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 2)

And here is the continuation of A Tale of Two Casts...

If you need to read the backstory, I encourage you to read Part 1.

So, we were at Hapkido on a Tuesday in August, which is my least favorite month after February, and after the big kids class, but before the little kids class, Mrs. V allows the all kids to get out all the climbing stuff out and party hard on the mat for about 15 minutes. It's a way for her to build community between the two age groups, kids are together on the mat, and figuring out how to work and play together. It's a very cool time of day at the dojo.

During the big kids' class, my younger son had the opportunity to work with the teenagers one-on-one, and both of the teenagers are both black belts. For the record: my son caused his injury all on his own, as usual; there were no other people around. But, he was feeling incredibly confident because they worked on some really cool stuff. The school is set up so that students of all ages are constantly teaching and learning. So the black belts each taught my son some things, and then he worked with another student and taught that student some things, and basically Mrs. V has it so that a person's brain works as hard as the body. The set-up for teaching and learning is absolutely brilliant.

During the play time in between classes, my younger son got on the monkey bars...you see where this is going...that hang from the ceiling and are higher than the monkey bars at school. My family has been at the dojo since January 2011, before the monkey bars were constructed and hung, so my kid has been on these monkey bars a lot. He lost his grip and fell onto the mat. It was that simple. He landed wrong. And he knows how to land, because in addition to eventually writing, staring, producing and directing...and be the cameraman...for his first ever full-length film...for which he'll win ALL THE OSCARS...he's also going to do ALL HIS OWN STUNTS. Duh. Because that's what he does. I am thankful that his vestibular sense is mostly on point. Mostly.

Below is a video of both of my sons at Hapkido during play time between classes. My older child is knocking down the bag, because he is a sensory seeker and needs deep impact. My younger child is on the monkey bars, crossing back-and-forth for the THIRD time that day. This is during play time between classes at the dojo. And, no, this isn't video of my kid breaking his arm, because I'm not that parent. But, it does give you a sense of the type of shenanigans that go down on the mat between classes.

The problem is that, as he's learned a lot in his young life, physics works; he's named after the man who discovered the Universal Law of Gravity. So, bear with me because I'm not a physicist: when my son fell from the monkey bars and broke his arm, he had a little forward momentum when his hand slipped and caused him to fall. The result of the forward momentum caused him to not land directly on his feet, which would've allowed for him to do a back break fall, decreasing the chance of injury. But because of the forward momentum, his feet and fanny hit at nearly the same time and, out of plain old instinct when a person falls from about 8 feet in the air, he put his left arm down, since he was falling to the left, and that was that.

He immediately grabbed his arm, got up, made eye contact with me, bowed off the mat, and quickly came over to me. Mrs. V came over and she assessed his arm...she's very thorough in her triage since dealing with injuries is part of what she does in her profession as a Martial Artist and personal trainer. He could bend and straighten all of his fingers, and he could move his wrist back and forth. He could bend and straighten his elbow; he could move his shoulder. And thank God for all of his parts moving properly, because it looked to me as though it was gonna be uglier than it was...and because of all the shit my family's been through, I kinda panic sometimes.

The only thing that hurt him was rotating his arm from front to back--so basically turning his hand and arm over to show us the underside of his forearm. He didn't cry...because he's pretty tough...but I knew he was hurting. He agreed to sit on the bench for the little kid's class with an ice pack on his arm. This was very difficult for him because his older brother was on the mat. So...brotherly competition...do I need to even say anything about that? No. No I don't.

One of the adult Hapkido students, who is a wonderful man, took the time to speak with me privately and disclosed that once upon a time, one of his daughters sustained an injury that is called a buckle fracture, and basically, her bone wasn't broken in two pieces, but it was slightly bent and caused some pain. According to the Pediatric Orthopedic Society of North America, a buckle fracture "occurs when only one side of the bone is compressed and buckles but does not break all the way through."

So it turns out that my 9-year-old has a buckle fracture. We found this out on Wednesday morning when we went to the walk-in clinic. But we went to the Emergency Room first, on Tuesday night, because my concern was that because he was in so much pain when he would turn his hand over, I was worried that the growth plate was broken, since his BFF Miss C broke her growth plate in third grade. And I knew it wasn't a complete fracture, which is what my son sustained last year when he broke both his radius and ulna on the monkey bars at school.

