guys. and poor grammar. mkay? I'm not printing this shit off and handing it in. I give zero shits aboot spellimg right now.

Anyway. So whenever I walk Misty she is harnessed. She's really strong and she weighs about 38 pounds. She is only 15-months old and oftentimes she likes to stop and sniff whatever deliciousness she can get her nose near. She;s a very active heeler mix, and when she's coming at you, you need to look alive, bitches!

And she's jumpy. Skittish. She spooks easily. We've learned it's simply part of her breed. At home, whenever one of her four humans makes a move, Misty is on her feet, ready to work. And when you've had a lazy but lovable Labrador for 10 years prior to a heeler mix, there's an adjustment. You'd think by now, a year into having her, I'd pay better attentoion to her when we're out wa;likng, yet here we are.

This past Saturday, Misty and I were on a walk with a dear friend and fellow dog mom and she had her male 6-mo old 14-poumd black, white and brown ball of adorableness. The dogs did great at their first meet and greet and so we started walking west on the ODT, like ya do. 

We went over the crick and thru the woods, towards the beach. The leash dancing was minimal. Seriously. It was a treat to be walking with my friend and our dogs. 

But we didn't make it to the water. We didn't make it to the cows. We didn't make it beyond the neighborhood.

Misty had stopped and stepped off the trail, sniffing at a branch with leaves. So I stopped and my friend and her puppy stopped. Perhaps Misty needed to pee, which she hardly ever does when she's on her leash and not at home. She prefers to do her business not attached to me, and without an audience. I get it. Ali Wong gets it. I like to pee and poop at home alone, too, you guys. Right?

Anyway, my friend and I had stopped and were talking, like ya do, when all at once, I heard the rustling of the leaves, I saw Misty jump completely out of her skin, and I felt a sharp jolt to my right hand.

at the walk-in clinic

Then I saw the slice, the flap of skin, and blood.

Fuck.

And me with no fucking tissues. #MomFail 

Or perhaps no kids = #MomWin...?

My friend and I agreed the best thing to do was call it less than a mile in and turn around. I was disappointed to not spend more time with my long-time friend, not get in as much exercise, not see, smell, and hear the Strait. But, life happens, so I switched Misty to my left hand and elevated my right and we all started walking back towards the parking lot. The blood had pooled in my cuticle, and had started running down the outside of my pinky finger. The tip of my ring finger felt like it was on fire and a small dark bruise was starting to show near my nail.

My friend kindly offered to walk Misty for me, but I declined. Walking my dog helped me focus on getting to the car, and not letting my anxiety get ahead of me. Keeping my anxiety in check is important bc if not, then the next thing you know, my fucking anxiety has me being air evac-ed to Seattle with gangrene of the entire right arm, getting ready to get amputated, and all I wanted to do was walk my dog and spend time with my friend on a grey Saturday in the summer, you guys. #fuckinganxiety

splint and a bandage

We walked the three-quarters of a mile back to our cars with purpose: as calmly and efficiently and quickly as we could, with two puppies, and one person bleeding proficiently. As we walked, the blood pooled in the webbing between my pinky and my ring fingers. It was starting to run down the outside my hand, creeping toward my wrist.

I held my right hand up and let it bleed. What else could I do? Well I could have used my black fleece pull-over to apply pressure if I needed to, but I didn't feel like I needed to. Because then I gotta deal with getting the blood stain out of my black fleece. We all know the Award for Most Oppressive Bitch Chore goes to Laundry, yo! Why create more work for myself? 

Yes, I realize now, several days later, that the blood would probably not show on black fabric. And yes, as a quilter, I know that my own saliva is the best way to get blood out of fabric. But given the amount of blood I was loosing, I'd need a lot of spit. In the moment? I just needed to get to my car.

And really, I had no desire to even attempt to remove my clothing over my wounds. Fuck. That.

When we arrived in the parking lot, I opened my door and grabbed a couple of tissues and immediately applied pressure to my pinky finger to stop the bleeding. My friend offered to call my husband so he could come get me, but I declined; I was only a couple miles up the hill. I wanted to get home and get cleaned up and calmed down. I agreed to text her when I got home. And, yes, I know that the data show that most auto accidents occur close to home, but really, I just wanted to get home, you guys, and I had confidence in my decision.

Typically when I walk with my friends on the ODT, I'm gone a couple of hours. But this time, less than 40 mins after leaving the house I texted my husband and said "I'm injured onmy r hand 🏡".

I am thankful I drive an automatic. Do they even make a standard transmission anymore? I got myself home by intentionally not making a left onto the highway. Making a right, driving through a parking lot, sitting at a light, and doubling back added a few more minutes to my drive, but it was the safest health choice for me. Yes, driving is a health choice. 

I got home and cleaned myself up and calmed down. I sat down at the kitchen table with a large glass of water and drank it as I looked at my phone for the hours of the walk-in clinic at the hospital. My husband and I needed to make some quick decisions that would affect all five of us for the rest of the day. 

We compared my right and left hands.

Hubs: It's a pretty good slice. It may need some glue or a stitch. Your ring finger is swollen and not quite straight. Perhaps we need to go.

checking on her patient

Me: The boys are kinda responsible and can sorta feed themselves some lunch, in an emergency, which this is kinda turning into because my fingers and my hand are really starting to fuckin hurt. And I'm still fucking bleeding.

Hubs: They don't miss meals. They're not gonna starve. We'll stay in touch via text because they're living their best teenage boy slug life of playing video games and watching YouTube videos.

Me: I suppose if we're gone most of the day we can get Chinese takeout. Because fuck you dinner, make yourself. 

I decided to listen to my friend and my husband and go to urgent care. My awesome husband drove me, thankfully. I didn't need to drive again. And there was going to be paperwork to complete and sign. I'm right handed. I had absolutely zero fucking desire, or ability, to hold a writing implement. 

