>Ready, aim, spew…

27 Oct

>Bean woke us up last night. Not once. Not twice. But THREE times. Since the break, this has become rather commonplace. It can’t be easy having a big ole fat-ass cast on your arm. So even in my exhausted haze, I TRY REALLY HARD TO BE NICE. (The hubby? Uh. Not so much.)

But he started his daily-double-down of the oral chemo yesterday. AND the daily ass-zap also known in some circles as radiation. So I get it. He’s tired. And grumpy. (This is where you should ask me whether or not I’m jumping up to grab bean and let him sleep. My answer? [insert crickets].) I get really tired watching him be tired. Seriously.

So last night he got up twice. Got her back to bed. Agreed to lie down with her FOR ONE MINUTE. And the second time he was more than pissed. So when I heard a really sad-sounding cry, “Moommmmyy?!” at around 5ish, I bolted from my bed like it was MY ass that was on fire. I raced to her bedroom door (still closed) and gently pushed it open though I could feel her right on the other side. I started my, “Time to get back in bed” speech. Then smelled something. Decided to switch on the light. And looked down to see that I was standing in vomit. OH-GOD-ALL-MIGHTY-YOU-CAN’T-BE-EFFIN-SERIOUS.

She shrugs. “It’s just stomach juice.” And then, “I got some on my cast.” Shitdamn. I quickly assess. And decide I need to put on some pants and call in for back up. Two reasons: 1. I was dangerously close to adding to said mess as I was already going into dry heaves (did I mention I have the weakest stomach on the planet?) and 2. Pants are key in a crisis.

I tell bean to stay where she is — DON’T MOVE — and race to the bedroom to grab pants and rouse the hubby. He’s up in a flash, feeling sheepish for his last round of anger. “I should’ve known something was up.” That boy is positively black-and-blue from beating himself up.

We whip into cleaning mode. Find the bed is also covered. I grab Clorox wipes to clean the cast and get her into the bathroom so she can heave again. Hubby cleans the floor and strips the bed. I sit with Bean on the bathroom floor, waiting for the next Vesuvian eruption and she says, “Why is there purple and red on my feet?” Oh GAWD. It’s vomit splatter.

And she has flatly refused to let me pull back her hair, so there she is now — on the couch, puke bucket at her side, vomit crusted in her bob. THIS, my friends, is THE LIFE.

The hubby just left for his second radiation treatment and just took his 3rd dose of oral chemo. And I am praying that the house doesn’t turn volcanic with more spew from the other orifices in residence.

After the canceled trip to SC last week (following the multiple ER visits in quick succession and dire warning from Dr. J), we made the most of our time before the next treatment. In between trips to south Denver for the bean surgery follow-up and to the vet for suture infection checks that is. And after the big radiation simulation where the hubby finally broke down and got his ass tattooed. (He’s like cancer kid gone wild.) Though the little marker dots don’t really give me much fodder in reality. Miss-miss says they look like little swords.

On Thursday, I went to a benefit for the School Food Project with Steph. Sipping wine while listening to great stories from Ann Cooper about her prior life as chef for the Grateful Dead — among others — while Chef Eric Skokan of Black Cat cooked up tasty eats in the kitchen of the private home where the event was hosted. Then Chef Eric blew us away with an explanation of his conservation efforts — including the reintroduction of heirloom varietals of many veggies and mulefoot hogs. I was in — er — HOG HEAVEN.

By the weekend, we were ready for revelry. With miss-miss off at a playdate until after dinner, we scooped up bean and headed out in the rain to hit the Tap Room at Avery Brewing. Then it was over to Pizzeria Basta to satisfy my craving of over two weeks. We ran into the Lewtanos and had a great catch up dinner with them. And, later, crashed in on the Rock-es for another round of catch up. Grand.

Saturday had us up early so the hubby could meet a friend who recently battled cancer. The girls and I hit the Farmer’s Market for eggs and apples and then we all reunited for soccer. And the rest of the weekend was all about catching up on laundry, trying to use up our CSA with some kitchen time and mundane-ness. All good.

By Sunday night, my nerves were jangling so loudly I felt like the jail keeper on watch. I could feel the anxiety enveloping me like a heavy, wet blanket working in defiance to gravity. I had to walk outside and pace and take big gulps of windy air at least twice when it reached my chest. Once it had swallowed my head (like that stupid boa constrictor song “oh no, oh no, he’s up to my toe…), I realized that I needed to shift. Nothing can hold back a tide hellbent on going high. Especially when you’re talking a high beam of radiation that simply must be aimed and shot at your hubby’s arse. EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR SIX WEEKS. Or else.

It’s just that he had been BACK. With the one exception of that in-the-ER-almost-croaking-because-of-azoles thing. Cooking, making up songs, running the dog to the vet, making plans. THAT GUY. The one I’ve missed so achingly. And, now, I have to watch him slip away again and I. DON’T. WANT. TO. [stomp both feet]

But away we went. Vet (Ruby-Tues) then dentist (me) then radiation run-through (both of us). I lingered, hovering even though the sign said to WAIT IN THE MAIN AREA. The nurses noticed and took pity. Let me go back and watch. They apologized and said, “Well, this is the one place where another woman can ask your husband to take off his pants and it’s okay.” One later added that she felt badly asking him to take them off and not offer him dinner afterwards.

I watched them position him. Get the lasers just so. Then they wrote something on his butt cheeks with a Sharpie, pulled out a camera, and took pictures. Just like a frat joke. (I’m waiting for it all to pop up on YouTube.)

Yesterday, for the real deal, I went in again and filmed it all on the iPhone because he wanted to see for himself. Seems that he can’t see very much from the face down/ass up position. We mused that it was something like going in for a massage. “We’re going to have you start face down…”

It also reminded me of the crop marks on a press-ready brochure. Line up the crossmarks and GO. I asked him if he felt crunchy on the way out and someone working there overheard. Should’ve seen that look. I seriously think it was the first time he’d heard that. And I’m not really all that original.

So after that, and then another round of support group/cancer class, I think we have shifted. Square into ‘old salt’ category. No longer wide-eyed and searching. Just on the mission and determined to finish.

And here we go. On to the next one. Vomit or not.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Fee Da Da Dee. The Guggenheim Grotto. All you dreamers wishing for tomorrow. Life is elsewhere only brings you sorrow.


One Response to “>Ready, aim, spew…”

  1. Nick Lucchesi November 16, 2010 at 7:34 pm #

    >I would love to invite you to the Westword Web Awards party this Thursday night!Can you email me and I can send you all the info? You've been nominated for an award. Best,Nick Lucchesi, Web editor for Westword.comnick.lucchesi@westword.com


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