Fuckin' monkey bars.

But as we were getting ready to go to the ER, we went into to the bathroom at the dojo, and my kid was balling. He is not a crier. Dude didn't cry in June 2017 when I picked him up from school and took him to the ER with his broken bones when he was 8. So, if he's ugly crying in the bathroom, at the dojo, he's hurting pretty badly. So, I took him, and the ice pack, to the ER, which is less than 5 minutes away from the dojo. My husband went to the dojo to pick up our older son, because taking him with his brother and I to the emergency room was a horrible fucking idea.

And the ER was packed. Like, crawling with people, ain't even gonna get to see the goddamn triage nurse for an hour, sit yo' ass down because the doc won't have time to see you for at least three to four hours, type of packed.

We checked in: Anderson...s-O-n at the end. No, there are two A's in his first name, NOT two S's in his first name. How many times do I have to spell his names? How many times can you misspell Anderson or Andersen or Andersson or...seriously? Oh for fuck's sake, lemme come around that goddamn desk and access Epic and register him myself. How goddamn hard can it be? Yes, he's been here before. His birthday is XX/XX/2009. What? What do you mean you can't FIND him in the system?! A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. One S, two A's in his first name. Are you fucking kidding me right now? He was here last June...? For a broken arm...? No the other arm. Yes. He's a frequent flyer. Yup. He's had stitches in his chin, too. Why the fuck can't I just pre-register this child for the ER? I mean, I was pre-registered with each of my kids when I was pregnant? It makes sense to just pre-register some kids for the ER, and my kid is one of them. Yes. Mmm-hmm....s-O-n at the end. Yes, A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. Yup. That's my guy! Well, I'm really glad you found him, too.... Goddamnit...I totally should've gone to the other lady doing registrations....

Buckle fracture; left arm

Jesustapdancingfuckingchristonagoddamncross, that was painful, but we got in. Praise be. Because when we went to sit down some young woman looked like she needed to borrow my bag to puke in it.

As we were sitting there, and my son calmed down, we were able to talk. So, I asked him compared to when he broke his right arm last year, how badly does this hurt? And he said not as badly. We agreed that, since the waiting room was so packed, that it would be quite some time before they'd call him back. He said he was hungry, and I told him that I couldn't feed him because whenever they get him back there, they'd give him medicine to relieve the pain and we certainly don't need him throwing up. We agreed that it was a better idea to go home, get a fresh ice pack, some Tylenol and some dinner, and get to bed at a reasonable hour, and that if it was still hurting in the morning, we'd call our doctor's office.

So, we checked out. We didn't even stick around for the triage nurse. We did go to the other lady who was at the registration desk and formally leave, because I don't need CPS on my ass for eloping from the ER with a kid with a broken goddamn arm. Right?

Oh snap! Kinda. It didn't completely break in two.

Anyway, so home, dinner, Tylenol, ice, bed. Woke up the next morning still hurting. Called our doc's office...and they were closed for a training...of course. So we went to the walk-in clinic and were seen pretty quickly. X-ray revealed that he had a buckle fracture, and so the doc put a splint on it and said he would put in a referral to the orthopedic clinic. But he didn't. And yes, I've already had a very long discussion with the folks at Patient Experience since the very first part of my hospital's Vision Statement was not upheld: "...will achieve excellence, and provide quality, value and safety in everything we do." The physician completely failed my pediatric patient by not speaking with him about his injury and defaulting to me, when my kid is completely capable of explaining himself. Also, the doc did not make the referral to the Ortho clinic. Oh, and he totally judged me for giving my kid Tylenol and not Advil. No, really. So, three strikes means I make a phone call. And, yes, I also let the Patient Experience lady know all about how the lady in the ER couldn't find my kid in the system. I learned that usually the walk-in clinic docs don't ordinarily make referrals to the orthopedic clinic, but that since the x-ray revealed my kid needed to be seen, the referral should have been made. But this doc, and his sanctimonious tone regarding me administering Tylenol and not Advil...he's probably the type of man that also feels free to make decisions about my uterus, so I'll refrain from commenting further.

