Tag Archives: family

Hey Poopface, It’s Your Birthday

22 Apr

It seems like the blog post writing went by the wayside around the same time the hubby went into remission and I promptly started menopause. I was thinking the other day about how, on a warm summer night, I’d pour a glass of vino and head out back with my laptop to craft up a humorous take on that day’s shenanigans. But then. It seemed like things weren’t quite as funny anymore. I think cancer (or teenagers?) took away my humor nerve. At least that’s what I’m going to run with. It certainly won’t be that whole tired “I’m too busy” refrain. Or that I’m just not funny any more. But, since I’m here again — wine in hand — I’ll have to let you decide. And you can keep your opinion to yourself. Thankyouverymuch.

And I really couldn’t resist taking this week by the balls and squeezing the ever-loving humor out of it. Here’s why:

On Monday, the landscapers (aka the YARD ELVES) came and magically whisked away winter. At some point, the hubby went outside to inspect (they are new) and then… 


(We live in BOULDER and rat poison is VERBOTEN and we will have to move after this is published…but the 2013 flood unleashed the masses from the rocks and crevices and we felt we had no choice. Yes. I do feel awful about any harm to nature. I just fucking hate rats — especially ones that live under MY DECK.) 

Which morphed into: 


Then it was Tuesday. The dog was acting okay with the exception of the stink eye she was giving the hubby. She was shooting him DAGGERS. And I am not exaggerating. She said, “Bitch! You got the LEASH like you were taking me for A WALK! And then… THAT SHIT?!?!” She was ready to knock him one.

Since the week had started out with trauma, I got it into my head that I was going to turn the hubby bday week around. So the minute he left with the girls for the dentist, I jumped into the car and raced to Party City. My plan was to transform the damned house into a birthday wonderland, including a custom song I had made for him (and also my brother, who was the original recipient when we was like 6 and 45s were still the go-to medium), and prosecco on ice. I was going to blow him away. But then.

Mother Nature decided to blow us ALL AWAY and blew in some freaking 100 MPH winds that toppled TREES and SEMIS just as I was heading to the… wait for it…BALLOON STORE.

I was determined though. Went through that store on a mission. Grabbed decorations, candles in the form of a FIVE and a TWO, then went up front and ordered the FIVE and TWO, three-foot high balloons. Then. “OHMYLORD. Wait! He’s fifty-ONE! I need a ONE not a TWO!” “Really?!?” “Really. I’m so sorry. Almost 25 years married and 32 together and I can’t remember how old he is.” Quickly swapped the TWO candle, smiled at the bewildered cashier, paid and opened the door to the parking lot.

I make it to the car. Open the hatch back. Whew. I made it. Then. Shithead WIND whooshes.. WHIPS and throwing the stick out of my bun hair, my Persol sunglasses off of my head and into the sky, hooking the arm on the balloon string. Thereby launching approximately $370 into the ether. I start flailing as my sunglasses flip skyward and eastward and westward and everywhere-ward as I jump and grab and try to catch them without sending said revised FIVE and ONE balloon shapes into the stratosphere. 

I did it. And if that parking lot video isn’t viral yet, keep an eye out. I was lost in the super store parking lot. “Lady with Volvo Goes Beserk with Balloons and Sunglasses in 1 Million MPH Wind.”

I also made it home, decorated the WHOLE FUCKING HOUSE (sweating and swearing) and was on the ready with a smile, prosecco popped, and custom birthday song cued. (Damn, I’m good.)

Then it’s Wednesday. Actual birthday of the hubby. And all I have to do is get a 600-piece mailing campaign print bid approved and off to print, an email campaign finalized, a con call made, an electronic newsletter template proof to a client, another newsletter written, another email campaign written, a red velvet cake made/baked/iced, a hubby birthday hike squeezed in, a shower, another con call or five to negotiate that print bid, and a dinner reservation reached by 5:30 (we’re old, we have kids and this restaurant ain’t easy to get into).

Voila. Did it. ALL. (Even made sure the hubby got to the vet with the dog for rat poison follow up bloodwork.)

Dinner is incredible, gin and tonics delish, view amazing – YES! Get thyself to Corrida. STAT.

We head home with visions of icing and birthday toasts in our head. Open the front door. And WHOOSH. The smell of dog shit is so ripe and so vile that I nearly puke in the bushes. And said dog has her head hung so low in shame that her chin is scraping the floor and she will not make eye contact. 


The ‘Not I, said the cats’ came so fast and furious that the birthday boy was knee deep in shit before he even knew what hit him. And it’s not that we didn’t feel BAD. It was just a firm HELL NO. This is the boy’s job. Feminism be damned. (I mean, at least FOR NOW. And I still had ICING to make fershittinsakes.)

The evening came to a screeching halt as the bloody shitstorm was slowly eradicated from the living room rug and we all started to cry because there was BLOOD and SHIT everywhere. And the dog was going to die.

