August 2, 2017

The kid sitters weren't available.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him: silence, nods once. 

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

Him: silence, nods once. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plugged in, complete with headphones, for two hours

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

Laser.

In his throat.

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annnyyywaaayyy...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading. xo

A Tale of Two Casts (Part 1)

This one's epic, so grab your favorite cuppa coffee or tea. Or perhaps it's a bong hit or stiff drink. Maybe a shot of apple cider vinegar...? Regardless, I encourage you to sit the eff down and settle in...this is the first in a two-part blog post, because the entire story is a doozy.

But first, you need the backstory, and this post is about the first broken arm my kid gave himself in 2017. The second post is about the second broken arm my kid gave himself in 2018.

And thanks in advance for reading about The Anderson Family Circus.

So, here's the deal with my younger son breaking his left arm on Tuesday August 21st, 2018: 

• It's not nearly as broken as y'all think it's broken
• It's certainly not as broken as his right arm was broken in the summer of 2017

Right arm, June 2017

On Friday June 9, 2017, there were only 7 days left in the school year, my younger son, who was in the second grade and had turned 8 about 6 weeks before, fell off the monkey bars during the first recess at school and landed wrong, breaking both his radius and ulna in his right forearm.

No, really. You have two bones in your forearm. And, yes, that's one hell of a way to get your first cast ever. Also, physics works: big lesson in Newton's universal law of gravitation.

I picked him up from school and took him to the emergency room, obviously. And, no, he was not trying to get away from a girl, like his father did when he was in the sixth grade...

Side note: when my husband was a child of about age 12, he jumped off a curb to get away from a girl, because apparently she had cooties, and he broke his ankle. So my husband, as an adult, has a lot of experience with dumbass shit boys do...and for that, I'm very thankful.

In the ER, June 2017

Anyway, my son's awesome second grade teacher, Mrs. N, even had a the kids make an gigantic "get well soon" poster and took a picture and texted it to me, which I showed him in the hospital. But he was pretty loopy on the pain killers and in shock from the entire experience, thinking he was going to go back to school that afternoon. He's very dedicated to his academics.

Anyway, so we came home from the ER and my kid had to spend a week in a temporary cast while we waited for the swelling to go down, which is, I learned, standard stuff.

Cool! No wrestling in the living room? Thank you, Jesus! Because we really don't need anything else broken, obviously. Especially the television, since you're going to need to park your ass, kid. And, hopefully, Please Jesus, this will cause my boys to tone it down about 12 million fucking levels. Seriously. Sometimes for a mental health break, I rub my eyes so hard and so long that I end up expressing gratitude that they don't accidentally pop out of their sockets. My eyeballs are in there really, REALLY, well. Also, sometimes I just need to see all the fractals my eyes can create naturally. You have your way of managing stress; I have mine.

At the end of about a week after his fall from the monkey bars at school, I took him in to see the orthopedic surgeon, as directed, knowing a full arm cast was eminent, and deeply worried about surgery, since my family has a history of things going to shit really unexpectedly and at lightening speed. Thankfully, there was no need for surgery, even though a good friend who is a pediatrician and knows my family very well, said so, I still worried because the shit my family deals with is borderline obscene. Either that or I really pissed people off in my previous lives.

Coolest cast ever, complete with glow-in-the-dark racing stripe!

Whatever.

So the full-arm cast went from the base of his knuckles on his right hand, all the way up his arm, around the elbow, and up to his armpit. The orthopedic surgeon wanted my son's arm as immobile as possible: no bending and/or straightening the elbow, and certainly no rotating the wrist and hand. He had limited mobility of his fingers and thumb. His arm was that fucked up. We Andersons don't do stuff half-assed. Only full-assed, if you will.

So, at the age of 8, for most of the summer, my son bravely wore his Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast. He opted for a blue cast, complete with a glow-in-the-dark racing stripe down the entire thing. Because they had to give him something cool with this, right? Poor kid. Bless his heart.

The Physician's Assistant who casted my son's arm is a boy-girl parent and a boy's soccer coach, so he was pretty capable of working with me during the Mom of Boys Rundown: 

• your arm is not a weapon 
• no wrestling
• if you hit your brother with your arm you risk having to wear this cast longer than than the 8 weeks the doctor requires 
• your arm is gonna be pretty heavy and you may get tired and need to rest a bit more
• no Hapkido
• no soccer
• no swimming
• do not even go near the water or the lake or the beach 
• absolutely no playing with the hose
• you'll need your parents to help you take a shower, yes we'll use a full size 13-gallon trash bag



I & his BFF Miss C, who had a splint on
her right arm; kinda cute, kinda not for
them to match like that.