Perhaps not shockingly, "Learn to Function with Your Non-dominant Hand" was not on my Summer Bingo Card, you guys.

Several hours and three x-rays later, I have a hairline fracture in the tip of my right ring finger. The nurse practitioner I saw doesn't want me to bend the first joint closest to the tip of that finger, so she splinted it and told me to leave it on for four to six weeks. She said buddy taping my ring finger to my middle finger might happen in a couple weeks but to see how things heal. We'll see. We all know how important that middle finger is, you guys.

I have some soft tissue damage and will have some faint yet colorful bruises on my palm, near the base of my ring and middle fingers. Fortunately, I was not wearing jewelry. They asked if my dog pulled me down, and she did not. I suppose she could could have; I'm thankful the medical assistant who triaged me asked me. My wrist and elbow are fine.

They cleaned my pinky finger, but honestly it was already pretty darn clean from bleeding out on the trail and the washing I gave it when I got home from my walk earlier that morning. I put Neosporin and a band-aid on it before my loving husband drove me to urgent care.

In clinic, the nurse practitioner measured the slice on my finger, and she, my husband, and I all talked it through. In the end, we all agreed that leaving it alone was the best option. No glue. No stitches. Just a band-aid with triple antibiotic ointment. Wash it twice a day and put Neosporin and a new band-aid on it. Be gentle.

For both fingers: ice, elevate, rest, no pressure on your hand for 4-6 weeks (no down dog! WTF?!). Follow-up with your doc's office on Monday. Manage pain with Advil and Tylenol. 

We were home by mid-afternoon and skipped the Chinese takeout. 

I'm not sure the boys noticed we were gone. One ate lunch, the other did not. We all make choices. 

Misty was a bit stressed when we got home; she doesn't like the splint. Saturday evening, her autism was showing in that she doesn't like change, and she refused to come inside and eat her dinner until my splint and I left the room. #princess

I briefly stepped away from my before bed yoga practice, but for mental health and to help me sleep I'm figuring out how to practice differently. It's not the end of the world. Nobody died. I'll live. I'm cautiously optimistic that by the end of the summer, I'll improve my skills at sitting criss-cross-applesauce and not overthinking stuff, you guys. #goals

learn something new

You guys, I've been on lock down with my boys for 19 months. 

Remember early on in the pandemic, the #2020Lockdown...back in March 2020?

floss everyday

Before everything really went to shit? 

Yeah, anyway, people all over the world were all like, "let's learn new things, you guys!" 

I decided I wanted to learn how to floss.

Not my teeth. 

I do that every night. 

For real. 

Because I want an A at every dental visit, you guys.

flossing

I wanted to learn the dance. 

Seriously.

When my younger son was in second grade, flossing was the thing. 

Like, at pick-up after school everyday, he'd patiently wait while I chatted with the other moms, and to amuse himself, he'd floss. 

Then when his older brother would arrive a few minutes later, the boys would beat the shit out of each other, for which I would apologize to the other parents because my kids are the worst, obviously...and we'd have to leave quickly. 

Fucking children.

Over the past four years, I've tried flossing, but haven't been whats called a Strong Flosser.

And, when presented the opportunity, I use my graceless flossing to embarrass my children.  

dabbing

I mean, duh!

Of course, dabbing was also some kind of thing in the second grade.

As a seasoned Gen-Xer, who repeatedly watched and danced along with, Thriller as a child, I...

a) mastered that move on my first attempt.

b) need the challenge of crossing the brain mid-line.

c) know it means something different in the world of marijuana.

d) all of the above are true.

It's D, you guys. 

Just so you know. 

I'm that cool. 

For real. 

But, here we are, nearly two years into being together every single day, and my now 7th grader decides to tell me I gotta swing my arms and hips in opposite directions. 

So, on the one hand, I can now floss, which is fabulous. 

On the other hand, we don't go anywhere and I have zero opportunity to embarrass my children with my stellar dance moves. 

Yes, I can have a living room dance party. 

But it's not the same.

So I'm on to bigger goals: floss walking. 

floss walking

 

This way, when we go somewhere, I can make a statement with my exit, you guys. 

Even if it's the grocery store. 

Not only am I learning something new, I'm seizing every opportunity to embarrass my children. 

Because that's always fun!

Shhh, don't talk about it

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

That's been their mentality from the start.

Don't talk about Mom's Dementia.

Within the first year of my now 14-year-old son's arrival, she sent the same book twice. When I politely brought it up, she sang out, "Oh! I'm just a doting Grandma! [pregnant pause] But maybe I should make a list of what I send...?"

"No biggie, Mom. It's fine to have two copies of a book," I said.  Because: Books.

Way Out In The Desert(s)

To which she then suggested that since I have two books, perhaps I need to just have a second child. 

Yeah. Because children are like Lay's fuckin' potato chips. Ya might as well have more than one!

Fast forward 11 years to spring 2016, it was after my Breast Cancer Adventure. My first Port Angeles Friend and I took a field trip to see my folks. We went out to dinner, and after my mom excused herself to go to the bathroom, Dad addressed Mom's "problems with her memory."

"I know, Dad," I said. "That's a big reason why I'm here." 

We talked in hushed tones. I mean, we all know that every Mom has the Super Power of being able to listen to the conversation you're having at the table, in a noisy restaurant while she's in the bathroom, and the bathroom is on the other side of the restaurant, you guys. Right?

My dear first Port Angeles Friend was, as always, incredibly kind and offered my Dad her personal experience with her own mother-in-law's dementia diagnosis. The three of us conspired for me to have breakfast with my Mom alone one morning, so that I could express my concerns and offer ways to help. 

I mean, HELLLLLOOOOO? Health Educator since 1997! 

Oh! And as an added bonus: Special needs mom turned breast cancer survivor turned tonsil cancer caregiver, here! 

I wish I was lying.