We half-heartedly lit the FIVE and ONE candles on the newly iced cake. Watched as the hubby made his wish and blew while the scented candles flickered around us to cast away the stench and we cast furtive glances at the dog. Who was dead man walking. 

I’m gonna throw in here that this is a family who is very familiar with their shit. It’s been a reluctant focus ever since COLON CANCER 2010. Shits are analyzed, discussed, mulled over, pondered, and shared. So when it is bloody and voluminous and everywhere, we take it seriously.

That night, we slept nary a bit. The pup was up like clockwork. Puking, pooping, whining, pacing. At least every couple of hours. She was miserable. We were worried. We are tired.

The vet is called back on Thursday morning. They tell us that the blood test came back normal. No evidence of rat poisoning. So we breathe a teeny-tiny sigh of relief (and try to figure out how to take a nap in the middle of another balls-to-the-wall work day.)

Thursday night, I go to book group. Discuss Pachinko. Come home to more shit and up all night to more shit.

Friday, I try to plan an impromptu hubby birthday happy hour. No dice. Spontaneity is dead. (Mostly. Two people out of 12 said yes.) We go to dinner with two people. Stop for wine at the the other two’s house. Get home to… yep…MORE SHIT. Teen Queen made it home before us and, heroically, cleaned it up — save the carpet (which is totally impractical WHITE SHAG from Ikea). Score 1 million thousand for TEEN QUEEN!

Friday night, shit show on repeat. I almost throw out a hip leaping out of bed when dog JUMPS up and runs out of our room. This shit is NOT for old people. 

Saturday, vet is called. AGAIN. Dog is barely moving. Turns her head from CHEESE (which she normally explodes from deep sleep IN THE BASEMENT, IN THE DARK for if she just hears the CHEESE DRAWER in the fridge open. Yes, we have a CHEESE DRAWER.). She isn’t eating. Not drinking. It’s pitiful. We KNOW she’s dying. Think we will wake up to dog dead at any moment. 

Vet prescribes meds. The good shit. Dog gets meds SHOVED DOWN HER DAMN THROAT since she won’t even look at HAM.

Approximately 1.25 hours later? Dog is up. And HUNGRY. AND LORD JESUS IT’S A FREAKING MIRACLE.

It’s snowing. There is mud everywhere on the hardwood floors. But DOG is alive. We nearly weep in relief and decide to watch Netflix all day, order in from DoorDash (Yay for Post fried chicken delivered to your door) and rent that stupid Vince Vaughn movie where he fathers 533 children through 693 sperm donations. You know, your typical, family-friendly, warm-fuzzy, feel-good flick.

So, dudes. I’m here to say that when it’s Sunday and it’s sunny. And your beloved dog is barking again and putting her head in your lap for scratches and the floor has been mopped and you’ve just slept a solid eight for the first time in four days…that’s cause for freaking celebration AND a blog post. Amirite?

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Kenny, Captain Zoom. My name is Zoom and I live on the Moon, but I came down to Earth just to sing you this tune, ‘cause KENNY, it’s your birthday TODAY!



Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go: Putting 2017 in the Rearview

12 Dec



Even though the rapid succession of mergers and acquisitions in IT that started in 2016 resulted in bringing my business to a grinding halt, I have to admit that the universe probably had a hand in it looking back. And that may be the only reason I’m not completely bald. (The Rogaine helps too.)

I am going to dub this year THE SHOW ON THE ROAD YEAR. Mostly because the YEAR OF DEATH is just too macabre. Even for me.

Let’s get the sad part over with first, shall we?

The first one came mid-January. The death of democracy as we know it vanished before our eyes as the Grabber-in-Chief was sworn into office. Setting the tone


The bean machine

for what would become a daily diatribe between the hubby and me as we agonized over some new bit of news. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. This election has set the tone for us this year as we entered a level of mourning and sadness that we didn’t think was possible. Leading us to march in Denver as a family for women, science, the EARTH, common sense, equal rights, immigrants, blacks, browns, LGBTQ…pretty much ANYTHING EXCEPT power-grabbing, rich, white guys. (Don’t worry. It’s all fake.) And here ends my political rant, as I know better than most that it falls on deaf ears anyway among those of you who still, in spite of everything blazing into our brains daily, LUV YOU SUM TRUMP.

Then, end of January was Uncle Dick. It was a very hard hit because even though we knew his diagnosis of ALS was really, really bad…we all thought we’d have a little more time. Uncle Dick was one of our most favorite people. Always good for a laugh, a little gossip, a fantastic manhattan. He introduced us to The Stinking Rose, our favorite city, San Fran, and was one of the inspirations (along with Val) behind our move west. As Kenny’s godfather and uncle, he was a constant source of inspiration for a life well lived, outside of the normal, expected boundaries. I don’t know that we ever thanked him enough for always being there and for the positive impact he had on our lives. I hope he knew.