• your arm is not a gun, I know it's shaped like a gun, and yes, it'd be really cool as a flame thrower and yes, you can move your thumb and it could be your trigger, but YOUR ARM IS NOT A WEAPON OF ANY KIND 
• repeat as necessary; especially the "not a weapon" piece, with lots of vigor in your voice, because kids are feral.

He finished out the school year with lots of signatures on his cast, from classmates, teachers, and friends in other grades. I signed his cast first, obviously, because I called Mom Dibs. It's a thing. 

He went to all of his weekly appointments at the orthopedic surgeon, charming the lady X-ray Techs who got to know him well. And on June 22, only 2 days after school was out for the summer and the cast was full of signatures and art from his school friends, the x-ray revealed that his radius was bowing the wrong way. I'm not clinical, so bear with me, but the radius bone in our forearm is supposed to have a natural curve in it, and his curve was bending the opposite direction. Of course.

So the cast, with all of it's signatures, was cut off. They re-casted his arm, and then the orthopedic surgeon came in and bent my son's arm in the correct direction. No, really. Physics works like that. Also, this guy went to school for a really long time to be able to help people, and I reckon he took a lot of physics.

I was not with my son at this appointment, because I was with our older son in Seattle who had an appointment with his pediatric neurologist, of course, which was made months before my younger son even broke his arm. So my husband was with our younger son, and with what went down in the ortho clinic, I absolutely got the better deal when we divided and conquered. Also, women in America make 80% of health-care decisions for their families, which explains why I'm the Default

"Mom! Get a picture of me doing this!"

Take the Kids to the City for their Medical Appointments Parent...so...ya know, what can you do? It's in my DNA.

Anyway, as we were all sitting down at dinner later that day, talking about how each boy did at their respective appointments, my husband explained what happened. And, basically, when they re-casted our younger son's arm and applied pressure to get the correct curve in the bone, our son was sitting there, happy as a clam that there were THREE GROWN MEN in the room with him, giving him ALL THE ATTENTION, which is a big deal when you're 8 and have a broken arm, right? And when the surgeon applied the pressure to our son's arm, my husband said that he watched our son's face change from smiling and happy to shock and pain. There were a lot of tears, understandably, since I'm sure it hurt like a motherfucker. And, had The Mommy been in the room, I would've probably pulled some Hapkido on the doc and made him my bitch, all to get him off my kid. Right? Mommies, you're hearing me on this. But, The Daddy was in the room, so there was this sense of Suck-It-Up-Buttercup, which is exactly what the boy child needed at the time. Not that the they weren't compassionate, because my husband said that all three of the grown men in the room were helpful and compassionate. I mean, it's probably that gender specific kinship of taking a shot in the nuts. Or giving birth.

Every once in a while I get a great candid shot of my boy

Captain. Obviously.

So, new cast on, I called Mom Dibs to be the first one to sign the new cast, duh. And that summer he had a lot of other non-school friends sign his cast; the second cast is signed by a lot of the members of our Hapkido Family. Both of my sons walked in the Fourth of July parade with Hapkido. We made the best of the cards we were dealt. I mean, what the fuck else can we do?

My son participated in Arts Camp for the first time, where he was one of several dozen children who worked all week to create, act, and dance in a play with a Steam Punk theme. However, based upon the fact that they gave him very sharp adult size scissors and had him cut the tape open on a shipping box but instead he ended up cutting the shit out of his left thumb, causing me to end up wiping his butt for a week until the cut healed. I mean, they didn't even call me. Just, "here's your kid, oh and he's got a bandaid because he cut his thumb" and my kid's a very detailed story-teller, obviously, so he filled me in. Don't worry, I already talked to the woman who needed to know. Of course I did.

Busting his moves on stage during the play

Turns out, he had a well-child check that same afternoon and the doc said that a little skin glue could've helped, but that, unfortunately, it was too late because the blood had already coagulated and we'd have to stick with a bandage. The next morning, when I dropped my son off, I told the lady in charge what the doctor said because, seriously? In what universe is it safe to give an 8-year-old child wearing a Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast a pair of ADULT SIZE SCISSORS that were sharp enough to stop a CHARGING FUCKING RHINOCEROS and say "sure you can break down this cardboard box"...?!?! Not asking for a friend.

