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

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.

Days Are Running Together

Wednesday morning all four of us left the safety of our home and went to the boys' schools. And, #SweetBabyJesus that was a knife to the heart.

We stopped at my younger son's elementary school first, and saw numerous caring adults who have been working with my family for years that provided an array of expressions, including disbelief, worry, and genuine sadness. I think this is typically called "deer in the headlights." But it's also known as "unexpected traumatic stress." This is exactly what we are all dealing with because of the sudden closures of schools across Washington State on Monday.

Schools across the nation are in the process of shutting down and not opening to the public. There's never been anything like this...oh...wait...except the 1918-1919 influenza pandemic. And, then there was the H1N1 flu. Since we're likely to be locked up, or locked down...? Huh. What's it called? Squat and stay? No. I think it's "Sheltering In Place". Yes! So since we'll be #ShelteringInPlace for an extended period, I encourage you to get your hands on a copy of The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History by John M. Barry. Yes, it's available on Kindle. You're welcome.

Anyway. In spite of My Three Fellas knowing I'm the social butterfly of the family, we all know that I know the layout of the school better than my husband, so we agreed that I'd accompany our younger son in to his school to retrieve his stuff. And, yes, I agreed to seriously limit my throwing of jazz hands and talking with people. And I'd sure as shit not get closer than six goddamn feet to people, even though we mostly know I'm a hugger (mostly).

The front door was held open for us by one of the male paras, I felt a need to bow as if I was walking into the dojang. We stopped and sanitized our hands as we walked in and were greeted by The Commander, who directed us to touch as few things as possible. We quickly and quietly headed down the hall towards the classrooms and touched absolutely nothing. I step where you step. I touch nothing.

My son and I went to his homeroom first, read the notes left by the Compassionate Boundary Setter on her white board, gathered his materials and belongings, left what was required on the desk, and swiftly left the room. We stopped by his locker and quickly put his things in his backpack, zipping it as we walked. Quiet. His long dark hair waving in the breeze he created as we walked, which was covered by his Dad's black Bugs Bunny baseball cap, which is more than twice his age.

Mochi gives zero shits that Sir Paul is home.

We headed down the hall towards the classroom belonging to She With the Largest Fifth Grade Library and were pleasantly surprised to see her behind the kidney table, with stacks of books, which she had somehow magically obtained books for the kids to read. #OfCourseSheDid We exchanged pleasantries, but in a hurried way...don't want to linger...two other fellas in the car. Do we take Paul? Yes, she said, all their art needs to go home. Thank you. Take care of yourself and your family. 

And then, my son looks towards the milk crate that holds the weekly Red Wednesday Folder, which the school uses to send materials and communication home. The Folder is to be emptied and signed by a child's parental unit, and returned to school the next day. Now, this is actually pretty hysterical because for years I've volunteered countless hours in my son's classrooms collating the Red Wednesday Folder. Like, it's even known as #RedFolderRecon and this is why Wednesday is my family's favorite day of the week: I get to volunteer. Standing around the table, one, or perhaps all three of us, said something about Wednesday Folders, laughed, and said our goodbye's, as we briskly walked back to his homeroom for the one item we left: my son's Red Wednesday Folder. #MyLifeIsAComicBook


Back down the hall, hurry, passed our favorite paras, can't breathe, wishing only the best for each other and all of us, pick up the pace, towards the front door and the door handle! #Cooties Ew, child! Dude! Arms in! Thank you for holding the door open, Mr. Ridge Para! Blue sky! Green trees! Breathe!

We were in and out in under three minutes, but it felt like three hours. Thanks to all of the folks at Roosevelt for being so on top of everything. You are all amazing and we already really miss you. Commander, I'm thankful you're at the helm. Be well. #OnceACougarAlwaysACougar

My family then drove across town to the middle school, where we discovered the parking lot was pretty empty. Our older son decided he wanted all four of us to go in, so we did. I'd received an email and a robocall from the school that I owed $1.65 for my son...so I dug the change out of my wallet in the car on our drive to the school. Because, in all of this shit that's going down, I will not be indebted to the school for any amount of money; there are bigger problems in the world.