It wasn’t until June that the next news came. Just a few short hours after we’d returned without the hubby (who flew straight to Greenville, SC) from Montana. My aunt Kathy. She’d been in the throes of dementia, but now there was more to the story. Stage IV metastatic bone cancer. She’d be gone in two months. I’ve written quite a bit about her and you can too here and here. It was an incredibly rough summer.

During this ordeal with Kathy, our dear friend, Martha (age 15), had a scan that showed her Ewings Sarcoma had relapsed. So shit news all around. In fact, I was driving Martha and her mom back from her first chemo when the news came that Kathy had died. Life is just really a shit show sometimes. For real.

So why THE SHOW ON THE ROAD YEAR? That sounds so exciting, right? Well, seeing as how the hubby was gone for most of the year for work and we’d have to meet up with him to do things like celebrate his 50th in NorCal, but then attend his dear uncle’s funeral later the same week…well, you get the picture.

We were, however, lucky enough to stage a full-fledged getaway to Riviera Maya at the Andaz Mayakoba for spring break. Even scoring a sweet day in the epicenter of the


In the belly of the Spring Break 2017 BEAST

spring break maelstrom also known as a catamaran in Cancun. (We are SO smart. The girls have now been officially indoctrinated! Rum punch and death-defying spinnaker flights for everyone!)

We made the best of the trip the following month to Marin and Sausalito, even through it was under such sad circumstances. The hubby was in San Jose that week for Monday and Tuesday. Flew back Tuesday afternoon (his birthday) just in time for some champagne on the porch and dinner at Blackbelly with the girls. And had just enough time to pack again and fly back to San Fran the very next day.

We got to hit Zuni Cafe (we live and die for that chicken!), saw a guy smoking crack on the way back to the car (“welcome to the city, girls!”), stayed at an awesome carriage house in Sausalito, tasted vino in


A buncha hog legs

Healdsburg, shopped at the Heath outlet (yay for new dishes!), ate our collective body weights in oysters at Hog Island, and then spent the weekend celebrating the life of a man well-loved. It was beautiful, joyful, sad, bittersweet, and we were so thankful to be there.

The next month it was off to Montana to celebrate our sweet Ty-Ty and her amazing high school achievements.


Congratulations, Ty!

Then, upon receipt of the Kathy news, Lucia and I were back on a plane to South Carolina to check in on her, get her settled in with Hospice, and help her friend, Bobbie, with anything else that was needed to sell the house and settle her affairs.

When it was time to leave, I was extremely upset and torn. I felt I needed to be in SC as much as possible and knew I’d need to go back as soon as I could. As luck would have it, Kenny was working in Greenville a ton, so it wasn’t very hard to arrange an extended stay for the end of July. Plus, there was a work event his boss asked us to attend in his place at the Ritz-Carlton at Lake Oconee, so with a huge amount of logistics wrangling, and a schedule for 2 ½ weeks that took a spreadsheet to manage, we were set to return.

On July 4th, we were enjoying the respite at home before we hit the road again. Lucia had headed up to a friend’s family cabin in the mountains to spend the day BBQing, canoeing and hanging with friends. Sella was jumping on the tramp with some neighbor kids. And Kenny and I had just scooped ourselves some freshly made frosé for our planned Crown marathon on Netflix. So you can imagine how startled we were when three of Lucia’s friends — who were supposed to be with her at the gathering — show up asking if we know where Lucia is. It was one of those moments every parent of a teenager dreads.

After a short bout of questioning, Kenny whipped into action, getting both the car description and license plate and placing a call to the police. I grabbed my keys and loaded the boys into the car with me to retrace the drive up the canyon. It was a very solemn ride and I kept reminding them to look down the cliff on BOTH sides and keep their eyes peeled. I was fuming a bit assuming they had done something stupid or were pulling some antics.

Well. Turns out they weren’t. I arrived to a scene of cops, paramedics and another frantic mother who had beat me there. My legs turned to lead as I started to get out of the car. The frantic mom was on me immediately and I whipped my head around looking for Lucia and her boyfriend as I took in every fourth word or so from the stream being hurled at me. It went like this: ACCIDENT. ROLL OVER. AMBULANCE. As my level of hysteria grew, my knees started to give way and bile rose up in my throat, a police officer grabbed my arm and said the words I so desperately needed to hear, “Every. One. Is. Safe.” And that’s when I finally spotted Lucia. The relief flooded me as we hugged for dear life and cried our hearts out. She’d lost her phone. I told her I could care less about that. All I cared about was her. Patrick was okay too. He’d just burned his leg a little on the exhaust pipe as he helped everyone out of the car.

The car came by on the tow truck about then. It was totaled. And I think I aged about 15 years in 15 minutes.

Yes. Lucia has a boyfriend. They have been an item for almost 9 months now, are inseparable and Kenny is having the appropriate dad-of-a-baby-girl fit. Luckily he’s a


Love birds

good kid and treats her like she’s made of spun gold.

