Uncle. I'm Crying Uncle, Cruel Universe...
I've had enough. You win, Universe. You win.
Just got word that my mother's leukemia is back and worse than ever.
Doctors told her she's got a year, but only if they start her on a last resort treatment, which will make her feel incredibly ill.
She asked me, "Lori, should I do this? Is it worth it?"
I didn't know what to say.ADDENDUM:
Spoke to her oncologist just now -- my mother only has six to eight weeks if they don't begin the treatment. I think I know what to say now.
I should have included this in my last post, but my brain is...Scrambled? Fried? Over easy? I dunno. Anyway, here's Nici's website.
If you venture over to her journal via the link there, and read some of her posts, it may surprise you to see that this mighty woman (thank you, dear Yvonne -- "mighty" is the perfect, perfect, perfect word to describe Ms. Olivia) worked forty hours a week through all of this, while single-handedly raising her daughter.
It was only last week
that she said to me -- finally
-- "Lor, I'm so
done with work now."
I just can't believe she's gone.
I have been keeping a secret from you guys, a painful, gut-wrenching secret that I've been wanting to spill, needed
to spill. But I couldn't.
Sadly, I now can reveal what has been breaking my heart for the past two years...
My best friend, Nici, whose pen name was W. Olivia Race, died today. She was diagnosed in April, 2005 with stage 4 breast cancer, and she died today, with her young daughter by her side, as well as Nic's cousin and his wife, my hand holding tight to Nic's, Yvette holding her other hand.
She was surrounded by those who loved her most, and she slipped away quick as that. Just silently slipped away.
Being that she was an intensely private person, she would have punched me upside the head if I dared whine and sob in public about her situation.
She wanted no pity, and fully expected those close to her to shut up with the cow-eyed moping already and just let her live
. She wanted to laugh, so I made her laugh, she wanted to bang her head to electric guitar and talk about writing, and act like goofs, and eat ice cream, and watch horror movies, and...
Well, she did -- we
Okay, Nic, I shut up already. I kept my cow-eyed moping to myself, for the most part. Now, however, I intend to shout my sorrow to the world.
Some of you might have noticed that I haven't exactly been as prolific a blogger as I used to be. Well, now you know why.
Some days it was just too painful for me to try and be witty, pretend that my life wouldn't soon be so different -- bad-different.
I'll be taking a long break from blogging, but I shall return.
I've got a lot of mooing to do.
Until then, here's
something I wrote on August 22, 2004, eight months before Nic was diagnosed.
Reading that now creeps me out in the worst way. It's almost...I don't know.
It's just damn weird is all.
Firing Doctor Dipshit
Oh, my Goddenheimer. My poor girl, the oldest one, has been in excruciating pain for the past week and a half. I'm talking bad, bad, bad pain. Can't walk, can't lie down, can't think straight.
So we go to the doctor -- let's call him Doctor Fucker for now, shall we? -- and he tells her it's a bruised coccyx. Okay, then, he says, take this pain medication plus three adult Advils every eight hours. Fine, we say.
Days go by, no improvement. Even worse, the pain becomes more intense. My girl now cannot even breathe without wanting to scream from the pain. Then something horrible happens, something that would strike fear in any parent's heart -- her tailbone begins to...Leak. Blood, stuff, and things not of this world, are leaking from my poor girl's tailbone.
I run to Google and frantically do a search, diagnosed her in, what, two minutes? She has a pilonidal cyst, and it's infected.
She was up all last night crying, and I could nothing but hold her hand.
Oh, I could not wait
to confront Doctor Fucker this morning.
So, we go see him at 8:00 this morning, and as my girl is weeping and hunched over, he inspects the leaking mass, and he says, "Hmm, yes, that's a pilonidal cyst, all right. I'll go call the surgeon." And that's all we get from Doctor Fucker.
My girl's eyes practically popped out of her head.
So, now she's in excruciating pain and
is terrified beyond belief.