Anderson Family Circus, post performance

I know he's incredibly confident, convincing, and has a keen eye for detail...believe me, he learns from the best. I am sure he told you multiple times all about how confident I am that he'll eventually write, star, produce and direct...and be the cameraman...for his first ever full-length film...for which he'll win ALL THE OSCARS...but he's 8. All four fingers on both hands. No thumbs. That gives you EIGHT. He. Is. EIGHT. Years. Old. And, even though he is super independent and clever and figured out, all on his own, how to wipe his butt with his left hand, we are now having to wipe his ass again...so, yeah...thanks for creating more work for me. And his brother is disabled and often times needs help wiping himself...so, my husband and I get to now help TWO BOYS wipe their asses. Of course. I recognize this was an unintentional injury, however it could've been prevented if you'd had the appropriate sized scissors. Prevention works.

Wonder Woman battle scene drawn by my kid with his non-dominant hand,
as indicated on the bottom line of the drawing (July 2017). This hangs next to my bed.

Yes, I'm aware that he is ambidextrous, as evidenced by the picture of the Wonder Woman Battle Scene that he drew WITH HIS LEFT HAND. But still, basically, my kid is DISABLED because he's got a Full-Assed Full-Arm Cast on his dominant side, for fuck's sake, so please do not give any children adult-size scissors, ever. Please always give them kid-size scissors. That's what Maria Montessori would have done. Annnndddd Dr. Montessori would never have asked a child to break down a cardboard box with adult size scissors. For reals. Even though they had cardboard boxes back in her day.

Waiting for 2 hours in the Lady ENT's office

Anyway...we spent the summer of 2017 going to all of the appointments required for his arm, which I can attest, beats the hell out of spending two summers in a row at the cancer center. But my husband had surgery that summer over in Seattle. And then, because the Lady ENT wasn't able to completely do what she needed to do in the operating room, all four members of the Anderson Family Circus went back over to Seattle for her do a procedure in clinic, which was the longest two hours ever. But, still, totally beats chemo and radiation on my boob and his throat. And, by the time we went, the second Full-Assed Full-Arm Cast had been removed and my son was able to both straighten and bend his elbow (what is that? Flexion and extension...? A&P wasn't really my thing....) He was also capable of playing on my old his iPhone, which was helpful when we went to the city for the ENT to laser my husband's throat...like she does.

Practicing writing numbers with his non-dominant arm

He did a lot writing and drawing that summer...and he did a little bit of gardening, because that's a reasonable risk, but the deal was he and his brother couldn't be in the garden with the hose on at the same time, because that's an accident waiting to happen. And we absolutely, positively, totally stayed away from the lake and the beaches. There was a firm "no" in me on that.

Cut it off!

A little bit of freedom!

When he did eventually have the cast taken off for good, I think we all anticipated that he'd be out doing all his usual shenanigans, because it's hard to keep a good man down. But we were all surprised to learn that a person's skin is incredibly sensitive when a cast is taken off. I mean, duh, because the skin hasn't seen the light of day or even any air on it for 8 weeks, so it totally makes sense. So, he didn't really push me on going to the beaches or the lake. We ended up going to the lake one time in the summer of 2017, and that was totally ok. "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." My family is becoming well versed in the fact that sometimes we don't get to have the experiences we anticipate.

My son's first ever experience in a cast took the wind out of his sails for a little bit. And, yes, he still has both casts in his closet in his bedroom, and he's planning on eventually using them for some sort of art project, obviously, because he's an artist.

On the one hand, I'm thankful my son had some hard lessons, I just wish they didn't have to happen so close together and at such a young age. On the other hand, the lessons he's having are, hopefully, molding him into a more resilient and compassionate person.

That was all the backstory...

You can read about the August 2018 broken arm in A Tale of Two Casts (Part 2).

Because, really, I can't even with this blog post anymore, you guys. I'm Jabbaed Out.

Big Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus, Rachel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, dammit I throw an awesome party!

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

Happy Birthday, dude!

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

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday!

Untitled

It's a lot for them.

Too much, in fact.

My kids, who are 11-1/2 and nearly 9 years old.

My kids worry about things like my breast cancer coming back.

Or their father's tonsil cancer coming back.

Or about each other.

In particular we all worry about the oldest one and his myriad neurological impairments.

If you see him on the street, he looks totally normal.

So you'd never really guess...about the tiny electrical storms that cause him to seize...or his disabilities...and his struggles.

So, to tell them about a shooting in a school in a state that is on the opposite end of the contintent from where we live?

At the ages of developmentally 5 years old and 8-10/12 years old (their father is a math professor, but I'm responsible for teaching fractions; keeps my brain sharp, yo. My youngest will be 9 in April. He's 8 and 10/12. Mmm-hmmm...really, though, he's 8 and 1/6.....Anyway......).

Nope.

They didn't need to know.

But he knows.

The younger one, who's really more developmentally advanced.