When we walked into the entrance to the school, there was a hand sanitizing station, so we stopped and sanitized before entering. There were tables flanking the entrance, stacked with books for the kids to take. Twist our arms to take free books. I mean. Thanks!

The middle school was a completely different story in terms of access. Kids were not allowed in the classrooms, they could go to their lockers. But my son doesn't have a locker because he's a Special Education Kid, so that was off the table. As for going in to his classroom? The one where he spends 5 out of 6 periods, including his lunchtime? Yeah...that's a no go, too...but I've known that since school started in September, when I asked my son's Special Education Teacher how I can help her by volunteering my time...and she said she doesn't allow parent volunteers. #WishICouldMakeThisUp and it really does get better...or maybe worse, depending on your world view. #ButNowsNotTheTime

While my husband kept the boys busy in the entryway, I ran down to the cafeteria and paid the outstanding debt of $1.65. I ran back up to the front of the school #RunningIsBullshit and then we graciously and quickly said our goodbyes to the Vice Principal and the few staff members.

We came home and ate lunch. We spent a good part of the afternoon outside. Swinging is so therapeutic for them.

He's trained. 

Annnnyyywaaaayyyy.....

Remember that whole, "we need to reschedule your annual mammogram" thing from earlier in the week? Yeah. Well apparently, when you're a breast cancer survivor,  and your medical oncologist orders a mammogram, you get that shit done, regardless if there's a virus running around out there that is killing people. Am I still immunocompromised because of My Cancer Adventure? I could probably Google all that shit, but to be safe, I'll say, probably yes. #FirmAnswer

So I went today, to the hospital and as many times as I've walked in...to see my husband when he was near death when he had staph endocarditis...to deliver both my babies (they were born in the same room; water side)...the emergency room visits for broken arms and stitches in the chin (all my 10yo)...to my lumpectomy five years ago today...this was by far the most anxious I've been to walk in the front door of my community hospital. #StayTheFuckAwayFromMe #Bitches

There was a new to me security detail, who checked me in at the desk, because the lady working was on the phone...and I told him where I was going, he looked me up and gave me a 3x5 card size neon green sticker granting me access to the Imaging Department on 3/20/20 only.

I walked back to the office and checked in, and talked with the receptionist because it's a small town and I know a lot of people because I'm a social butterfly like that. But really it's because our kids go went to the same school.

I waited and waited and refused to sit because what if someone with Coronavirus but is not showing symptoms was just in the chair that I choose to sit in? What if I get the virus on my pants and then its in my car and then I sit on my bed without thinking and then I totally just wasted all of my time washing my quilt on my bed yesterday. I'll just stand. For forty minutes. Because someone was in surgery and they needed the mammographer lady...? And I don't fucking know can we just get this done? Today of all days? And with this mother of all viruses? I just wanna go home and swing.

The tech was lovely, and had stellar PPE (Personal Protection Equipment) including a FACE SHIELD! She was incredibly apologetic about being late...but she is taking extra precautions and wiping everything down with wipes. Including the hooks where I hung my hoodie. I asked. #OfCourseIDid

She sent my boob pics to the radiologist immediately and came back in. Everyone's anxiety is through the roof right now and they both completely understood my desire to know. And I'm clear. So much gratitude to have the scans read immediately.

I bounced outta there and headed to a few stores, because goddamnit the Governor could lock us down at any minute, just like California, New York. And now Illinois. But the Governor of Washington also has confidence in us as citizens, and that we'll stay home and that he won't have to officially lock us down.