And my day job is teaching college students how to make informed health choices! #DreamJob #Gratitude 

Dad! I am here to help you guys! This is what I do! Think of it as a return on your investment in my bachelor's degree. For real. I have specialized training, as well as personal experience, and can totally help you and Mom navigate the health care system and --

Here she comes!  

My dad had his eye on the bathroom door and watched my mother walk across the restaurant.

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

The next morning at breakfast, I explained to my mom how I found the lump in my own breast. That I promptly chose to talk with my spouse, and to see my doctor about a problem we could not deny. I stated that from my perspective, as a mom of a child who has neurological disabilities, I felt as though her brain health was beginning to decline. I told her I loved her several times, and I pleaded with her to please ask her own doctor for a referral to a neurologist or neuropsychologist. 

She said she would. 

But she didn't.  

Because shhh...don't talk about it. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you guys.

Yet, from the perspective of the patient with dementia, it's gotta be the the hardest goddam thing to do. Walk into your physician's office and say "I need to be tested for dementia"...? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I imagine that's harder than, "I found a lump." 

But maybe making comparisons between their hard and my hard isn't the way to go with this. Their hard is their hard.   

And my hard is my hard. 

It's not a contest, you guys. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

My monkeys fly...

 

 

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.

I think perhaps...

I think perhaps, the best thing I did for myself was getting far the fuck away from my male housemates, physically, geographically, mentally, and spiritually for four full nights last week.

It's made this nasty GI bug that has impacted all four of us significantly more tolerable.

While in Phoenix I had no idea that my family would, within 36 hours of my return, be welcoming me home with what some folks call "the stomach flu...."

I've been up to my eyeballs in bodily fluids, including my own, starting with my older son waking up twice in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with vomiting. In a positive spin, he made it all the way down the hall and into the toilet, both times. He's come a long way.

Typically I'm the parent who deals with puking, while my husband is the parent who deals with Kids in the Night (that's got the potential to be a teen horror movie, so I'm claiming it now!). However, my husband, being a very kind man, dealt with the older boy in the night...knowing I'd be home dealing with the day shift. Because the older one always gets hit harder.

When I was in Phoenix, I spent all day Friday in bed. I was unable to keep down any food or water. I ran no temperature. Maybe I had something...but it felt more like a hangover...so I'm rolling with that self-assessment. It was secretly kind of nice...just the no obligation thing...not the puking thing.

I think perhaps I know myself pretty well...and am humble enough to say I'm still learning about myself and my life.

While in Phoenix, I had the opportunity to learn about how my relationships with each of my parents have changed. For most of my life, I battled with my mother. For reasons I can only speculate on, my dad appears to be angry at me. I think perhaps he's incredibly frustrated with his situation.

Never in our wildest dreams do we anticipate our life turning out as it does. I never thought I'd be a college instructor...or the mom of a child with disabilities...or a yogi...a breast cancer survivor...a tonsil cancer caregiver.... Similarly, I think perhaps my dad never anticipated that his retirement would be about caring for his wife in her rapid decline. Her brain is atrophying...she has very little color in her face...she's lost weight compared to the last time I saw her at the end of March 2016.

She's become quite happy...or at least she appears to be. I took my parents and My Little Brother to dinner on Thursday night in The Valley of the Sun. We went to some #GoddamnFancyPantsPlacePlace in Scottsdale called Postino. It was delicious. The Kid knows his food. And points to him for picking a place that accommodates his veganism and my need for real cheese. #Duh

Anyway, after dinner, we four made a stop at Safeway because the Airbnb my folks were staying at didn't have any food in the fridge...because that's how Airbnbs work. Incidentally, the Airbnb arrangements were made by the Beautiful Bride. Needless to say, The Newlyweds learned a lot and My Folks will not be staying at an Airbnb again.

So, naturally there was a huge discussion about who should go in the grocery store, make decisions about what people were going to eat, and be quick about it. #FuckThatNoise #ImOnVacation So, go Dad, go! You take your boy. I'll stay in the car with mom. Bro, gimme your keys so we can lock ourselves in. My ringer is on in case Dad needs to ask Mom questions. But you text me. Do not hand him your phone and let him call because then we will never leave Safeway, dude, you know what I'm sayin? Take your time. Trust me when I tell you he needs the mental health break. Dividing and conquering is how to parent The Parents. It's all good. It's why I flew solo.

As my mom and I were sitting in the car, even though she asked me at least three times how old my boys are, or what grade they are in, we had a delightful and relaxed conversation. I patiently answered her questions. I also explained that The Boys were not here for many reasons, including school, expense, sports, and stress. She completely understood. I told her that they enjoy things like Living Room Soccer, Hallway Baseball, and World Wrestling Federation: Living Room Edition. We had a good, and much needed laugh together.

So she appears happy. My dad...not so much....

While at the wedding reception of My Little Brother and his Beautiful Bride, I gave myself opportunities to have conversations with folks who are my parents' ages, people I know they consider close family friends. These people have been a part of my family as long as I can remember. Apparently, whenever my dad brings up my mom's health, and specifically her brain health, to my mom...my mom gets pissed and doesn't want to talk about it. And that's completely understandable. Denial is their coping mechanism. Alternatively, they are incredibly private people.

In my research and teaching of the health of aging...hopefully we make it there, right? Anyway, the research shows that strategically, it's best to not argue with them. In fact, it can just get you in trouble. I think perhaps my dad needs to develop some strategies to help himself best help her.

To help them both, I've printed the information in the "printer friendly" version from above link and will send it down to them. Because #JesusKnows that had I chosen to print the page, my dad would've become overwhelmed and thrown it away. The Internet is such a trend.