He found out about it at school.

Ya know...like they do.

At least he didn't learn how to curse at school.

I've totally fucking got that covered, bitches!

Or about sexuality.

Jesus forbid!

But rest assured he's likely to be the kid running around with his mom's....

Never mind.

So, he's bothered by it.

Doesn't understand it.

But I don't either.

I mean, I do...but I don't.

Because there are so many levels of fuckeupedness about it, that I can only bring myself to say "whenever you walk into any room, know where the exits are."

And, "if you find yourself in a situation that's scary, look for the helpers. There will always be helpers. And then find your brother."

And always, "I hope it never happens again. And if it does, I hope it's not in our community or at our school."

And every.single.time..."I love you."

I Asked

So, we're sitting in the Radiation Oncologist's office, you know, like you do....

Kinda glad to see him...kinda not.

He's the one responsible for, essentially, being a main player in the medical team that saved my husband's life last summer. 

And he kinda looks a little like Paul McCartney.

He could've been a Beatle.

Or a child of a Beatle, anyway.

He's easy on the eyes.

I wouldn't kick him out of bed for farting. 

Don't judge.

Just because I'm on a diet doesn't mean I don't look at the menu.

I got eyes.

Anyway....

The Radiation Oncologist walks in, and he's got a very casual bedside manner, and he's incredibly smart. So we're chatting away and he does his exam and he reviews the notes from the Lady ENT and we talk about Randy's upcoming throat surgery, which is scheduled for later this month.

And when he said, "Do you have any questions, Mrs. Anderson?"

You bet your sweet ass I have questions.

Here's the thing, Dr. J, I've got a pair of kids at home who are tapped out. My family has been dealt a lot of life, particularly in the last two summers.

Nodding from the doctor.

My 8-year-old looked at me point blank and said "Mommy, I'm afraid I'll get cancer. I'm afraid my brother will get cancer. And I'm really afraid that you and Daddy are going to get cancer again," and so, I need to know, Doctor.

More nodding from the doctor.

He's a very attentive listener.

I know you can't say 100% for sure until the warts caused by HPV on my husband's vocal cords are removed and biopsied, but in looking at the research, in your experience, with your best gut reaction on this, speaking from an epidemiological perspective, what are you thinking? Do you anticipate that this is another summer full of cancer?

I do not, Mrs. Anderson.

Silence from us.

I know each of you, as well as your boys, have been through a huge...amount of...major life occurrences...in a very short amount of time. But I do not anticipate that you'll have another summer full of cancer.

We have the PET scan from the end of February and the results were negative for cancer cells. We have the fact that your husband's taste is returning, his saliva production is increasing. On a visual exam of his throat, it looks really good.

Exhale.

And, no, I cannot be 100% certain until we get the biopsy. But I can say that I'm pretty certain that this isn't cancer of the vocal cords.

Ok. Thank you, Dear Doctor, for you have helped to instill hope into my heart.

A little bit later, as my husband and I sat eating Mexican food for lunch, enjoying each other's company, we agreed that the Radiation Oncologist did not say what he said to pacify us. We do not feel that the Lady ENT said what she did to placate us. We recognize that several friends have been diagnosed with cancer who kept receiving misdiagnoses. And our hearts break because of the countless situations across the globe where people are dying because of this fucking disease.

My husband, who is a very logical thinker, goes back to the fact that we don't have data about the warts on his vocal cords. So, for now, we're continuing to focus on what we know: surgery is coming. We're trying our best to remain calm and centered. And enjoy each day.

The next step, before surgery, is for my husband to get approval from his neurologist before receiving sedation from the anesthesiologist. Because the last time my husband went under for surgery was June 30, 2016, and that could have gone much better.

So, today, my husband was in Seattle, seeing his neurologist, who ordered an outpatient EEG be done before surgery. The EEG is scheduled for Friday. An electroencephalogram (or EEG, thank god for acronyms, right?!) is where they hook your head up to about 20 electrodes--and a few on your chest to monitor your heartbeat and respiration rate--and they are looking for seizure activity. I've been through countless EEG's with our older son, and all I can really say is, "thank you iPad." It doesn't hurt, but glue and hair don't really mix well. We're both thankful my husband is bald. 

My husband had an outpatient EEG last year, after his seizure in the operating room. Last time, the results were normal; and the neurologist anticipates the same this year.

The thing about EEG's is they totally suck because you cannot sleep more than 3-4 hours prior to the test.  No coffee. No chocolate. No soda. No caffeine. They are looking for abnormal brain activity...and caffeine makes our brain kinda active...and it can skew the results. And ain't nobody got time for skewed results.