Please, people, stay home with your family. The only way we can combat this disease is to stay home. And that means no play dates for kids. No swingers parties for adults. Do not leave your house. Stay. Home. Do not have people over to your house. They need to stay in their own home. Social Distancing is a legit way to combat this. And if we all step up now, in the springtime, and STAY HOME then perhaps we won't have to during the summer and perhaps we can return to the lake and the beach and the trails. But only if we all work together and STAY HOME!!!!

Am I looking forward to homeschooling my kids? Not especially. Am I expecting the OSPI and my local school district to step up and help parents? Absolutely. But they have to consider equity. All the kids need to be provided the same educational opportunities. Basically, my kids have access to computers and internet. But, if you have a kid who doesn't have secure housing, they sure the fuck don't have a computer and can't do their assignments. So that's not very equal, and that kid is gonna get left in the dust. So the State of Washington is trying to figure out how to help ALL THE KIDS. And I mean the highly capable kids, and the neurotypical kids, and the kids who have delays. The State has a HUGE systems change that they are being forced to look at because of the pandemic.

One of the things I've been trying to work through this week with The Fellas is that we all had the rug pulled out from under us...and we need to give grace, and allow time and patience to figure out new ways to live. We were all scrambling on Monday. But we made it a week! And the sun has been out, which I can attest that absolutely made this easier! Can you imagine if we were dealing with this on a grey week? #SweetBabyJesus

So, as a whole, if we've made it this far, while we don't have any way of knowing what's coming, we do have the opportunity to prevent as much sickness and misinformation as possible. You can find information at CDC, NIH, and WHO. 

Thanks for reading. Stay home. Wash your hands. Be well.

-Rachel

PS. And eat all the motherfuckin ice cream, because why the fuck not?! Thanks, Em! Your ass better be at HOME!!!! 

Don't worry, Meghan, I'm not calling you out.

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.

My Chemo Port

From the inside, sometimes I still feel it.

I can always feel it if I rub my hand over it.

My chemo port

I feel it every single time I do my lymphatic massage, which I do twice each day. 

Sometimes I can see it when I look down and to the left, my eyes sweeping over it, and I have a rush of varying emotions run over me.

Oh, THAT goddamned thing.

It's a constant reminder.

I can see it when I look in the mirror.

It's kinda cool.

I hate it.

It's on my left side, about three finger-widths below my clavicle. My collarbone. I didn't do so well in Anatomy and Physiology because that was the first summer Randy and I were dating. Mmm-hmmm...A&P.....

Anyway!

But, clavicle, I got that!

So I've got this piece of plasticy-rubbery-hard-bumpy thing under my skin. It's horrible and wondrous. It's invasive and life-saving. 

It's a brilliant pain in ass.

In Cancer Land, it's called a "chemo port" or a "port-a-cath." My particular model is the Bard Power Port. It even comes with a snazzy rubber bracelet that I wore, (it broke; not made for long-term usage, apparently) just in case of emergency, so that the first responders know they can tap my chest to administer IV fluids or draw blood, instead of trying to find a vein in the heat of the moment type of thing. I also have a small plastic card for my key chain. And another plastic card, the size of a credit card, that stays in my wallet. I added my name in permanent marker. Because if some shit goes down, it's pretty fuckin important that health care professionals know there's some foreign shit embedded in my body and it's supposed to be there.

My port sits under my bra strap, which totally sucks. Because sometimes it hurts from my bra strap rubbing on it.

As great as my surgeon was in her removal of the lime-sized lump in my right breast....

I'd rather have the port placed a little to the left. Or right. Just not under my bra strap. It hurts. Pretty much every time I move, including circle sweeping my arms over my head, which is tolerable because there's no impact. Hitting the bag? Yeah. Hasn't happened since before surgery. Well, maybe once or twice. But strapping down the girls with two sports bras would put a lot of pressure on the port. So kickboxking has been outta my routine for too long. There's a lot of rage in me that needs to come out in a healthy way. Exercise is one way. So is hugging. Hugging my kids. We're all as gentle as we can be with it. I've taken my fair share of accidental head shots directly to my port, and it hurts. When I'm physically hurting, my family can tell you that I'm not pleasant to be around. I turn into the Mommy Monster...not that I'm proud of this. But it's my reality. 