My dad is a prideful man and appears to be completely satisfied with his "ignorance is bliss" mentality towards the fact that he's not on the Internet...no, really, I wish I was making this piece up. I distinctly recall living in Flagstaff, attending NAU, 23+ years ago, having a Math T/A require we have an e-mail...? WTF is this email nonsense? And who in the goddmamn does that T/A think he is requiring such shenanigans? Seriously, you guys. Is he really that important? Yes. Yes he is. #MathProfRockStar

I recall my dad calling the Internet "trendy"...he said it was a soup of the day. #JesusDad #IThinkPerhapsHeDoesntKnowWhatAHashtagIs #GodLoveHim #WhatElseCanYaDo And now, the Internet and the Information Age is just how the world works. And no, my dad's got no #GoddamnClue about Amazon. Netflix? Prolly not...Maybe a DVD Player...? But I'd bet money the VCR still blinks 12:00. I know for a fact it's a VHS and not Beta.

If you haven't jumped on the Web...well, as my dad said, he's on a stage coach and everyone else is driving a car. I think perhaps a better analogy is he's chosen to remain with the Flintstones, and damn near everyone else is like the Jetsons! Bless his heart.

Anyway, I've also printed a picture of me, My Little Brother, and our folks, the night before The Kid got married in an elaborate ceremony (more on that to come). In typing this, and putting some pieces together in my head, I recognize this could be one of the last pictures the four of us take while my parents, my mom in particular, is coherent. I'm not intending to sound cold...it's just reality, you guys.

My Little Brother, Mom, Me, Dad. The night before The Kid got hitched.

Today is Friday and it's the first day my older son went to school since Monday. My younger son had a horrible night and didn't sleep...because of the GI bug. My husband drove my older son to school, and went to work...but ended up canceling classes and came home. I'll leave soon to pick up my older son, and make a couple of stops on the way...including getting a card for my parents, and a stop at the Post Office to mail the card, the info on dementia care-giving, and the picture of the four of us. Hopefully the picture will distract her, jog her memory, and my dad can keep the paperwork on the down low. We'll see.... It may just end up in the trash. In my heart, I know I've tried my best and set boundaries.

Ultimately, at the end of the day, to my dad, it doesn't matter that I'm a college Health instructor, and I research and I teach about topics such as aging. It doesn't matter to him that I have years of experience caring for my son, whom I love very deeply and who happens to have myriad neurological disorders, struggle to simply get through the day sometimes...and that he needs a pretty significant daily dose of anti-seizure medications to stay healthy. That doesn't matter to my dad. Like I said, he's got a lot of pride. From his perspective, I don't have a clue what I'm talking about because, the bottom line for him is: I am a child. I will always be a child. I will never be an adult. In. His. Eyes.

I think perhaps this has something to do with the fact that he's never seen me parent. I've never traveled with my children to Arizona. The last time my parents were in my home in Washington State, my 13-year-old son was ten months. You read that correctly. Ten months old. And, no, they've never even met my 10-year-old. It's horribly unfortunate and quite disappointing that my kids do not know...will never know...my folks.

But, I'm allowed to be a selfish bitch, and if you don't have the courage, the capacity, the ability, to deal with me, my husband, our kids, and our numerous health issues, of which I'm quite outspoken, then you don't deserve us. No matter our connection prior to those numerous health issues. You don't get us dad, and mom. My Little Brother, and his Beautiful Bride: they get us. He came up during My Cancer Adventure. And in the space of 10 months, they came up to visit us TWICE. They get us. Just like I told every guest at their reception when I made an awesomely witty speech and toasted them. They. Get. Us.

Except when they got married. Then they only got me live and in person. But, they still get us as a family. Because that's what family does.

They get it.

On a slightly different note...and bringing us full circle back to "the stomach flu"...it's my blog, so I think perhaps I'll get on my soapbox now...

I think perhaps...actually I know people that say "the stomach flu" make me want to poke out my goddamn eyes.

There is no "stomach flu" people.

The flu, or influenza, is a respiratory infection. It hits you in the lungs. Not the gut.

So, with kids who have parents who smoke, those kids are at an increased risk for influenza and other respiratory impairments, like asthma and bronchitis, as well as ear infections...because they are inhaling secondhand smoke.

And while I recognize that folks have the best of intentions when they say "the stomach flu" it really tends to be a pet peeve of many health care professionals I know. So, please, use the correct terms. If you have "GI issues" and are dealing with barfing and hoping to make it to the toilet before you have liquid come out of your ass, then you're more than likely dealing with Norovirus. Alternately, you could also be dealing with Ebola, but that usually involves hemorrhaging. Like, bleeding out of your ass. And, Ebola hasn't yet made it to America. Hopefully it doesn't.

Also, you can feel free to watch this nifty 60 second video that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention made about the flu. And refrain from whatever your stance is on vaccines. #ScienceWorks

Peace out, dudes.

Thanks for reading.

And wash your hands.

#MaRa
Ringleader
Anderson Family Circus

Perspective

I am home today with a sick teenager who has GI issues. 

 

But, today I am choosing to celebrate, because also on this day...

Forty-seven years ago I was born.

Seven years we were at the Autism Center in Seattle, and when I signed us in I accidentally put my birth year instead of the actual year.

Four years ago I completed radiation treatments for breast cancer.

 

And even though I'm planning on being up to my eyeballs in bodily fluids and laundry for the next several days, I am healthy and can be present with my kid during this trying time for him.

Life is all about perspective, you guys. 

 

Choose wisely, younglings. 

This is the only life we have.

 

And, Happy Birthday to ME!

Happy Birthday, Mom

Happy Birthday, Mom!

You're 70 years old!

It's quite an accomplishment to make it to 70.

How does it feel?

Do you know?

Do you know that you're officially a septuagenarian?

Do you remember your birthday?

I worry you don't.

Because I know your brain hasn't been working properly for at least 10 years.

Do you remember that your own father was in a nursing home at the end of his life and that he didn't recognize your mother, to whom he was married for 50 years? 

Dementia runs in our family.

But so does denial.

It's your coping mechanism.

I get it.

I wish I could ignore the fact that you choose to ignore your health.

I wish I could ignore the fact that my own child has numerous neurological disorders.