Then, Lucia had her wisdom teeth out three days after the accident (wanna see the video?) and, a few days after that, it was time to hop back on a plane to head south again. The spreadsheet was officially enacted and we traipsed from one side of the state, then to Georgia, then back again with a little lake fun thrown in between visits to the nursing home to see Kathy. Then a few days at the HAUNTED rental in Greenville (blog on that coming soon) while Kenny worked and the girls and I goofed off. We got home to Colorado and had two whole days before Kenny left for Chicago and Lucia left for five days in Minnesota with Patrick’s family. (Are you keeping up still?)

Then it was wedding weekend for our dear friends, Julie and Tricia. (So incredibly happy for them! What a touching day.) And then school started back (Bean is a middle schooler!


First day: 11th and 6th

Teen Queen is a JUNIOR and looking at colleges! Shitdamn.) A few days later we celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary, then the very next day, Martha started chemo and Kathy died.

The month of September was a blur of funeral planning and crazy cat ladies and chemo (for Martha). And then we were back on planes to say another final goodbye.

Even though some may think I should call this THE MOST FREAKING DEPRESSING YEAR EVER, I’m gonna stick with SHOW ON THE ROAD and make that my silver lining playbook.

At this point, I am happy to report that the deal finally closed for Kenny’s original company, paving the way for the deal for his new company to close. So he is now officially an employee of Ruckus Networks, an Arris Company. He has no travel planned for the rest of the year and we are all happy, healthy and glad to be home for a bit.

As for me, I am actively plotting a March adventure and fervently hoping 2018 will be a little more kind.

Here’s hoping it is for ALL of us.

Some 2017 Highlights and Bragging Rights:

  • Bean was Simba in the Lion King and graduated from Mesa Elementary, thereby ending an 11-year run at the school for us. It was sad!


    Behold Simba-Bean

  • Teen Queen got her license (my heart still hasn’t recovered).
  • We fit in at least one camping trip and didn’t tip the camper over or anything.
  • We hiked our butts off every minute we could — our adopted home state is a truly glorious place.
  • Bean secured a spot in the middle school jazz band as one of only TWO female trombone players.
  • Bean braces went on 12.12.17. Jumping straight into the season with a sore mouth. Oy.
  • Teen Queen has thrown herself into photography, guitar lessons and hip-hop dance in between boyfriend and school. I don’t know how she does it. 😆 🤪
  • We got two toes in sand times for the year. Not too shabby considering.
  • Our dear friend, Amy’s, book was published and will be available for orders soon 22770521_922019764616703_4899359695158133580_othanks to the passionate efforts put in by her loving husband and family. Her memory lives on in her vibrant words. We love you always, Amy.

CORRECTION: Sella’s friend, Audrey, joined jazz band on trombone as well and I missed it! Girl power!



The cat ladies, the hoarders, the TSA, cremation and me.

17 Nov

The FamilyThis photo just popped up from god-knows-where as photos and memories are wont to do. They appear out of the vapor and slap you in your damn face like a poltergeist. It’s hard for me to look at because four of the six people pictured are dead (or dead-to-me). Let’s run it through. The stately lady with the hair and the pearls, my Mima, died 2010. The hippie-looking/could-be-homeless vet dude kneeling, my dad, died 2004. The sideways-turned, sassy lady with the bob, my aunt Kathy, died 2017. And the young, snarky-looking dude behind her, my half-brother, became dead-to-me two days after my dad died in an epic screaming match over how he’d been treating my Mima.

You’d think that maybe my heart was made of ice or carbonized, black diamond. But starting from the moment that I read this obituary (in which my husband of 11 years at the time is not listed and my name is spelled wrong…in my own father’s obituary) well, let’s just say things went downhill from there. But, that, my friends is all for the novel-in-progress.

For now, I’ll move on to the fact that this photo was in a frame at my aunt’s house and she emailed it to me about four years ago, “Cassy, I have a pic on my tv of the family taken a little after Daddy died & I’ve thought how perfect it would be if I could take Reed out & put Daddy in—do you have a picture of him (maybe from your wedding) that I could take in & see if they could take Reed out & put Daddy in. Reed’s on the end so placement wouldn’t be that hard if they could do something with the size–I know it sounds weird, but I talk to them off & on & I have to look at their wedding pic that you had done for their 50th–anyway, it’s a thought.”

So, yea. A little weird. But I understood the sentiment. Reed isn’t our favorite person. And we have so many dead people in our family, that she was just trying to keep up the connection. It must have been so unsettling for her in particular once every single person in her immediate family was gone. It’s really sad.

Which brings me to my point. Kathy had a lot of really great friends. She was a member of a social sorority and volunteered at two of the area Humane Societies. She was also eccentric, lived alone and could be anti-social, so you’d be correct in assuming that not all of said friends fell in the realm of the normal.