Annnyyywwwaaayyy...

My kid wore the splint on his left arm for a week, which, of course, I know from experience is standard. During that time we went to the county fair and partied pretty hard. He did the rides he felt he could; we were thankful that the carnival staff even let him on.

My boys, partying hard at the county fair!

And the following Tuesday after his injury, we went to see Orthopedic Surgeon Dr. M, who, fortuitously, is part of our Hapkido family. She and her son have been part of the dojo for many years, and she knows our family dynamic and is pretty familiar with our family health history. I was anticipating a partial cast; my son was thinking that he'd just stay in the splint. And Dr. M is fantastic because when she examined him, she talked with him like he was a person who is capable of understanding what she was saying, and she said that she really felt, since he's a rather rambunctious young man, it was better to put a cast on his arm for a few weeks to prevent it from breaking further. Because, as I stated in Part 1: prevention works.

Left: 2018 buckle fracture on the left arm. Right: 2018 mega fracture on the right arm

Here's the deal as to why my kid is in a short-arm cast, which I'll all the Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast. This is probably the first thing my family has ever done half-assed. So, the way this buckle fracture thing works, the bone is weaker in that area, and even though the doc at the walk-in clinic said being in a splint for 3-ish weeks is acceptable, Dr. M said that if my son were to punch a bag, or to wrestle with his brother and take a hit to his arm, the risk of his arm breaking is higher and then he'd have to wear a cast for a longer time. And no matter how old a person is, it's easier to wear a cast for three weeks than eight weeks. And given that Dr. M has spent years of her life helping people heal their BONES, we chose to listen to Dr. M and get the cast. My son was true to himself and chose purple, which has been his favorite color since he was a toddler. Last year he chose blue, because he experienced peer pressure and thought that boys were supposed to like blue. I know this because in discussion about choosing his cast color last year, he said "no, Mom, blue because all the boys like blue." Bless his heart.

He's not in any pain, and really, with this break, his ego is not his amigo. We're letting him be a kid, taking reasonable risks with his extra-curricular activities. He's learned that a Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast is easier to manage than a Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast.

He's able to be on the mat at Hapkido, supporting other students by teaching, and of course he's also learning a lot. He's able to do some Hapkido, but Mrs. V said no rolling, no throwing any punches, and no throwing people. He is able to do some techniques. He is able to do all of his kicks. But no bokkens, until his cast is off. And bokkens are his thing, so that's a bummer.

He is able to be on the soccer field and practice a little. He's mostly doing drills. His Dad is the assistant coach, and my husband played soccer for 20 years, so he and the head coach, who is also a Mom of one of the players, are putting some tight reigns on our son. Our 9-year-old is not permitted to play scrimmage because he certainly doesn't need to be taken down or tackled by another player. Any 1:1 work is against his head coach, because she's a bad ass and can hand him his ass in a nice way, without taking him down or causing further injury. We all know the other 9-year-olds on the field have no such discipline.

He'll start fourth grade on Tuesday with the cast on. He's carrying a black sharpie with him to get signatures, of course. The cast is scheduled to come off on Tuesday September 11th at 8:30 in the morning by Dr. M. His first soccer game is scheduled for September 15th, and we all anticipate he'll be on the field and capable of playing. I anticipate that the purple cast will be added to the art project that he'll create with the two blue casts from his right arm.

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.

Camp: We All Survived

Because my life is deliciously full...sometimes I'm a little slow to update my blog. Sorry; not sorry. This is the first summer since 2014 that our calendar has not been burdened with oppressive medical appointments and I'm learning to enjoy a bit of freedom away from hospitals and cancer centers.

Anyway, last month, my sons both went to sleep-away camp for the first time ever, and we all survived.

We dropped them off on mid-morning on Monday, and didn't see them until mid-day on Wednesday. It was a little slice of heaven for about 48 hours for my husband and I.

The person who was to be in charge of our child who has special needs was a Rock Star. In working with the camp co-director in preparing for this major life-altering event, I asked her if I should type up some information that would help everyone, you know, like you do...even if it's before leaving your child with a brand new kid sitter before going out to dinner for 3 hours. She felt that would be a good idea.