I wish I could change a lot of things for both of you.

But I'm not capable of fixing either one of you.

I can do my best to help you.

And him.

But you're an adult.

Turning into a child.

Whereas my son is a child turning into an adult.

Who will likely never live on his own.

Never truly be independent.

I know now why you haven't been to visit me and my family for 12 years.

Why you've never met my younger son.

He'll be 10 years old at the end of this month.

The last time you were in my home, my older son was 10 months old.

He'll be 13 in September.

Do you know that?

Probably not.

Because you don't even know us.

Because you live in a State of Denial.

It's too overwhelming for you to travel.

It's too overwhelming for you to look me in the eye and acknowledge that your grandson is a lovely boy who doesn't live up to your unattainable expectations of perfection.

He is disabled.

It's too overwhelming for you to look me and my husband in the eye and acknowledge that, even though I asked you and Dad several times to come visit us over the years, including in 2015 when I was going through breast cancer treatments, fighting for my life, you didn't come.

And here I thought, because I was told, that you and Dad always had my back.

That you'd always support me.

Nope.

And here I thought that, if your kid gets a cancer diagnosis, you get on a plane and you go to where ever they are, because, ultimately, I'm still your kid.

Happy Birthday, Mom. 

That seizure disorder diagnosis that you received in September 2018?

Probably related to your dementia.

But maybe not.

When I talked to my son's pediatric neurologist about your diagnosis, and told him the medication your on, he explained that it's impossible to know if the dementia is caused by the seizures, or the seizures is caused by the dementia.

It's a classic "chicken or egg" thing.

And, Dad?

Poor Dad.

I know he put off his retirement because he knew his retirement wasn't going to go as he anticipated.

I know he anticipated traveling.

Maybe even up to see me and my husband and our boys.

Nope.

I know he anticipated being able to take his woodworking career and turn it into a hobby.

He made a desk for my Little Brother.

And a gigantic clock for us.

But his work has been caring for you.

And raising a Golden Retriever puppy.

Having a puppy right now is fucking insane.

I'm sorry your older Golden died unexpectedly and traumatically.

But why in the goddamn did you guys agree to get a puppy?

Whatever.

Not my problem.

You guys are adults.

You made your decisions.

I just wish you guys would stop and think about your own futures.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Do you remember that my dear friend and I flew down from Washington to Arizona about this time three years ago?

Because I needed to see for myself what was going on. 

It was about six weeks before my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 tonsil cancer.

Do you remember that you and I went to breakfast alone?

That I told you the story of how I found my lump on a breast self-exam. That I ended up having breast cancer. And how I advocated for my own health when I was a cancer patient?

Do you remember?

That I pleaded with you to please get the help you needed and deserved?

That I got home and printed off information about the care you could receive at the University of Arizona from their program on senior citizens?

Because you and Dad aren't on the Web.

Because you guys told me over twenty years ago that "the Internet is a fad."

Because you both live in a State of Denial.

Consequently, you guys have no idea how the current world works.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I hope you like the quilt I made for you and Dad.

I put a label on the bottom left corner on the back side.

And included the date I created it.

To help you remember.

But do you think it's a new quilt every time you walk in the room and see it?

Did you hang it up?

Or are you using it as a blanket?

Either way.

I anticipate that you'll fold it up and put it in a corner and forget about it.

I anticipate that you will not hang it up.

I know you had the interior of your home painted about five years ago, and that you don't want to re-hang the photos and artwork because you don't want to put holes in the walls.

Weird.

But whatever.

It's your home.

Your decisions.

But don't worry.

I'll suck it up and drag my entire family to Arizona for my Little Brother's wedding in November.

I'll start training my kids in April about how to get on an airplane.

We're taking a major field trip to the Museum of Flight. 

And I also found this awesome program, called Wings for Autism.

Here, watch this 6 minute video, which explains the program.

And what my family will do.

What I'll put them through because I love my Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé.

Because they love us.

And we love them.

And this is what we do for people that we love. 

Because, seriously, how long has it been since our family had something beautiful and delightful happen?

How long has it been since we could all be together and be happy?

How long since we celebrated?

I don't remember.

And even though My Little Brother and his Fantastic Fiancé gave me, my husband, and our kids a free pass...and told me that because of everything we deal with...if we are unable to make it to their wedding, they completely understand...and will not be offended.

Nope.

We're making plans to descend upon the desert in the fall.

Because, ultimately, this is likely to be the only opportunity you will be given to meet my boys.

To have an inkling of what my life is like.

To see me as a parent.

Who knows...between your neurological disorders and my son's neurological disorders, maybe the two of you will become as thick as thieves.

At the very least, you'll both enjoy listening to The Beatles.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I love you.

Love,
Rachel
xoxo

Budding Violinist

I'm doing my best to not go down the "holy hell what did we just do to permanently damage everyone's hearing" rabbit hole. I have ear plugs and headphones at the ready, just in case the rumors are true that it's really that bad.

But, in an autism home, we have that stuff at the ready anyway, because sometimes our hearing gets super sensitive. Usually it's before me or one of the boys gets sick, or if someone else has been yelling and melting and raging at me for hours, like he has been recently...since weeks before the start of the school year...because transition...and his twelfth birthday...and testosterone...sixth grade. The season is changing, the days are becoming shorter, and the air has grown invigoratingly brisk at our house....the Big-Leaf Maples are turning golden-orangey-brown, and the Honey Crisps are fresh and huge and crunchy and amazing...and with a little peanut butter...I SAID GODDAMN!!! 