So, he'll go over on Thursday and stay up late and then get up super early and go to the hospital for his 7:45 am appointment. The test should take about 90 minutes, and when the EEG is done, if he feels like he needs to, he can go back to the hotel, and take a nap. If he feels ok, then he'll catch the ferry home. He can sleep on the boat.

The neurologist said we'll have the results the next business day. So, we are cautiously optimistic that we'll know for sure surgery is a go on Monday, June 12th. But, let's be real...more like Wednesday, June 14th.

During finals week.

Three days before commencement.

No pressure.

Of Course, But Let's Hope Not

Of course.

Of course you're having another surgery.

In your throat.

With a laser.

Can we stop, please?

Can we just please stop the fucking ride?

Let's hope it's not cancer.

Again.

Let's hope it's just warts caused by Human Papillomavirus.

On your vocal chords.

That the goddam backcountry half-assed Poulsbo ENT thought were polyups. Or nodes. Nor nodeules.

He never said warts. 

But the Lady ENT never said warts either. She said polyups. Or nodes. Or nodules.

And The Man ENT, when he removed your tonsil and sliced your neck open and took out lymph nodes just last May, and we asked about the polyupie-nodey-noduley-thingies on your vocal cords but he couldn't take them out because that's not his area of expertise and he'd leave it up to the Lady ENT.

Wait. What the fuck? 

Because if a throat is like a vagina, and a tonsil is like a cervix...I don't go to see one doc for the front of my vagina and a different doc for the back of my vagina. I mean, it's all one vagina. So, isn't all one throat?

Goddamn healthcare system is too big and too specialized and that's where you thank Baby Jesus for the Master's Degree in Community Health Promotion, because you know how to work in and with the system. But it shouldn't be this fucking hard.

"Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be this hard"

The bottom line is that no amount of study, level of education, faith in God, or lack there of, can prepare anyone for what I've walked through. What we've been through. What the boys have been through.

What we continue to go through. Just. Fucking. Stop. Already. Please.

I've prayed. I've bargained. I've cried and begged and ranted and yelled and screamed and lost sleep and lost weight and have had no appetite and ate even though I wasn't hungry because it had been several hours since I'd eaten a graham cracker with peanut butter....

I've questioned my belief system, the way I was raised, the tattoos I have, the choices I've made...the people I've had sex with...and thankful for the ones I didn't....

I've practiced yoga, and I've journaled, and I'm following the rules to the best of my ability, but I'm having to make new rules for me and my husband and my sons as we go along.

Yet still it continues. The health issues that plague my family are enough to make anyone feel like driving off a cliff. Epilepsy. Autism. Breast Cancer. Tonsil Cancer.

And when my 8-year-old looks at me, pleadingly, and says, "Mom, I really want to make it through this summer without cancer."

All I can do is look him in the eye, be honest, and say, "I want that, too honey," and then wrap him up in a the best Momma hug I can give him, as tears run unashamed down my face and land upon his beautifully dark hair. 

The boys don't know you're having surgery next month. They don't know the ideas I'm generating. The planning. The talking with close friends who we trust to medicate with proper doses and at correct times. The phone calls, texts, emails that have started. The hotel reservations. The dog sitter.

The anxiety, though, the boys know it's there. I had a delayed reaction after our meeting with the Lady ENT on Monday (thank you FaceTime for letting me be there in the best way I could). After I picked them up from school and we got home, I dissolved into a hot, wet, dripping, steamy pile of mush on the kitchen floor.

As I was preparing their snack.

I'm classy like that.

The Lady ENT will remove the warts and have them biopsied. Surgery will be at the end of June, after school is out. 

I am thankful, my dear husband, that you are confident that your cancer hasn't returned. I know the PET Scan you had 6 weeks ago indicated there was no cancer in your throat. I am doing my best to be optimistic, too. But, I am more frightened now than I was when I received each of the diagnoses our family has received over the past 6 years. I love you, and am terrified for you, for us, and our children. 

Fuck you cancer. And HPV. You are one sneaky little bitch of a virus. Even though they can't really get them till they're 11, both of my boys are ready for their HPV vaccinations so they don't have to go through this. They watched the hell their father went through last summer. We've had deep discussions with them about the fact that even though Daddy was too young to be part of the generation that routinely had their tonsils taken out, and he was too old to get the HPV vaccine, if there was one thing I could change for Daddy is that he didn't have to go through tonsil cancer treatment.

Of course I will do everything in my power to not have my kids get a disease. And let's hope that the blog posts, and the education, and the science is enough to convince people they can prevent their own children from having to contract the disease.

Hit Me

It hit me.