The old dipshit couldn't employ a bit of compassionate bedside manner? Couldn't acknowledge the fact that he screwed up, misdiagnosed her, thus causing undue pain and suffering? Couldn't say "oh, don't worry dear" and explain what the surgeon will do, what to expect during the surgery, how much better she will feel afterward, blah, blah, blah?
FUCKING FUCKHEADED FUCKER FROM FUCKWAD CENTRAL!
Plus, he looks like a pedophile. Been wanting to get rid of him, anyway.
Uh, where was I?
Ah, yes -- the operation. 2:00 this afternoon. Female surgeon, at Strong Memorial Hospital. Should be a relatively simple procedure, and my girl will feel like a million bucks by tomorrow (I hope and pray).
I swear, if I had the stomach for it (and 250,000 bucks lying around, as well as a nanny and maid), I'd go to medical school and show these dipshit doctors what's what.
Whip it! Whip it Good!
A bit of background for those who might find the following anecdote confusing...
I am compelled to shout out words, be they short bits of dialog from commercials, invented words, or words that I find interesting or that taste especially good. I've always done this, my brother, Rob, has always done this, my middle daughter does this. It's just something that's done in this family.
True story: Last summer, Rob and I were driving somewhere...Don't know where, doesn't matter...When he yelled out "Arapaho!"
Arapaho? What a fantastic word! Musical, comfortable, and tastes like powdered doughnut! I just had
to repeat it, and so I did.Arapaho
, said I.Arapaho
! said Rob.
On and on it went, louder and louder with the Arapaho, the both of us bellowing in unison until we hit a red light, noticed the driver next to us gawking; we abruptly stopped Arapahoing, looked at one another, then burst out laughing.
Jesus, good times...
But as I was saying, I'm a word-shouter, though a private one. I usually save my outbursts for home (in public, I whisper), preferably when Lar's not within earshot. I mean, my husband knows that I'm stranger than fiction, has become accustomed to my odd ways, but I've learned through the years that it's very possible to frighten the daylights out of one's significant other with one's propensity for the bizarre. I respect my husband too much to subject him to my full-out baffling behaviors.
Although I must admit that I do occasionally enjoy causing Lar discomfort, such as repeating "Head on! Apply directly to the forehead" fifty times in a row.
All right, then.
So, here we go...
Thought Lar was out in his workshop/garage/Fight Club gathering place yesterday afternoon, was going about my usual business, doing Lori stuff, stuff that includes Windex and verbal assault of a vacuum cleaner, when, as I was bounding happily up the stairs to retrieve laundry baskets, I began shouting these three words:Cat o'nine tails
[Rinsed and repeated until the final twelfth step]
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature fey holding eight tiny cold beers.
And he said, "Need me for something, Lor?"
Well, I was aghast! I also had many questions: Why wasn't Lar at work? Why must I embarrass myself this way? Why is he holding eight tiny cold beers?
But more importantly, why am I injecting a bastardized stanza from "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" into this blog post?
I simply stood at the top of the stairs, me and my laundry baskets, and silently shook my head. Lar nodded once, gave me one of his Gawd, That Woman
looks, then went out into his workshop.
Another man, a lesser
man, would have said something to the effect of, "What the hell is wrong
with you?" or "Hey, I married an imbecile!" but Lar is Lar, and that is why I married him. He makes no mockery of my quirks -- he ignores them. Or, upon hearing his wife shout "Cat o'nine tails," sticks out his butt and says "Need me for something, Lor?"
All of you ladies out there should be so lucky.
You Lie Down With Dogs, You Wake Up With Fleas
In my neck of the woods, it's no secret that I'm in love with Stephen Colbert
. It is, of course, an unrequited love, but enjoyable nonetheless.
My kids don't understand the attraction, as he is too "nerdy" and "old" for their tastes, and my husband, ever the stoic Stonehenge head, basically just ignores my squeals of "Ooooh, my boyfriend's on, my BOYFRIEND'S ON
!"(He makes up words, people. SEXXXY!)
It's only when I begin slobbering the television screen with my passionate kisses that Lar bothers to say or do something about my obsession. I just wish he'd remove his shoes before putting his foot up my ass.