I managed to get most everything onto one page using an 11 point font, with 0.75" margins. Because he's a handful. Not in a bad way. But, for reals, he can be challenging to manage. He's kind like a Husky puppy that weighs 133 pounds and doesn't realize how big he is and that type of thing needs a little...support. He's not a bull in a China shop. He's definitely gotten better and more aware of his surroundings because his vestibular sense has improved.

Annnnyyyyywaaaaaayyyy.....

So we met the Rock Star Counselor and got checked in and made our way down to the cabin where the boys were going to be staying. They were bunk mates, with our younger son on the top bunk, just like at home. They were in with the littles: the kids who were 7 and 8 and it was their first time at camp, too. Fantastic!

I handed the Rock Star Counselor the one-page summary of my kid, including what his typical seizure looks like and how long they last, directions on what to do if he seized longer than 5 seconds, if he sees my son have more than 25-30 seizures in a 24 period (I know it sounds like a lot...but this is a kiddo who used to seize 250 or more in a 24 hour period...so 10% of that is reasonable for me). I also included his medication list, correct dosage amount and time/frequency of dose. Phone numbers for me, my husband and our family physician's office. And to make sure that if he has a seizure that lasts more than 30 seconds, just call 911 and then get his brother because he knows what's within the range of normal and will be able to help answer questions and he'd provide support by just being there.

I started helping the boys unpack and the Rock Star Counselor looked up at me and said, "What do I do to de-escalate him?"

Fuck. I forgot to include that. You are human and make mistakes and can't think of everything, Rachel.

Shit! He speaks DD! Of course he does because he has a Bachelor's in Special Education and he worked in the classroom but left because paperwork (not judging; I totally get it! SpEd Teachers do more paperwork than providing direct services to students!) and now he works with adults who have I/DD and helps them integrate into the community and I love him and he is a ROCK STAR!!!

"Well, he's developmentally about five, so distraction is good," I said. "Singing Beatles songs is also a go-to for him."

"Got it!" said the Rock Star Counselor.

And I knew that, by the time we'd pick the boys up in 48 hours, the Rock Star Counselor was going to have a firm understanding of my kid.

We left the cabin, headed down to the lake, and looked at the dock. We chatted about the importance of staying on the trails but not running; nobody want's to slip and have gravel picked out of his knees. The Rock Star Counselor asked the boys if they were going to do the Polar Bear Swim in the morning. They had no clue what that even was, so he kindly explained. The boys were both a bit excited and a bit apprehensive at the idea of jumping into a glacier-fed lake first thing in the morning.

We headed back up to the lodge, where the campers were getting ready to eat lunch. The menu consisted of corn dogs, with a side of mac and cheese, which resulted in an overjoyed older boy, and a younger boy who may have gagged...or even vomited in his mouth a little.

My husband and I said our goodbyes, gave and received many hugs and kisses from our sons, and left, enjoying the deafening silence in the car. We immediately went to our favorite Mexican Restaurant for lunch. No, we did not drink margaritas...not my drug of choice, duh. Also, post chemo, one drink of alcohol creates the feeling of a major hangover...so, no.

Anyway...so we got to be grown-ups for 48 hours and it was fucking delicious! On Tuesday morning we got up early and my husband drove us down to Tacoma, while I worked on attaching a binding to a quilt by hand (because my quilter friends taught me the right way!). We chose Tacoma over Seattle because we didn't' want to deal with the ferry and Seattle traffic and parking. We went to Half-Price Books, because we're book whores. And we went to the Apple Store, because our iPhones needed to have the batteries replaced (yes, we had an appointment. We're not the type of people to spontaneously go to a major city and expect to be seen without an appointment. Because we're on a time crunch, here, people!). And we ate lunch at The Cheesecake Factory, but we didn't' take any pictures of our food because our phones were not with us...which was actually delightful! Oh! And See's Candy gave us free samples...so then we felt obligated and we bought a bunch of chocolate. Duh. But it was gone before we made it back to the Peninsula. I'm not buying chocolate for the boys. Whatever, they want for nothing. And finally, after picking up our phones, we went to my favorite store, Lover's Package...because sex is a hobby we can do together and we're at the Boss Level. No, I'm not providing details. And, no we're not streaming a live demo on YouTube. Or on Fuckbook. It's a thing. You're welcome.