Everything we've been through in the last two years, in the last 6 years, hit me like a mother fucker.

February is a hard month.

Because two years ago, a lot of shit started going down. And it feels like every time I raise my head, I get hit again...and again...and again....

I keep getting up, though.

Even though life has hit me and my family incredibly hard.

I know that the color of my skin and my privileged education and status in my community look envious on the outside.

But, secretly, my family is your worst nightmare.

Because of the myriad health issues we have faced since October 2010, when our son was diagnosed with Seizure Disorder.

Then another hit, October 2012: Autism

And March 2015: huge blow of breast cancer, Stage 2. 

Then May 2016: my husband's tonsil cancer, Stage 4.

That one almost took us all down for the count.

But we survived.

And it all hit me this month.

What we've been through.

I'm having difficulty making decisions, and a lack of appetite. It's hard to decide what to feed the boys. I want to sleep a lot, I cry a lot, and I have difficulty paying attention...more than usual.

Depression has raised her ugly head again.

She's raised it higher than after each of the boys were born.

She's sticking her knife into my heart and letting it slowly bleed all over her gray hand.

Yoga: check.

Meditation: check.

Time for self: check.

Mental health therapist: check.

Antidepressants: check.

"When will it be spring?" the 10-1/2-year-old child asks.

"March 20th is the equinox," I reply.

"Not soon enough!" he yells into the still coldness of the day.

"I know dude" and think to myself, it'll be 2 years since my lumpectomy on March 20th. And my parent's 35th wedding anniversary.

"But the daffodils will bloom soon, right over there," I point to the ground, about 30 feet north of where we are standing.

Later on, I am talking with my almost 8-year-old son. He's starting to look forward to summer, making plans to go to the lake, the beaches...maybe Uncle Sammy will come up and bring Auntie Melody.

And then this amazingly bright and insightful child, who has more on his plate than any other second-grader I really know of, who is dealing with a slight cold, turns to me and says, "Mom, I hope we don't have to deal with cancer again this summer."

"Me too, dude," is the best response I can offer him, as we hug each other for comfort.

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!?!?


 

The last three days of summer 2016

The last three days of summer were pretty crazy-making for me, since I'm trying to run the Anderson Family Circus. Being the Ring Leader of a saucy almost second grader, a special needs almost 10 year old who's been homeschooled for the last year and a half (hyphens deleted intentionally, obvs), and taking care of my husband, who's a stage four tonsil cancer patient is a huge responsibility. Especially for a woman in a male-dominated field, which is what my home life is like. I'm the only female human in my home and the past week was pretty full of emotion. No, I'm not premenstrual; I don't get my period anymore, it was a chemo perk.

On Monday (Aug 29) I, the Ring Leader, took the monkeys boys to school for a visit to Nathan's Sped (Special Education) classroom.  But we call it the Resource Room, because times change and things are labeled differently now than they were when I was in grade school, and also, the staff who work in a Resource Room have got to be resourceful. Duh. And they gotta be clever and quick and think on their feet faster than Lightning McQueen. And a Resource Room teacher may only have 12 kids in that Resource Room, but trust me when I tell you it feels like a lot, and I mean a whole fucking lot more kids. It's like having 36 neurotypical kids. Seriously.

During our visit with the teacher, Nathan did really well during the 90-ish minutes he, Isaac and I were at school. And it was late in the afternoon. Like, we got to school at FOUR. And for us, doing something late in the day is a big deal, because it can interfere with our bedtime routine, which is sacred in an autism home...for the brief bits of sanity I have remaining. Nathan was both excited and nervous, which are all normal emotions for kids--and adults--at the start of the school year. But, he also had some confidence in that Isaac and I were with him.

Tuesday (Aug 30) I took the boys to Hapkido, and they had a lot of fun! We are all thankful Mrs. V supported the boys being together in the homeschool class this summer, which enabled me to cut down on the number of trips into town, which ultimately decreased my stress and the amount of pressure I have upon me.

Wednesday, (Aug 31) the day before school started was interesting in that Randy came out from the bedroom and said "I'm telling Dr. Chryiath I'm done with chemo." And I was like, "um, ok...." because, really, this wasn't at all on my radar, and not what I expected my husband to say first thing in the morning, especially since I was prepping for my day, which involved taking the boys to school for a visit; and it's an open house...so all 500 kids will be there, with their parents. My stress level was already pretty elevated. And I needed to prep food and clothes and boys: I was moving in a completely different direction than him. So, I was not prepared for what he said.