When I saw my surgeon back in March, for my 2-year post-op check-up, she apologized to me, again, for it's placement. The lumpectomy and the port placement occurred on the same day. Yes, it's been over two years since my lumpectomy. March 20, 2015. So it's actually just over 2-1/2 years. I'm not counting or anything...

It's been in so long because my Medical Oncologist said, basically, since a triple-negative tumor is not something to fuck around with in a young woman, and since the research shows that the recurrence of my type of cancer is pretty high, she wanted to leave it in for 2 years after all of my treatment was complete. I finished chemo in September 2015. I finished radiation in November the same year. So, I'm at the two year mark. Right?

Anyway, it's not like my surgeon had a choice. I know she didn't say, "I'm going to put this right here just to be a pain in the ass!" It's just the way my body works. It's my Anatomy & Physiology...A&P...if you will.

It's nasty and I try not to rub it. Because, really, you don't want to rub my port. It's not hot.

And when I sleep on my stomach, I can kinda feel it...the pressure from the mattress. Not ok.

Kinda like this...

Our bodies also change shape throughout the day, depending on how much water, salt, or food, we consume...if we choose healthy or unhealthy foods...how much we exercise...or sit on our asses. And sometimes, when it feels like it's going to jump out of my skin like an alien, all I can do for myself is drink water, because I know water helps my body on a cellular level.

Sometimes, when I interact with people who are not particularly kind, I kinda feel like it's going to jump out of my chest and land on their face. You know, like Aliens do.

For the past 2-1/2 years, every 6 weeks, I have to get it flushed. This means I go to the Cancer Center, check in, get my hospital bracelet on, go back to and check in with the chemo nurses. I sit down in a small room, she scans my bracelet and asks me my name and birth date. We gotta make sure I'm me. Then she sets up a sterile field: gets the syringes full of heparin and saline and she gloves up and she places her face mask and gets the needle with the long tubing and she sticks the needle in my chest into my port which has a catheter on it that goes directly into my heart valve and that's where the chemo went in and the blood will come out.

Breathe. Because the technology and science that is used to help cancer patients is pretty fuckin cool. And I'm thankful to the researchers and the patients and families went before me and mine.

And then the nurse does whatever she does, but I'm not looking, you with me? Because there's a goddamned needle in.my.chest. (but not like Uma Thurman) and I'm done with that shit. Look away! To the right where you won't see! Breathe. In. Out. She talks. I listen. We chat. Relax. Just. This. Channel The Bride. Because, really, after all I've been through as a cancer patient, getting labs is not that bad, physically. But, the process of getting to the Cancer Center and having labs done is a mind fuck for me. So I do my best to draw strength from various channels.

The week I have labs, I feel it all the fucking time. All. The. Fucking. Time. Coming out from the depths of my soul, out of my skin. Alien.

It's way worse than that huge fucking zit in the center of your face when you were in high school that you were convinced the boy you had a crush on since middle school was going to see it and then projectile vomited on your shoes when he saw it. It's like that. But worse because you have no control over when, exactly, you'll be popping this zit. 

And those weeks, I hate my chemo port. Loathe.

They're looking for an increase in my white blood cell count. They're making sure my vitals are ok--that I'm not anemic, they get a complete blood cell count, and they may do a tumor marker test. They don't do a pregnancy test. I asked. Chemo threw me into menopause...kinda a bonus...because Jesus knows a girl doesn't need to deal with her goddamned period when she's going through chemo. The nurses said I will probably not have another period. Again, kinda a bonus.....I'm not complaining. A person's sexuality is compromised when they travel into Cancer Land.