A lot of them were cat ladies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that per se. But. When you spend the majority of your time in the Burger King parking lot feeding stray kitties, you may rub up against some different types of folks.

So, when Kathy was moved to the nursing home under Hospice care, the calls started. The first one went to best friend/saint, Bobbie, “What is happening with the kitties?” “I know Kathy loved her kitties.” “She left money in her will for her kitties!” Well, since the kitties had been safely placed and a generous nursing home employee had taken in Ben, her dog, we told her everything was fine. Not to worry. But. She wouldn’t let it go. Was adamant that she had to know precisely where said kitties had been placed. She upset Bobbie to the point that my mom (the ex-sister-in-law if you’re keeping track) got involved.

My mom called this lady and told her to mind her own damned business and stop stirring up trouble where there was none. This lady then had the nerve to accuse my mom (the owner of no fewer than three rescued pups) and my family of not being animal lovers. Well. That. Did. Not. Go. Over. Well. In fact, I think my mother’s head may have exploded on the spot. The nerve of this woman going on and on about what Kathy may or may not have left in her will for ‘the kitties’ when Kathy was on her death bed requiring around the clock care. I have no words.

Then, Kathy died.

And, by this point, Bobbie had had enough. So she gave them all my number. (Love, you Bobbie. Really I do.)

And the calls started coming. First from the hoarder lady who had loved my aunt so much and was so very close to her that the last time she went to visit her three days before she died, my aunt had unceremoniously asked her to leave. She told me this story as if it was the funniest and most endearing thing she’d ever experienced. “So when I started to sit down, she said, ‘Oh no! You are NOT staying. This isn’t a good time and I have too much going on!’ Isn’t that just the funniest thing?” I had some other words pop to mind, but I didn’t share them. Because crazy was just keeping on. Telling me what an amazing writer she was and how she just had to speak at Kathy’s funeral to share her thoughts she had written down.

This conversation went on via text for four solid weeks while I planned the memorial. I was juggling work, children, life with daily calls with the minister, the sanctuary coordinator, the funeral home, the dear friends who were flying in to speak at the memorial. And. This lady starts texting me about what my grandmother would’ve wanted. How I had to put up a marker at the cemetery even though Kathy had asked to be cremated. At one point, during a live conversation, I made the mistake of musing out loud about how I thought my grandparents had bought a burial plot for Kathy. Well. Huge mistake. Next thing I know, crazy is sending me ads she found on Craigslist where people are selling their cemetery plots.

Uh, lady? There is NO WAY IN HELL I am selling a damned burial plot on CRAIGSLIST.

The week before the service, she starts in again about speaking at the service and, since we already had four speakers lined up, I told her that I’d be happy to print some of her words in the program instead. But that I had to turn everything in that day to make it happen. Well, as I was trying to wrap up work and life before jumping on a plane, crazy says, “Okay. I will try to get to that AFTER MY NAP.” And I’m like, by all means…take your time. I can wait. <Insert Jeopardy count down music.>

When her submission finally came through, it was via text. And consisted of SIX HANDWRITTEN PAGES PHOTOGRAPHED AND SENT AS SEPARATE FILES. Well, Jesus-Christ-on-a-Cracker. This was when MY head exploded. “Listen, I do not have time to re-type this,” I wrote back to her. “Well. I guess I could go to the church and type it there?” To which I replied, “That will have to be between you and the church.”

Can you guess what happened next? “I just called the church and they said that there weren’t any time limits on the service, so I should be able to speak for my five minutes.” <Head explode #2.>

The last text exchange (as I was actually boarding the plane) went like this: Me: “I am not having this conversation with you again. You are NOT speaking at the funeral.” Her: “Well, okay. But I hope you aren’t letting any of those crazy cat people speak!”

<Insert crickets.>

The next call I get is from an actual cat lady. Her demands are as follows:

  1. I have someone who has to speak at the memorial
  2. I heard there will be a slide show and I have photos to include

Since I was pretty buried in arrangements already, I punted this one to my brother. He was working on the slideshow, so it made sense for him to coordinate with her and get the number of the wanna-be speaker. Well. Cat lady had other plans. By the time the conversation was over, my brother was also the victim of an alleged head explosion. She adamantly refused to give us the person’s number. Like she was their agent or something. And was super pissed that I hadn’t personally called her back. I said to my brother, “I give you ONE CALL. ONE. You don’t get to have YOUR head explode.” (Sibling LUV 4-ever.)

Eventually, she gave in. Emailed my brother the phone number and the photos. I made the call. Never heard back. Got a scathing email from cat lady. Wrote a scathing email back to cat lady. The alleged wanna-be speaker came to the funeral and cat lady didn’t. My theory on her behavior, after looking her up on Facebook for this post, is maybe her perm is too tight. Bless her heart.