But here's the deal, Randy made an important decision, that kept him awake much of the previous night, which is known as Chemo Eve (and is NOTHING like Christmas Eve, or even Birthday Eve. No. Very different, indeed!), and he didn't take this decision lightly. He was going to the Cancer Center Wednesday morning knowing that he was having a doctor's appointment, but that he wasn't going to have chemo that day because when they drew blood for labs on Monday, it turns out his platelets were low. Platelets are in your blood and are responsible for clotting, and if the platelet count is too low, they can't administer your chemo because bad stuff will happen.

The thing is, is that for my husband's tonsil cancer, the primary treatment was radiation. And the chemo, which was supposed to be three doses, 21 days apart, was given as a booster for the radiation. And he completed the radiation treatment on August 26th. His chemo was not considered a systemic treatment; it was considered a targeted treatment, because they were going for the throat (if you will).

So, he asked our medical oncologist, and she agreed. Mathematically, he ended up doing about 75% of the recommended dose, but the caveat is that, again, his chemo was a booster for the radiation; they worked together to kill the cancer cells. And so with the doc's blessing, as of last week, he's done with chemo.

But he's not completely done (seriously, this is our life). He still has to go in for fluids three times a week because the type of chemo that they gave him was very dehydrating, so they hydrate him. No, it's not that simple for him to increase his fluid intake; he isn't consuming anything but a few sips of water in a 24-hour period; all foods and fluids and most medications are being put in the G-tube. So, when he gets fluids, he goes to the Cancer Center (or the hospital) and they hook the PICC Line in his arm up to the IV machine, and he gets a liter of saline infused into his body, and it takes about three motherfucking hours. They have to hook him up, start the drip, and then unhook him. And then, because he's got a ton of fluids in him, he's up peeing for about 15 hours afterwards.

But he may be done with getting fluids on Friday, 9/9, which is Nathan's Birthday Eve (no pressure, dude, for reals). The discussion today (Sept 7) with the Physician's Assistant (who is lovely) was that he would see how he's feeling and if he feels like he needs more fluids next week, then he'll get to the Cancer Center for more fluids, but if not, then he he won't.
 

But the thing is, is that HE made the decision about stopping! And I am really really proud of him for that!!!!

HE felt strong enough and courageous enough and empowered enough to say to a medical oncologist, "I'm done. I am scheduled to have two more chemo treatments, but it's not going to affect the outcome because I am done with radiation and why am I prolonging just feeling like shit?"



Culturally, we perceive physicians to be omnipotent deities. We think they know best. And, yes, a doctor definitely knows a LOT about the body and if they're a specialist, like a medical oncologist, they are oftentimes presented in film or books as these highly emotionally distant people, who are probably on the higher functioning end of the autism spectrum. But, I can tell you that when you get a good doc, which my family is both fortunate and thankful to have...the good doctors...they listen to their patients, they recognize that they themselves are human, they are willing to think outside the box, and they are likely to check on you when you are in the hospital for an unexpected overnight visit, they are compassionate...and they truly care about their patients as people who have lives....these are the doctors that I want to work with on staying healthy and keeping my family healthy.

And, let's face it, from the beginning, one of the things I was trying to teach Randy Anderson was that he needs to listen to his body and advocate for his own health. For nearly twenty years, I've been teaching students to do this for themselves...and I think some of them get it. I'm thankful that Randy was able to effectively communicate what his needs were to his physician, and that she listened and agreed with him.

The final thing that was also huge about Wednesday last week, the last day of summer vacation, was that I spent a good part of that cold, wet, grey day prepping the boys for Thursday, which was the first day of school. I pepped a lot of food, so I could make the first two days of school easier on me, since I was not simply dropping them off. I was planning on being at school, primarily supporting Nathan as he transitions to the classroom, since I was anticipating a rough start. I also had them pick out their clothes, made lunches, and pack backpacks. You know, all stuff "normal"families get to do the day before school.

Wednesday I also took the monkeys boys to school for a visit...the one that was the open house...and there were a LOT of kids there. But we Andersons did really well. And we were excited to get back in the classrooms. And we each got an ice cream cone on the way out (thank you PTO!).

So, the last three days of summer 2016 were pretty big for the Anderson Family Circus. And we never have to live those three days again. It is behind us; we are moving forward.

Raised By Wolves

Had you been listening...

Isaac: "Mom, can we listen to U2?"

Me: "Absolutely. Which album?"

Isaac: "Um..."

Me: "The one we've been listening to? It's called Songs of Innocence."

Isaac: "Right. Can I pick the song?"

Me: "Totally. Which one?"

I: "Raised By Wolves."

Me: "You got it."

And silently I say: Sometimes I think you are. And sometimes I am afraid you will be.