When they poke me in the chest with a needle, I'm kind to myself on those days. It's stressful. Before I leave my house, I put a thick dollop of lidocaine cream on my port, then cover with plastic wrap. For reals. And by the time I get poked, my skin is numb. It makes the needle stick less painful physically. But the mental fuckery is the same. And when they take the needle out and I get back out to my car, I always treat myself a nice piece of chocolate. Seattle's Best. Or Ghirardelli. I've reached a point in life that Hershey's ain't gonna cut it.

Sometimes when they flush my port, I get a weird taste in my mouth. It's common. Or I feel a little salt water in my nose. It doesn't drip out, it's more like when you get a bit of water when your swimming...that slight burning sensation...it's gross. I know. Believe me. I. Know. 

One time, when we were homeschooling him, I had to take Nathan with me to get my port flushed. He did great. Given everything he's been through...the countless times he's had his blood drawn for the docs to know his med levels...the multiple EEG's...the MRI.... He's actually incredibly comfortable in medical facilities. He stayed close, but was not shy about hitting the snack cart they have in the infusion area. Yes, you may have a bag of Ritz Bits. And a granola bar. And a hot chocolate which was too hot to drink. Yes, absolutely you may get another pack of Ritz Bits for your brother. You're a thoughtful person, child. The nurses were very welcoming and kind to him, which, of course, put both of us at ease. He didn't watch the nurse stick the needle in my port.

So it's out. I saw my surgeon on Wednesday September 27th. At the hospital. In the OR. Not in her office. Because I need to be kind to myself and I don't want to feel the tugging and the pulling and the slicing. Put me to sleep. Thank you. And thank you for waking me up.

Thanks Stace for getting up at o'dark o'clock and being at my house at 5:30 AM so I could check in at 6:00 AM at OMC. You are my rock. I love you.

Thanks boys for getting up at 4 am on your own because of your own anxieties. I get it. I didn't sleep either. Maybe about 4 hours. I love you both.

We told them the night before. And, in their short lives, (they are 11 and 8-1/2) with all that they deal with and have dealt with, particularly in the last two years...this isn't just getting a chemo port out. There is no "it's a routine thing" in my home. Not after my chemo and my radiation and their Dad's diagnosis and hospitalization in Seattle and let's not forget Daddy's seizure and his radiation and his chemo and all the autism and Nathan's countless seizures. And Isaac's broken arm. All of that is, nay WAS, in that chemo port. 

Isaac said to me, "Mom, maybe when your chemo port comes out you won't be so cranky." I love you too, I. You should be thankful I didn't thump you on the forehead. Troll.  

Thanks, Stef, for the hug and holding my hand in the pre-op area of the OR. I'm so thankful that you were my nurse when this goddamned port was inserted in March 2015, and that I got to see you just before it was removed in September 2017. I know you get it.  

It is out of me. I am thankful I no longer have a piece of plastic, embedded under my skin, with a tube attached to it that runs directly to my heart valve. I am thankful for the science. 

Please, Universe, never again.

I have stitches. And glue. And I'm gave myself an opportunity to rest as much as possible for the remainder of the week after my minor surgery. It was a quick in-and-out. A routine thing. I know. It's a little exciting for my family to have "a routine thing" so we all just rolled with it. 

And were doing our best to take care of each other and ourselves. 

Thank you Randy Anderson for having an amazing job, with stellar benefits, and for working so hard and smart and being so incredibly dedicated to me and our family and our life together. 

I love you.

The past nearly 4 weeks has been good. Basically, the reason it came out in September instead of November was that the test results of my bi-lateral MRI with contrast I had in August came back and my boobs are stellar. There is no evidence of disease. We have a new medical oncologist at the Cancer Center, and he was basically like, "look, you can get it out now, or you can wait till November. I completely respect whatever decision you make." We agreed that I'd think about it. And I meditated. And slept. And had long conversations with my husband. And I went back to the fact that when my medical oncologist said, "Tell me how you feel about your chemo port," my response was "it's horribly inconvenient" which I then translated to "it's time for it to come out."