So, we picked the boys up on Wednesday, just before lunch and they were on goddamn fire. Well, the older one was exhausted, and the younger one was pissed off at whatever, because he's 9 and he and his brother were having what the Rock Star Counselor described as "brother stuff" and we all know what that means...so whatever, bitches, it's time to go.

It took us a full hour to leave the camp...because we, as parents, needed to check in with the Rock Star Counselor and the Co-Director, and, good problem to have: the boys didn't want to leave. They used the bathroom about 12 more times, each got a slice of pizza from the Master Chef, gave high fives to their counselors, with promises to see each other next summer. WIN!

We were told they got a little bit homesick on Tuesday evening, but that that's pretty normal. They did do the Polar Bear swim on BOTH mornings, and immediately warmed up with cups of hot cocoa, and then a Klondike Bar...like ya do.... They spent the first night in the lodge, watching a movie with all the boys and staying up about three hours past their usual bedtime. We knew, based upon our conversations with the Co-Director in our planning, that this would happen...and we anticipated fall out...but it wasn't as bad as we'd thought it would be.

They each looked as though they didn't sleep, but also looked as though they had aged just a smidge. The older one said he took all of his meds, and I trust that he did. He said he didn't have a lot of seizures, and I trust that he didn't He said his favorite part of camp was going in the canoe with his brother and the Rock Star Counselor. The younger one said that he learned that when he has to go, he really can poop anywhere and use scratchy toilet paper. He said his favorite part of camp was hanging out with his BFF, the daughter of the Co-Director, and that next year, he wants to be there for the entire three weeks that she's there. They also said their favorite part was swimming in the lake and eating all the food and sleeping in the cabins and that they absolutely, positively have to go again for a week next summer and that is something my husband and I completely support.

The days following camp were not as bad as we had anticipated. They were tired, and it took them a few days to recover. But we didn't see as many seizures as we thought we would; and my hope that he'll eventually grow out of his epilepsy was renewed...because you just don't give up hope on something like that. Or I don't, anyway....

They came away with an incredible experience, and grew as individuals and in their own relationship as brothers. We are all very thankful for the opportunity, experiences, and support that was provided by the Co-Directors and the counselors and are very much looking forward to summer 2019.

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.

Figured It Out

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

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

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

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

Tuesday's low back ass kicking workout

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not kidding.

Itchy skin? Skin cancer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ous!

And namaste'

Game Face

I've got my Game Face on today.

The one everyone expects to see.

Smiling. Happy. Thrilled to be alive.

But my low back has been hurting for three days, and it's been sneaking into my hips.

So inside, I'm scared. Actually, I'm fucking terrified. That my breast cancer is back.

Because I've been told by my health care team that if Triple Negative Breast Cancer were to come back, it would show up in my hips. My medical oncologist said that if I have pain in my hips and take Tylenol and/or Advil and it goes away, it's nothing to worry about. But, if I take Tylenol and/or Advil, and it doesn't go away then I need to see him.

The pain started on Thursday about 5:30 pm, after sitting for at least an hour playing UNO with my older son. He's the child who is disabled. But he was handing me my ass in UNO. Like usual. How many fucking Wilds and +4 Wilds did I deal him? Jesus.

Get up and move. Start dinner. Randy was at Hapkido with Mini Musashi, and I didn't expect them home until at least 6:30. You've been sitting too long. It was the first beautiful and warm day for us here on the Olympic Peninsula...maybe being outside picking up dog shit and taking pics of the boys was a little too much action. Maybe I pulled my back a bit because I didn't engage my core. Jesus, Rachel.

Thank you Clue

Wait! Didn't the Clue App just send me a notice that my period is gonna start? Fuckinchrist. Wasn't chemo supposed to make that fucking piece of me stop? Because I really am done having my period. Because it's not regular and goddamnit...perimenopause and chemo induced menopause is bullshit.