I'm trying in earnest to let go of the fact that my younger son is merely nine. Not even 9-1/2. He doesn't know the formalities of a proper orchestra. I'm pretty sure he's not even aware that Classical Music is a genre. Or what a genre is.... Or that any form of music really existed before Elvis or the Beatles...or his personal favorite, Iron Maiden. He's not aware that a couple of hundred years before the Beatles were even born, people were composing and playing music in an entirely different way than they do today. I mean, seriously, the only reason they know the name Beethoven is because they've heard the Beatles version of "Roll Over Beethoven"...and yes, I know Chuck Berry did it first...but just roll with me here, you guys, mkay? And Mozart? Fuhgeddaboutit. The fact that the man who is probably the most famous classical music composer died at the young age of 35? My kid's head would explode.

Most days, my older son has a Beatles Bubble Bath Break: long hot soak in the tub, with the Beatles playing on the blue tooth speaker. During the summer, the bath usually occurred after lunch, for an hour or so. And now after school: first snack, then bath. What's your picture schedule say, Mr. Sixth Grade? You have Hapkido and can spend about 20 minutes in the tub today. First Beatles Bubble Bath Break, then Hapkido. I'm setting a timer on Alexa that says "GET OUT OF THE TUB!" in 20 minutes. He is capable of turning on the speaker and telling Alexa to shuffle the Beatles. It's good for him; gives him an opportunity to work on his annunciation. Also, he's completely capable of doing this all on his own. But, I draw the bath...and put in the goddamn bubbles. Because god knows that blue syrupy soapy shit would end up all over the goddamn walls, which would ultimately create more Bitch Work for me. You know, part of the problem with being a mom is our children have this attitude of "Someone will come along and clean this up!" and they run away beating each other like the monkeys that they are. Maybe I should give him a "how to draw your own goddamn bubble bath" lesson. He's probably capable of doing that on his own....

Up here on the North Olympic Peninsula, in my children's school district, they start teaching strings in fourth grade. And the music teachers are fucking serious about it. No fiddle farting around, if you will. They even sent home a letter saying, essentially, that if you snooze you loose and waiting till fifth or sixth grade isn't an option. It's now or never, kiddies. I know because the day the strings teacher introduced strings, my child told me about the letter, saying that is was on Gold Paper. He didn't know WTF was written in the letter. But, dammit it was on Gold Paper! I was told by my 9-year-old that he needed to go to the music store today. And that we needed to sign up for his music lessons today. And that waiting till tomorrow wasn't an option. I communicated to my son that until I read the letter on Gold Paper, and had more information on how much money all of this was going to cost, I was absolutely not going to take him and his brother to a music store right this second. Because it's a little more important to go home, get a Beatles Bubble Bath Break and some goddamn food and then go to Hapkido and get thrown around. I pay a monthly tuition for back up parenting, and we're not missing Hapkido, thank you. So, let's go home so I can read the Golden Letter and gather more information about Strings Night.

The 9-year-olds

I made arrangements with a good friend, who also has a 9-year-old boy, to go to dinner and then go to Strings Night. I think the woman from the music store thought my friend and I we were a married couple. Because my friend and I, and both 9-year-old boys, all have the same last name. As if all Andersons are related. The woman from the music store mixed up our contracts and put my friend's credit card number on my contract, too. So, to make sure that my friend wasn't paying for two violin rentals, I requested that the woman from the music store redo my contract. She became rather flustered, but agreed to redo the contract. We didn't say anything about our marital status. But we did provide different mailing addresses on each contract, just to really confuse the woman from the music store.

Anyway, on the one hand, I see the side of introducing strings early, because the sooner we can start band and orchestra education the better. But on the other hand, as a kid who started on viola in the sixth grade, switched to violin in Jr. High, and played violin all throughout High School, made some amazing friends by making music with them...really? Why are you preventing kids from starting strings in 5th or even 6th grade? What about us stragglers who need more time to think about making life-altering decisions, you guys?? But, ok, that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away.... do I really need to culturally reference that one, you guys? Ugh...here....

Fine.... 

Anyway...

So, I have an incredibly deep sense of gratitude for the people who play and teach Classical Music; especially those who teach the greenest, most freshly learning children. I'm the first to admit that teaching groups of fourth graders how to play a stringed instrument is not my my skill set. No, child you need to play between the fingerboard and the bridge. NOT between the bridge and the tailpiece. When you play between the bridge and the tailpiece...well, that's why it sounds like an animal dying, sweetie.

I am happy to step way the hell back and let the teacher instruct her selected area of study and expertise. I'm thrilled to buy the required book for $10. I even purchased a fold-up music stand because it was a reasonable price at $15. But, I'm not buying a shoulder rest for $25, because I know a trick for a chin rest that involves rolled up quilt batting and rubber bands, so we're gonna save a little money on that one, thank you very much. And, besides, if and when he decides to become the next Amadeus, then we can talk about the shoulder rest. He's already working on being the next Bruce Lee and Lionel Messi. And he's planning on winning all the Oscars.... So, let's take the Budding Violinist thing a little slowly...and methodically...if you will....

We are renting his instrument. Because we're not financially in a position to spend several hundred dollars on a new violin. Or even $100 on a used one. Because you're nine. And you've never played an instrument before, and I don't even know if you're going to enjoy playing, so I'm not down with spending a shit ton of money on this little adventure until I know you're gonna be into it for longer than five minutes. Seriously. Bitches. Also, I really like the fact that when we rent the violin, even though I told him to treat it like he'd treat Mrs. Ventura's Bokken, using the upmost respect and awareness, the fact remains that if he accidentally drops his violin and breaks it, or he uses the bow as a Bokken and it breaks, then it's not going to cost me a penny. Because a good friend and I took our 9-year-old boys to strings night and we signed up for a rental and have a contract. Just don't tell the music store if you use your bow as a Bokken. Actually, don't use your bow as a Bokken. Duh. It's not a weapon. Not everything is a weapon, son.