Last night, I was fortunate enough to be invited by my friend Carrie to the OMC Cancer Center annual fundraising dinner, where a woman paid $4,100 for a painting and a case of wine from a local winery. (thank you, lady, for your contribution to saving lives. seriously.) I had the opportunity to listen to the powers that be at my local hospital talk about the new facility that's being built to serve more cancer patients here on the Peninsula, supporting rural health care because 1 in 3 of us will be diagnosed with a cancer in our lifetimes. 

Me, Carrie, and Holly

I also got to see my friend Holly, who's a breath of fresh fuckin' air. Thanks to both Holly and Lindsey who told me that my writing is important and valuable and that you appreciate what I do.

And, I took the time to personally thank the commercial loan officer of Key Bank (where Carrie and Holly work) for providing the $20 million loan to OMC for the cancer center. Thanks Stan. I appreciate the huge commitment from you and your employer.

And, since I happen to have experience as both a cancer patient and a cancer caregiver, yes, I'm more than happy to serve on any advisory boards for said facility. Because my family is now one of those families that has experience and knowledge that can be shared to help others in my community.

The incision that my surgeon made is healing. She used stitches that will dissolve. And a lot of glue, which is nearly gone. My pain isn't bad...more like a discomfort when I move suddenly or repeat movements with my left arm. Because my bra strap rubs on the dried glue/scabs and it's nasty.

And while this chapter of my life is, please Universe, coming to a close, I still have anxiety about cancer. Because, basically, as a survivor, every time there's a new ache or pain, it's automatically a cancer. Stub your toe? Cancer of the toe. No shit. And from talking with other people who have been through it and survived, it's common. My son complained to me about a headache the other day, and I immediately jumped to "inoperable brain tumor" because that's the kind of mind fuck cancer creates. Turns out he needed to eat and drink some more water. If only all of life's ills were taken care of so easily as to eat strong foods and drink more water.

When I was growing up, my Dad told me on more than one occasion that if you have good health, you have everything.

So, here's to your health. I hope it's your everything.

...but more like this.

*Written over the course of the past 2-1/2 years

The G Tube Is Out!

So, it was inevitable.

Thank Jesus, the goddamned G Tube Randy Anderson had in his stomach came out today.

SURPRISE!!!!

Because it was leaking last week. AGAIN!

But I didn't take him to the ER this time. Because, fortuitously, he had an appointment with the Awesome PA at the Sequim Cancer Center. So, he saw her; and she had the Main Woman come in. She's our Medical Oncologist, and she's a bad ass, and she cultured the stuff that was leaking out of his stomach, and it turns out that it wasn't infected. Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus. Because you don't need to have a goddamned infection in the hole that goes directly into your fucking stomach! RIGHT!??! Oh for fuck's sake....

Anyway, so we saw the Main Lady Surgeon at OMC today. I call her that because she removed a lime-sized tumor from my right breast in March 2015. And, as far as my family goes, I'm ok with her laying hands on them and cutting them open. She's a professional and knows what she's doing. And, just for the record, NO, the Main Lady Surgeon was not the one who attempted to put Randy's chemo port in back in June. That was her colleague...he who shall not be named.

But in the exam room today, the Main Lady Surgeon, who is lovely, was like, "Hello! It's good to see you both! But not...kinda. So, let's get that tube outta your stomach, Mr. Anderson!"

And Randy Anderson was like, "Um, no way you guys."

And The Main Lady Surgeon was all, "well, the Main Woman over at the Cancer Center has been texting me and she says it need to come out. And your weight is stable and you're eating and so let's just get this done! Yes. Right now. Here. Sit down on the table and....take some deep breaths...and there you go! It's out!"

It was out.

It was really that easy.