What I’ve learned from this experience:

  1. The TSA does allow cremated remains in your suitcase. I highly recommend having it sealed up tight before transport.
  2. SC’s Blue Laws require black, opaque liquor store bags that can be particularly helpful in transporting an ashes baggie to the beach for illegal spreading. (Amirite, TQ?)
  3. Cat ladies don’t give a shit if you spread ashes at the humane society.
  4. Cat ladies don’t give a shit if your aunt leaves them most of her money. In fact, they are in no hurry what-so-ever to collect, holding up everyone else’s shares in the process. (Maybe I shouldn’t have sent that last email…)
  5. Cemeteries most certainly DO care if you spread ashes at an existing grave. Be discreet.
  6. Funeral home people don’t think anything you ask is weird. Even when it includes having remains divvied up into four separate baggies and/or sealed containers and put in a borrowed urn for a funeral service. They just hand it all over in a shopping bag at the end with a smile.


TODAY’S THEME SONG: He drinks a whiskey drink, he drinks a vodka drink. He drinks a lager drink, he drinks a cider drink. He sings the songs that remind him of the good times. He sings the songs that remind him of the best times. Tubthumbing. Chumbawamba.




My name is Kathy-Cassy. Hers was Cassy-Kathy.

9 Nov


Every week, a reminder pops up on my phone and computer: Call Kathy. I set it a little over two years ago when I realized weeks were easily morphing into months while life took over and every time I’d actually get her to answer her phone, things had always progressed.

Kathy was my aunt. My dad’s sister. And the last living relative my brother and I had on that side of our family, give or take. The fact that our family is so microscopic is a huge factor in why we are so abnormally close. I spent so much time at my grandparents’ house growing up that Kathy was almost more like an older sister at times. She and I flew to Europe together to meet my grandparents, my first plane trip was to visit her in Baltimore when I was 7, and she’d spend countless hours accusing me of cheating in Go Fish.

She was diagnosed with epilepsy after a brain bleed in college and, though married for a brief time, never had children. She wholeheartedly preferred animals to people and, when I’d tell her stories about my girls, she’d laugh and say, “I guess God knew what He was doing not giving me kids.”

I adored her. Her eccentricity. Her laugh. Her sarcasm. Her wit. (Her failure to ever, ever clean her house…not so much. <Insert gagging sound here.>)

I first realized something wasn’t right on Thanksgiving a few years back. She was driving to Chapin, SC from Florence to have dinner with my brother and his family. I was glad she was going. I always worried about how little she was getting out. She could be so anti-social — especially since Mima died. Then, my phone rang. “Cassy. Where is Cory’s house?” My heart dropped into my stomach. “Uh. In Chapin? Where are you?” “Well, I’m near a church.” Shit. There were only like 50 GD churches within a mile radius of my brother’s house near Lake Murray. “Okay. Which one?” And this whole time I’m thinking to myself…why in the hell is she calling ME? All the way in Colorado. Instead of my brother, whose house she was apparently circling. I can’t remember if he went to get her or exactly how it played out from there, but I knew. Either her epilepsy meds were off or it was something worse.

So, that Christmas, I bought her an iPhone. Thinking the Googles would solve all of her woes. Just put in the address she wanted, and VOILA, instantly read aloud directions and all would be right in the world. Instead: “Cassy. I LOVE the phone. But that lady just starts talking and I don’t know how to make her stop, so I just threw it in the basket.” Siri? Yea? Uh. Great.

Then the calls started coming. She’d gotten lost on the way to the movies, to Starbucks, to [fill in the blank]. Her friends were worried. She was getting the days mixed up. Missing appointments. She told me she kept sticky notes. Was creating index cards with directions to the store and Starbucks and the animal shelter… on the good days when she knew right where she was. I got this note via email from her on June 11, 2016: “Just ran out to Magnolia on an errand—made it out and back!! Y’all have a great weekend!” The little things… like making it to the mall and back.

My mom said, “She really shouldn’t be driving.” And my heart skipped a beat again. I knew it was true. She’d swiped a car on the interstate and run into a fence. But. I was panicked thinking of how to put this all into motion from afar. How in the hell would she get groceries for god’s sake? How does this all work? And she would bite my head clean off any time I tried to bring it up.

Luckily, the friends knew what to do and I will be eternally grateful. Because what I’d get was, “Well now that I don’t have the walker any more…” And I’d say, “What are you talking about?” Then it would all come tumbling out that she’d had an ‘episode’ at church which I later learned was a freaking stroke. So the bits and pieces that would actually reach my ears were so deeply disturbing that if I hadn’t had those friends to fill me in, I would’ve been completely and utterly left in the dark.

Bobbie, Maggie and Nadene called regularly to check in — all with the strict promise that Kathy couldn’t know we’d talked. She was a feisty one. And it turns out that she’d made them promise NOT to call me when the stroke happened because she was afraid I’d come back there. And there is some jacked up thing in my family that started when I moved west about not letting me come back there. Like if I show up they all just know they must be dying. It’s total bullshit.