My son asked me to teach him to read music. Um...honey...I'd really love to help you with this...but it's been a really, REALLY long time since I've read music. I think it's best to let your teacher help you with this. Well...let's see...I graduated in 1990...and I was 17...and how old am I now? Yes...I turned 46 in November...so nearly thirty years since I've read music. Yes, 29 years. Thank you Junior Math Prof Rock Star. So, since your music teacher knows how to read music, she will teach you how to read music. #NotIt

But, please, don't call pizzicato "plucking." I'm gonna draw a line in the sand on that one. Seriously. I mean, I know they're fourth graders and you're trying to keep it simple. But really, in my experience, students, even young ones, are capable of meeting you where you set the bar. And, technically, you pluck a chicken. You pizzicato a violin. Or viola, cello, or bass. Also, while we're talking about this, you don't pluck your eyebrows; you tweeze your eyebrows. Just to clarify so that we're all reading the same sheet music, here.

And, I know you're following the curriculum from the book and that first you start with pizzicato, and that bow work doesn't even start until page 16. And I know that eventually, the bows are all going to flow in the same direction at the same time. However, I am curious to know when do you divide up first and second violins...? I haven't talked to my son about this yet because he'll do his best to be first chair, and he's only nine and certainly doesn't need that type of self-induced pressure. And how in the goddamn did I get to be 46?

Mrs. Claus

When I was younger, in my late teens, I was pretty serious with this one fella....

And every year at Christmastime, his mom would give her kids gifts from Mrs. Claus.

Right? 

She's obviously brilliant. 

And she told her husband that Mrs. Claus was a neighbor or acquaintance or someone she knew from when they lived back east. 

Seriously. 

And to the best of my recollection, on the rare occasion that the husband questioned, then she was like "Honey, you remember! The lovely neighbor Mrs. Claus!" and that was the end of it. He blew it off...whatever.

I'm giving credit to my ex-boyfriend's mother on this Mrs. Claus thing up front because I had a major plagiarism case in my classroom last year, and I'm a firm believer in citing my sources. And while I have a lot to say about the major plagiarism case, I'm not saying anything because I really love the teaching gig I've had since 2002.

For the past year or so my family has been letting go of the traditional approaches to the holidays, and let's face it, we all know women have been running the show around purchases for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever holiday families celebrate. Women. And Mrs. Claus has been a silent partner too goddamn long.

My family celebrates Christmas, and not in the religious sense. We celebrate simply being together and yes, we do Santa. It's part of having a child who is chronologically 12, but developmentally 5. We will likely always do Santa....

Honestly, I put a lot into the Solstice, living up here at 48.12* N, and 123.43* W where the sun was up from 8:01 am till 4:22 pm on December 21. Each day after the solstice, the sun is up for a little longer. Let there be light.

In my house, we celebrate Christmas. And we're fine to say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and, really, I, like a growing number of Americans, don't give really care what kind of greeting you say, just be kind when you say it. For reals.

But, here's the deal, the Santa I was taught to love is an old white dude who's been given credit for the work of others for a few hundred years. And, honestly, Mrs. Claus has been getting the shaft, if you will, about this whole thing. I'll let Miss Granger deal with the elves, yo. That's not my jam...

As a feminist, my heart belongs to Mrs. Claus, because I, like many women I know who happen to also be moms, am the following Departments:

• Planning
• Purchasing
• Wrapping
• Decorating
• Cooking/Baking
• Cleaning/Housekeeping

Sometimes, we call the last two Departments the Bitch Work Departments, because obviously.

Also, as the primary food source (wasn't that shit supposed to stop after I weaned them? FUCK!) sometimes I add hate as a necessary ingredient in my recipies. A lot of people cook with love. But I find hate works, too. It's better than spitting into their food. I mean, that's just disgusting. But hate? Adds a little spice to life. Just kidding. I only add love. Because there's already a lot of anger in my house because of the myriad diagnoses my family has been handed over the past eight years. And, Jesus knows, there's a shit ton of hatred in the world.

So, as Mrs. Claus, it's my responsibility to ensure that Christmas happens...to be totally responsible and make magic happen for my kids.

And, as Mrs. Claus, I purchase really good stuff for myself. Duh. For the past several Christmases, Mrs. Claus purchased a gift certificate for a pedicure for me. Because Mrs. Claus knows I need to park my ass for an hour and indulge in self-care with no children around.

Mrs. Claus has even become so popular in my home that my kids say things like, "I sure hope Mrs. Claus has arranged for the elves to fill up my stocking!" That's right. They are boys being trained to know that women run the show.

Over Portugal

Even though my very bright, but young 4th grader is starting to question me about Santa...I went straight to Mrs. Claus: "Yes, actually, Mrs. Claus is the one responsible for overseeing all the planning including the route planners who work with the meteorologists, and then they coordinate it all and send it up to Google Santa Tracker and then Mrs. C gets the final word on all of that. You know?"

A couple of weeks ago, we were standing in line to see Santa at Swain's, because they have everything including Santa, my boys asked me where Mrs. Claus was, "Oh she just dropped him off and is gonna pick him up later because she's gotta get back to the North Pole and make sure the elves are getting the toys made."

Secretly, it's kinda fun.

I even talk to strangers about Mrs. Claus. I recently had a delightful conversation with a nearly 4-year-old girl and she's never fucking heard of Mrs. Claus! Sweet Jesus! That's just shameful. So I filled her in. I think her dad was a little concerned. He didn't turn around and look at me because he either didn't want to encourage me, or he wanted to get the fuck outta there. I can't say I blame him. I mean, some middle-aged broad with a purple pixie was talking to his 4-year-old in a pink pussy hat about Mrs. Claus. He was not gonna jump in on that conversation. Gotta penis? Get out.

Last night, as my husband and I were setting up and making Christmas happen, because my husband knows which side his bread is buttered on...our younger son struggled to get to sleep. It's the excitement of Christmas. I get it. I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. But not when a child gets out of bed to pee...and then can't get back to sleep...because he's never been to sleep in the first place. Ugh.