Well, from my perspective. I wasn't the one having a tube with a balloon on the end removed from my stomach.

I honestly was expecting a pop or at least a bigger balloon on the end of the tube. It was rather anticlimactic. 

OH! But she put some kind of stuff on his skin, to help the hole heal up. Typically the hole in a person's stomach tends to start to close in a couple of hours. And the hole in the skin can also repair pretty rapidly, anywhere from a few days to a couple of weeks; everyone is different. She didn't use stitches. And I'm not a physician, and I'm not gonna pretend to be one. So, can any physicians or nurses out there please tell me what she probably put on his skin to close up the hole? (Thanks!) He said it kinda burned a bit. I told him it was acid. But he didn't think it was funny.

Also, the Main Lady Surgeon said he gets to eat lots of ice cream, so we went to Safeway and stocked up on the fancy stuff...Ben and Jerry's...and Haagen Dazs.  Because at this point in life, I'm gonna treat us to that. Especially when he's under Doctor's Orders.

RIGHT!?!?


 

One Year Ago

A year ago yesterday, March 20th, I had my lumpectomy. 

It was a Friday. But this year it's a Sunday because this year is a leap year.

It was also my parent's 34th wedding anniversary.

And the first day of spring--which is a big deal when you live in Western Washington. 

But last year, Stacie came over before 7 am--she was up first for Boy Duty. This woman is always first up. Usually. Mostly..... Randy and I had to be at the hospital by 7:15. I think. I was a little late. But it's not like they can start that party without me.

We made the decision to keep Isaac home from school that day, partly because we wanted one less stress, one less place to have to be. Because getting me to the hospital was stressful enough. It's ok to miss a day when your mom is a breast cancer patient and she's having surgery to remove a tumor. Nathan, at this point, had been homeschooled for about 5 weeks. Because, life is what it is.... And, had something happened, I wanted my kids to be together. Because with cancer, there's only so much that you can control. So I took control of what I could.

This was the third time Randy had driven me to the hospital, in my 4Runner, with this feeling of, we'll be home...we don't know when, but we'll be home....and we'll be relieved...and something will be different...but it won't...and we just gotta go do this...... The first time was when I was laboring with Nathan; the second was when I was laboring with Isaac.

Funny, all three trips were to remove something growing inside my body, and they just all had to come out! YES!

At the hospital, Stef was my nurse. She's a frickin rock star. She took care of me. She's also a friend--small town--and the reason my kids now eat chicken pot pie. Thank you Stef. And thank you for holding my hand while the nuclear med tech, who happened to be a former student of Randy's--small town--injected my breast in several different areas around my aureole (that's the part that surrounds the nipple, just so ya know) with this blue shit that's also called "contrast" and basically that means you're gonna glow. And your pee turns turquoise. And that shit burned like a MOTHERFUCKER. A LOT. Like liquid fucking fire being injected into your breast--several times--around the circumference of my aureole and the surgeon--who you totally trust--is going to cut you the fuck open. Not just cut you open....but....cut you the fuck open, on your B-R-E-A-S-T.

But I digress....they injected the contrast so that she could see my lymph nodes more easily because with cancer patients you gotta know if the lymphatic system is affected because if it is, then, basically, your entire body is infected with cancer.

So then at some point, Christine showed up for Boy Duty. And she totally kicked ass! She's an early childhood educator and she gets my kids like nobody else. Because she's Christine. And at some point they did this delicious crazy goodness of an obstacle course with Jedi's and colored masking tape and...well....here's what it looked like. She texted me pics. Because she's awesome and she loves me and I love her. And she knew it would help.....and it did!!!!!

And we waited....and we waited....and my surgeon came in and checked on me--which, you know--you don't want someone to have someone else knock you out, and then cut you open on any part of your body, let alone your breast. Right? So, on March 20th, she'd done several surgeries before mine...and she wants the contrast to sit in for a long time because up in Alaska when she used to do this, she'd sometimes check women in the night before because the longer the contrast can sit, the better.