Back in the spring, I was getting out of the car at the grocery store and my phone rang. Kathy. By this point, it had become so rare for her to call ME, that I instantly answered. “Cassy. I need to tell you something. I went to the doctor today and I only want to say this word once and I don’t want you to ever say it again. He said I have dementia. Don’t tell anyone that word though.” I had to catch my breath. Breathe. Breathe. She knows. She’s talking about it. She was so lucid in so many ways. Ways I hadn’t heard in so long. “What is it about the word? Do you think it makes it sound like you’re demented?” “Yes,” she said. “It makes me sound like I am running around my house with no clothes on.” “Well ARE YOU?!?” My favorite moment of that whole conversation was right then. When we both burst into laughter. You see, we had a pact. If either of us was ever walking around in circles in the yard, mumbling to ourselves, drooling…we’d promised to shoot. It was a joke of course, but she knew this was where my mind was going.

That conversation lasted for the entire grocery shopping trip and all the way back to my driveway, where I parked and sat while she told me how scared she was. Asked me what was going to happen to her. About whether she should move to get more help. How she couldn’t bear to leave her animals – her dog, Ben, who also had dementia. Laughed at the irony of that too.

I’m not exaggerating when I say it was one of the saddest conversations I’ve ever had.

It wasn’t long after that when she stopped answering the phone entirely and our conversations came to an abrupt halt.

Once Bobbie got everything arranged with a helper, sold the car, and took over power of attorney, I could finally breathe again. She called me with all big decisions and to give me updates. And it seemed to be humming along minus a few hiccups with a crooked ‘tree’ guy (to which ‘payments’ totaling $8K to this ass wipe prompted the bank to send in Adult Protective Services). It takes a village.

In June, we’d just gotten home from Montana. The hubby had flown directly from Kalispell to Greenville, SC for work. Bobbie had called me while I was at the Kalispell airport to go over some of Kathy’s finances. So when she called again the next night at 10pm mountain time, the air went out of my body yet again. “It’s Kathy. She’s in the hospital and it isn’t good. You need to come.”

Bobbie and the helper had found Kathy slumped over on her couch in a pool of urine. She couldn’t stand, was barely coherent. The ambulance came and the paramedic couldn’t find words for what he was seeing. “How long has she been like this?” And it was hard to hear. Hard to answer. Because only those of us who know and love her could explain that this was exactly what she wanted. To be with her animals until the absolute last possible second. Even if she’d gotten down to a skeletal shell of her former self. The only way you’d get her out of that house, in fact, was on a stretcher. And there you have it.

I quickly arranged to fly back to SC and Teen Queen decided she wanted to come too. I tried talking to Kathy on the phone and I wasn’t sure if she knew who I was. We had no idea what to expect upon our arrival. But I had a gut feeling that it wouldn’t be good.

Turns out, I was right. The shock of her appearance was short-lived though. As soon as she saw us, she smiled. But then said, “I told them to tell you not to come.” I smiled and said, “And you can see how well I listened.” She laughed a little at that.

The news was dire. Her mental state had apparently been masking the symptoms of advanced, metastatic bone cancer. She was in the last few months of her life.

The whirlwind of that week. Her disoriented and combative state. Her inability to move much. Her desperation to leave when you did. Begging, pleading, “Take me too. I’m ready to go.” It was horrific to witness. I think I cried every time I walked out of her room.

We met with Hospice and got the arrangements made for her to be under their care at the nursing home. Transport was arranged and she was finally discharged from the hospital. I went to her house and to the Dollar General and bought anything I could think of that seemed like it would make her more comfortable and ‘at home.’ In that awful nursing home. (My grandmother died there when I was 15, so it isn’t a happy place for me. Plus, all of those poor souls in their body shells, moaning. <Shudder.>)

The day of her transport, she was pissed. Spitting nails. Angry at anyone and everyone. She even told this one orderly to “step back. Further. Into the hall. Behind that line!” She wasn’t playing. Even though he was only trying to help her back into bed.

Leaving her there that first day as she repeatedly tried to go too. Heart breaking. But then she asked me to turn the TV to “that channel I like” and I realized she meant Fox News. That may have been when I truly knew she’d lost it for sure. (Calm down, red staters. It’s a joke.)

We spent that week going through her house (it was bad, like, toxic bad in there) and just getting everything settled. And it was so hard to leave. I knew I had to come back as soon as possible. I just didn’t feel settled about her. Didn’t feel like she was getting the pain meds she needed and she was just so disoriented still.

There were days during that week that we’d walk in and she would act like it was the most natural thing in the world. For Lucia, my mom, me to be sitting there in camp chairs in her nursing home room watching Fox News while she pretended to eat a grilled cheese.