Our living room and the boy's bedroom share a wall, and we were as quiet as we could be in our set up. But, due to sickness last week, we've been super duper minimal this year. It was all we could do to get the Christmas stockings out of the loft in the shed. I'm not down with live trees; allergies. And, I don't want to make our incredibly dedicated 4-legged child move out of her space.

Keeping in the tradition of thinking outside of the box, my 4th grade son decided to paint a Christmas tree...and we placed presents under it. He was concerned that Santa wouldn't find our house. I told him Mrs. Claus had it all under control, and that there'd be gifts from Santa and Mrs. Claus in the morning.

And there were. Complete with flame-less candles for the win. 

Painted Christmas Tree with gifts.

Figured It Out

So I think that my hip and back pain two months ago was caused by my workout the previous Tuesday.

After spending a lot of time on my yoga mat...and was actually able to move and do some stuff that's totally normal for me to do, that I've been doing for 22 years, and I had a small epiphany....

My seven years of experience with Mrs. Ventura has taught me that the pain from her cardio kickboxing workout comes on two days after said workout. I cannot tell you how many times my boys have complained to me about their arms or legs hurting and, after triaging them, say, "What did you do in Hapkido two days ago?" Because 99 out of 100 times, they're hurting because they worked out with Mrs. V.

And that particular Tuesday, in Warrior Fit (AKA Cardio Kickboxing) we did this...

Tuesday's low back ass kicking workout

Before we go any further, I stopped at about 20 push ups...more on that later...but mostly because I ran out of time. Mostly. 

200 ground kicks...so this is where we get on all fours, and then do side kicks on a bag. Think male dog peeing on a tree. (Sorry Meghan) That. And kicking 200 times. On each side.

100 roundhouse kicks...and we're doing what's affectionately known as Meghan Math...so again, 100 on each side. Roundhouse kicks are absolutely my favorite kick because I've really practiced those. A lot. And they are powerful. This is where I am thankful I have big thighs.

When I first started at the dojo, in January 2011, my friend KJ talked me into going to this cardio kickboxing class, at 7 pm on Tuesday and Thursday. Sure. Why not?

So, here you go, Randy Anderson, here are your children, you are completely responsible for bedtime. I'm with the boys ALL.THE.TIME. and I very much appreciate having the opportunity to be home and teach my online college Health class...but if I don't go at least try one class, I may end up wearing orange for a long, LONG time. And being traded for contraband. So, really, I'm going to relieve the stress of being a mom, and as the only female in my home, I need a fuckin break from all the penises and the guns and shooting. Because when you birth boys, you learn very quickly that they were born with pointy things that shoot. The boys were 4 and 2; the only diagnosis we had at the time was my older son's epilepsy.

Two weeks into becoming a regular in class I crawled over to Meghan, and said something like, "If I keep doing this, will my husband be able to bounce a quarter off my ass? Because your ass is awesome. I mean I know you could kick my ass for saying this on your mat, and I know you can take me from here, and I totally don't mean any disrespect in your dojo...but still...your ass is hot and gives me hope."

Fortunately for me, Mrs. V. speaks my language and she did not Hapkido me. Because she could've taken me from there. Because she's that much of a Bad Ass. She's a highly trained weapon and I would absolutely want her on my team should I ever find myself in a dark alley.

And fortunately for my entire family, Mrs. V meets each of us where we are...because we each have our own shenanigans to deal with....we've been in some pretty dark alleys.

Anyway...so I am again, finding myself reminding myself that I am not, indeed 18, or even 38 like when I first walked into PDMA. I'm 45-and-a-goddamn-half and I'm a breast cancer survivor and a mom of a kid with a constellation of brain disorders and I'm a cancer care giver and goddamnit I do NOT have cancer of the ANYTHING but when cancer hits you like it's hit me and my family three times in two years, you immediately go--IMMEDIATELY GO--to Cancerland with the slightest discomfort.

I'm not kidding.

Itchy skin? Skin cancer.

Eye twitch? Eye cancer. It's a thing. Or maybe cancer of the optic nerve, which is in your brain, so brain cancer, obviously.

Cough? Lung cancer. I don't care if you've never been exposed to cigarette smoke. You clearly have cancer of the lung if you cough. Every. Fucking. Time. Even though the cough could be from seasonal allergies. Or a choking on your food. Or a gigantic bong rip. Ya know...like you do.....

Enlarged tonsil? Tonsil cancer. Not kidding. It's a thing. Look it up kids.

Ok well, maybe that last one came true. But still. You see my point.

So, when I have a new and incredibly intense back pain suddenly come on, and I forget that I started working out again...partly because I have two kids in two extra curricular activities...and the constant worry of special needs parenting, which is a whole 'nother level of parenting...and managing his medications...and planning my younger son's birthday party...and the full moon...and then the whole both parents had cancer thing which is ALWAYS present....

Sometimes I forget to breathe...let alone remember that I'm just now starting to feel ok with doing a few pushups because my scar is healing enough from where they removed the lime-sized tumor from my right breast close to my bra line three years ago. And the muscles have atrophied.  At this point, 50 pushups is not a reasonable number for me. Twenty is reasonable. My goal is my age. I'll let you know if I figure out how to do 1/2 a push-up. I'm sure Mrs. V. will create something. She's very clever.

I know that half the battle with cancer is being strong, both physically and mentally. And I know that starting cardio kickboxing in January 2011 and then moving into Hapkido in January 2012 helped me get through my own cancer, the death of my Father-in-Law, and my husband's tonsil cancer, all of which went down between March 2015 and August 2016. But, seriously: Fuck you cancer. You have got to be one of the biggest health-related mind fucks out there.

And, yes, I've be a little easier on myself since returning to kickboxing on a regular basis. I'm trying to remind myself that I am human, I am aging, and I deal with a lot of health issues in my family. Because I'm, again, a 45-1/2 year old woman who was capable of overcoming breast cancer, from a lot of help from a lot of people...and I am doing my best to ease back into being on a different type of mat.

Ous!

And namaste'