And I waited some more. And I hadn't eaten anything since the night before, and I had taken two showers at home--one the night before and one the morning of--and they give you this bag full of stuff when you leave your surgeon's office for your pre-op--like it's the fucking spa that you're going off to or something. They put in this nasty smelling pre-surgery soap called Hibiclens--and you scrub everything down so that you're clean. Because you don't wanna bet getting the MRSA from the hospital. Oh no.

And I'm not hungry. I'm not freaked out. I'm just sitting there...Randy's waiting for me to go back so that he and Larry can go to Sergio's for lunch (bastards!). But you know, people are having surgery and they're running late...and Stacie brought the Nuggets by to see me. And Amy stopped by. And Kelly visited with me for a long time. And Stef was in and out and being a bad ass.

And I'm reading my book and I'm on and off facebook and I'm telling people to check their breasts--did you check yours yet? For reals. Do it. Men, too. Don't be shy.

And the boys are having a blast and they're eating and they're together and they're being well taken care of by families who love us and whom we love....

And then Jeff shows up with Dean and Reid, and shit got real. Because all four boys all became Jedi's and they were tromping through the forest that is our back yard and they were on Endor looking for troopers. Of course.

And at some point Bonnie came over and she fed them and medicated Nathan--which is quite the cocktail to make...and only the most trusted of people can do this particular thing. Which, it's not brain surgery, it's just mixing some medicine in some ice cream and feeding it to him. Because you have learned that medicating him is the way to get him to calm down his brain so that he can go to sleep...and that hopefully he has fewer seizures during his sleep than he does when he's awake....and that shit is worth it's weight in gold--figuratively and literally--and you want to get every little bit of medicine into him so that he'll go the eff to sleep, yo.

And she brushed their teeth, and she may have read them stories, and she put them to bed. And at some point Caitlin came over. I am unable to recall if it was before the boys were in bed, or after. But it doesn't matter...she was there when I got home at like 9-freaking-30 PM!

YEAH!!

Because I didn't even get wheeled back to the freaking OR till way late in the afternoon and then it took my surgeon longer than she anticipated because my tumor was bigger than she anticipated--the size of a lime--and then it was stuck to my skin. So I was kinda a tricky case. I seriously hope she had a delicious glass of wine that evening.

BUT, my lymph nodes--all six of them--the reason they injected me with the goddamned contrast that burned like a motherfucker and made my pee turn turquoise--were negative for cancer. Lucky. Lemme repeat that. She pulled a total of 6 lymph nodes, and had pathology run 3 different tests and all 3 tests came back negative for cancer. Thankful. Not Jesus. Just thankful.

And it took me a while to come too....and they gave me Vicodin...on an empty stomach. Oh, no...no...I think I had some chicken broth....and maybe a little chocolate pudding...and it came up...shocker!...because that's what that shit makes you do. And they asked me if I wanted to spend the night and I said no. No fucking way am I spending the night. Get me a wheelchair because we're on Two West, and I may not be able to walk to the front goddamned door, but I can sure the hell climb into my 4Runner and let my husband drive me home and spend the night in my own bed and see two of my most amazing friends and see my children in the morning. Thank you very much. I want to go home. And I will.

Randy will you please get the truck? Thank you. I love you. For being by my side. For loving me. For supporting me. For 20 years. For not leaving. Except when you went to Sergio's. And didn't even bring me anything. (bastard!)

And I got home and Bonnie and Caitlin were there and they helped me to bed--and I peed and told them not to flush the toilet because I was going to get it just the right shade of turquoise and then find some fabric to make a quilt. And I did. But my other friend Bonnie--and Micki--made that quilt, which is a post for another time.

And last year, on March 20, 2015, I slept in my own bed. Next to my husband. My Math Prof Rock Star. (Thank you Tam and Andrea)

I am thankful the year has passed.