The fates conspired and we ended up back in South Carolina in July for two and a half weeks. Mostly driven by the hubby’s work. But it gave us another week or so to spend with Kathy and check in on her care.  She kept asking me when I was due and I kept telling her, “I’m not pregnant, I just eat more than you do.” (She was eating NOTHING by this point, mind you.) The weird part is she kept asking if I was expecting my first. While my first child sat right there beside me and she was looking straight at her and calling her by name. That disease is so fucked up.

The last day we saw her will be forever etched into my soul. For many reasons. But. It was one of her agitated days. And we were startled to find her sitting up in her wheelchair looking out of the window. I could tell she was wild-eyed at first glance and she started in the minute she saw me. “Cassy. I’m glad you’re here because I know you’ll be honest with me. I’m not leaving here am I?” My little family just behind me took this huge, collective OH SHIT type of sigh and sat down. I lowered myself onto the foot of the bed, as close to her as I could get, looked into her eyes, shook my head and answered simply, “No.” She took a breath and asked, “Why is this happening to me?” “I have no idea. I wish I did.” “So what is it?” “It’s cancer. It’s in your bones and the dementia was masking your symptoms.” “I have DEMENTIA TOO?!?” And she started to cry. And my head, heart and soul exploded as I sat there watching her tears fall.

One month and seven days later, she was gone.

NOTE: I’m adding the speech I gave at her funeral here. In case you aren’t sick and damned tired of me just yet. And here’s her obituary for a bit more insight into all this 73-years-young woman was about. (Try to ignore the typos and spacing issues. They don’t call it the Florence Morning Misprint for nothing.) AND, the photo video my brother created.

Thanks for reading. I needed to get this out.

TODAY’S THEME SONG: And although my eyes were open. They might have just as well’ve been closed. Procol Harum. In memory of Kathy and her all-time favorite movie and soundtrack…The Big Chill.

The Matthews 2016 Download

11 Dec

Brought to you by that family who brings you their sad sack stories. Every. Single. Year. Until. Now.

2016 has been…dare I utter the word?…normal. Blissfully, unbelievably, normal. But that’s only if you factor in the smack-you-in-the-face-because-damn-you’re-old moment of taking your oldest to get her driving permit and then having to actually ride shotgun with said newly-minted driver and be nearly killed. Each. And. Every. Time. (Okay. Kidding. She’s SUPER responsible and careful, just like her mom.)


Miss-miss hits the DMV

So near death driving events aside, we found ourselves in our very own version of the upside-down in the slow, but sure lane. Dear friends with clean scans (talkin’ ’bout YOU La-La and Mar!), hubby with a still clean colon…we became those people who just go see friends play in their bands and launch their art exhibits. You know the ones. Dr. Everything-be-all-rights? (Oh right, THAT one hit one of us particularly hard this year…RIP Prince.)


Bliss c/o Belize

Our favorite 2016 moment was when we happened upon our one true love, Belize. Checking a big something off of our bucket list, we arrived in March for spring break with no expectations and came away changed people. We fell in love with the turquoise, tranquil waters, the daily fresh coconut provided by our new, dear friend, Eric, and left a bit of our souls there when we left. Many tears were shed and we have vowed to go back as quickly as possible.

For the first half of 2016, we did all of the boring, mundane things we had been meaning to do, in fact. Finally got the 4-years-in-the-making landscaping done. Replaced the Vitamix. You know. The good stuff.

And we hummed right along with a tag-along trip with the hubby to Cali and San Fran as soon as school closed its doors for summer.


Some famous bridge (and bikers)

Took in as many foodie stops in the city as we could fit in for a few days. Drank copious amounts of wine with Cheryl by her pool. Got in some QT with the Cali fam. All adding to that good stuff list.

It wasn’t until ALL THE WAY INTO THE END OF JUNE that the first hit of the year came. (I feel like I’m jinxing us with a walk-under-the-ladder-holding-a-black-cat-while-breaking-a-mirror-and-NOT-knocking-on-wood just by saying that.) But it’s true. And surreal.

And even though everything is fine now, having your baby diagnosed with epilepsy is a big sideways hit no matter how you slice it. So there was that.

We survived and made it to the appointments and figured out how to still get to


Sharpthews hit Yellowstone
(Photo cred: Rhys Sharpton)

Yellowstone the next week with new meds and just-in-case emergency procedures to follow. And had a fantastic time in that breath-taking place with our dear friends. (Who were generous enough to pick a spot to meet us…er…halfway from Kalispell…with the joke squarely on US with our 11-hour drive to their 6.)

We’ve had school plays, concerts, field trips, volleyball tournaments, dance classes, softball games, camping trips, lots and lots of house guests, hikes,


Bean at bat

cocktails, picnics, dinner parties, laughs, cries, and all of that good stuff too. And even with all of the uncertainty the IT world has wrought lately with all of the mergers and acquisitions that directly impact BOTH of our jobs…It’s truly been one of the first solidly great years we’ve had in a while. So we will TAKE IT. In fact, when we take into account all that the last few years have sent our way? I’d say we are counting our blessings in a BIG way as we close out 2016.

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