And I cue it up, trying to suppress my fear and anxiety for their sake, if only for a few minutes, as we connect in music.

And we move forward in our day. 

Thankful that the sun is out.

Thankful that we are having a stay home day.

Thankful we're together as a family.

Thankful Daddy's feeling better with lots of help.

From all of us.

Thank you.

Three Days, Four Appointments

We had three days in the city. Just Randy and me. We'd never done anything like this before. Not even before kids. Because we had Schindler. And he was the Dog Child. And we were focused on our careers. And we were the employees who never really took breaks. But we're changing.

So,  yeah. First timers in Seattle for what we define as "an extended period."

Thank you Christine and Jeff for watching N&I. You guys are rock stars.

Thank you Jeff (not the same one, but both awesome dudes) for carting us around the city and taking us to medical appointments. This is the same Jeff that helped on the day of Randy's surgery.  Send our regards to your lady....

Late Tuesday night on the boat; the beauty of the skyline across the water.

Up early Wednesday  morning for two appointments: The Man ENT and the Speech Therapist who sounds like a smoker but isn't--I asked. Obviously. But very diplomatically. I have some class, you guys. She had cancer of the larynx when she was 3. You heard me. Three years old. Pediatric Cancer survivor. Bad assery, right there, you guys. Bad. Assery. And so began her transformation into a Speech Therapist.

The Good News: Randy's cleared for cancer treatment. Radiation to start Wednesday. He went on Tuesday (thank you Zion for taking him; our regards to your lady....) to the Sequim Cancer Center and got his immobilization device. In his mouth. And they screw the immobilization device to the table he's laying on. I asked him if they bought out The Gimp for him. But they didn't.


Anywho...the Speech Therapist gave him some swallowing exercises. Seriously. This is a thing. I had no idea. My friends the SLPs, of course, are aware. But they don't teach us Health Educators everything. There's a lot of learning on the job and in life, yo. 

So we finished up and ate lunch at this little hole in the wall called Piroshki on Madison. Freaking fantastic! Very simple place, full of delicious goodness and salmon and cream cheese and bread. Seriously. Needed a salad, but they're a bakery. Salad prevents cancer. Just trying to do my part.

So...we connected with Jeff and then we went to Half Priced Books. Because that's what we do, even on a "vacation," which is combined with four medical appointments. Seriously. We go to book stores. We're book store whores. In a good way. And we totally scored on a ton of books. And we bought some books as souvenirs for the boys. Because that's how we roll.

And on one corner, in order, the shops included a tattoo shop, a marijuana shop, and a comic shop. Just for the record, I purchased nothing in those stores. I just liked that the culture is changing where these three stores are available, let alone next to each other.

Then we went to some Italian place with a hot waitress over in Ballard. Freaking delicious. The food. I have no idea how the waitress was. Heh. See what I did there?

On Thursday, we slept late, like you do when you have no children to be responsible for, and then dragged our arses outta bed and went to the EMP Museum. And this place was so amazing. Their mission statement:

EMP is a leading-edge nonprofit
museum, dedicated to the ideas
and risk-taking that fuel
contemporary popular culture

Seriously. So, of course we're going in. We saw the Star Trek, Sci-fi, and Nirvana exhibits. The horror exhibit wasn't for me, so I wasn't there very long. I'm not really down with scary shit. Makes me get the heebee-geebees. But, that's what happens when you grow up believing the boogie man is going to jump out at you from a bush and take you away.

On Friday morning, we headed to Swedish at Cherry Hill and Randy had an EEG, but he didn't take any selfies, which is pretty selfish, really. And then later in the afternoon we saw the Epileptologist and got the results of the EEG. Basically, Randy has seizure disorder and can't drive for 6 months (which is the law in Washington State) and has to take an anti-seizure medication twice a day for the rest of his life.

At some point, we don't know when, Randy had a stroke. I learned that we can have strokes at any time and they can be so small that we don't know it is happening. The Epileptologist also said that there are very small spots on his brain, and the way the spots look mean that something happened with his heart. In 2004, Randy was hospitalized for 17 days for staph endocarditis, and during that time he had several MRI's and they also showed these spots on his brain. The hypothesis is that these spots are scars, basically, which are probably petechiae. And there's one lesion in his brain, which is somehow related to the stroke. The next step with this is that Randy will be seen by a stroke specialist over in Seattle. But, first, he's gotta get through cancer treatment.

We had a very long drive home after the meeting with the Epileptologist. Christine brought the boys to us that evening. I picked Abby up on Saturday morning from where we board her. It was good for all 5 of us to be home and together after what felt like being gone for a very long time.