Total. Fucking. Bullshit.

And, no, I can't use hormonal birth control because BREAST CANCER.

On the other hand, it's kinda nice to still get my period. I get to be a girl. But I'm the only girl in my house. Our dog doesn't truly count. She had her reproductive organs removed, god love her, and so, I'm the only human female in my house and most of the time it's a big piece of bullshit.

Leave me alone. I am waiting for my period to show up. Because apparently I'm THAT FUCKING FERTILE at the age of 45-1/2.

So go be boys. Go outside and yell at the trees. Scare all the wildlife away. I don't care that it's raining. You're not made out of sugar. You will not melt.

And I threw a swimming birthday party today. Because the little one turns 9 on Monday.

Nine.

And there's so much on his plate. He doesn't remember my cancer. My surgery. My chemo. My radiation. He was about six weeks shy of turning six years old when I was diagnosed in March 2015. Kindergarten.

He remembers his dad's cancer. The surgery, radiation and chemo. He remembers the tube coming out of Daddy's arm. And the other one that went into his stomach so he could "eat"...sustain life. Fucking A the things we do....what we put our body's through...to live.... Thank you science.

Mr. Nearly Nine knows all too well about his brother's seizures, and our medication choices.

About his autism.

His disabilities. 

He sees his brother's daily struggles.

He tries to parent his brother. A lot.

Don't worry, child, someday it will, in all likelihood, fall to you. You'll get your chance, youngling. But for now, you need to work on quieting your voice and your mind, step back, and let me and Dad do our jobs. Thank you, very much.

Maybe getting in the water will help my low back feel better....?

Advil? Check.

Tylenol? Check.

Marijuana? Check.

But not at the party when you're the hostess. Because that shit ain't cool.

Topical marijuana balm on low back and hips? Check.

Yoga isn't helping. I could barely move on my mat last night, and I didn't practice this morning. I did give myself permission to sleep in though; 7:25 am is late for me. The alarm usually goes off at 5.

Walking isn't helping. I ache like I never have. And I am terrified. I have no appetite, and have been forcing myself to eat nutrient dense food every few hours.

Maybe I've got too much on my plate. Maybe I've said yes to too many things? Helping is what I do; it's my Super Power.

So this past week, when I was contacted by three different moms who had questions about giving their kids medical marijuana, and I've got 4-1/2 years of experience, I step up to the best of my ability in that moment and help in the best way I can. Texting is good. Facebook messaging is good. Email is great. Talking on the phone is hard for me...I usually only reserve that for medical appointments I'm making for myself or my children.

He's looking at his brother...

Or for talking to my parents, because they will never get on the Tech Train; too trendy. So I meet them where they are...on the talking part of my phone. And that's hard. Especially when my dad, who called twice on Wednesday, to see if we received the card for Mr. Nearly Nine's birthday...and Wednesday is my family's busiest day of the week...stressful...but god love him, he goes off on one of his famous tangents, and all I could really do was breathe through it...Jesus, Dad. In my family, going off on a tangent, which leads to another tangent and you start subject hopping and don't really take a breath or provide the other person in the conversation to speak, that's actually a verb: Tangeting. Verb. That's what's happening.

So I put on my Game Face. And I threw a fantastic party. Again. Alternatively, I really have a lot of practice at throwing parties.

...who is not capable of controlling himself when it comes to blowing out candles.

And yes swimming felt great. And yes, the diving helped alleviate the pain. And yes it was fun having the kids watch me underwater when I dove down and touched the bottom. And yes, I know my hips are going to hurt like a motherfucker tomorrow.

Because it's not like I'm seventeen and doing this shit. I'm 45-and-a-goddamn-half and I'm a breast cancer survivor and a mom of a kid with myriad disabilities and a cancer care giver and goddam do I have cancer of the quadratus lumborum? Or a kidney infection that I don't have any other symptoms for? Or kidney cancer? Because I could also have cancer of the foot because I stubbed my toe the other day...?

Can't my period just fucking start? Seriously. I'd totally take my period over any type of cancer any day, please Jesus.

And thank you, Mother Nature, for considering my request.

Namaste'