I had an incredibly hot dream involving my darling boo last night, and though I'd like nothing more than to divulge the naughty details, I shan't. For reasons that only my ass can explain.
One part of the dream was very telling, however, the part where I was frolicking with Stephen's dog (I don't even know if he has
a dog, mind you), and I spotted a multitude of fleas hopping on the dog's head. I said to my dear loverboy, "Mr. Colbert, there appears to be fleas hopping on your dog's head."
Mr. Colbert's right ear wiggled a bit, then he crossed his stiffly-attired arms before his magnificently stuffy chest, and said to me this:
"You lie down with dogs, missy, you wake up with fleas."
Paging Carl Jung!
In other fascinating news, Dan, Dan the Dancing Man
is through to the next round! Yay!
Dan, Dan the Dancing Man
Nope, not talking about my brother this time (Dan, Dan the Garbage Man cum attorney
) -- I’m talking about this handsome devil:
That’s Dan Playfair, my friend Kim’s husband, who will be performing on our local news tomorrow morning in its annual
Mr. Playfair, a teacher here in Rochester, will be
dancing the cha-cha along with his partner, Bubbles Anne LeBoomboom, a dance instructor from Arthur Murray Studios.
I kid. I don’t know the dance instructor’s name, but I’m sure she’s a lovely woman with a perfectly normal name.
So, if any of you kind folks have a minute, why not check out Dan and the lovely Bubbles here
and punch in a vote (or two, or three). Voting begins October 16 at 12:00 p.m. EST
, and anyone
can vote, regardless if you live in England, or Egypt, or Holland, or even Idaho.
If Dan progresses on to the next level (he needs your votes!), then he will perform again next Tuesday, and if he gets enough votes to continue, the whole process repeats until, hopefully, he is crowned Lord of the Flatbush.
Kick high, Mr. Playfair! And don’t forget to make a sultry face!UPDATE:
Wooo! He totally nailed it! Go see Dan do the cha-cha, people! Go! Vote!
Oh, this is so exciting!
Aaaand Yer OUT!
This past Saturday, which was rainy and humid as an alligator's butthole, my brother, Rob, and I decided to go grab some beer from Wegman's. No big whoop, right? Well, when folks such as my brother and myself enter your plane of existence, the inconsequential can
be a big whoop, most indeed.
So there we were, running toward the store entrance (of course, the lot was packed, and everyone and their second grade teacher had taken all of the prime parking, which meant that Rob and I had to park in Texas), so I, being the Olympian I am, made it to the entrance before Rob, my hair dripping, my mascara streaked, then promptly slid into third base on one knee, my arms spread wide, as if I were performing a silent rendition of "Mammy." Not pretty. Not even cute.
To make matters worse, no one around me laughed, even though I was guffawing like the idiot I am. I mean, is it not funny when some jerk slides into third base on one knee while doing an Al Jolson impression? Come on, sure it is.
I would've laughed had it been you.
But what really put the burn of shame in my cheeks was when a kindly, middle-aged, rubbers-wearing store employee hydroplaned on over to me with a WAY too concerned expression on his face, grabbed my arm (I'd only been on my knee for, oh, one tenth of a second -- as I stated, I'm an Olympian, and have the reflexes of a cat), and said WAY too loudly, "Oh, DEAR! Oh, dear, me oh my, DEAR! ARE YOU OKAY?" To which I replied, "Honey, I did that just for you."
Thank my ever-loving flapjacks, at least that
got a laugh or two from the four thousand patrons that had gathered around to gawk.
Rob, my non-Olympian, sloth-like brother, finally made it to the entrance, and noticing my muddy left knee, my frazzled, Marilyn Mansonish appearance, dutifully asked what had happened. Upon my telling of recent events, he did what any good brother would do -- laughed his ass off.
And kept on laughing.
The aisles rang with his laughter.
It was beautiful.
As we stood in the checkout line with our beer, however, he stopped laughing. The reason for this is simple -- my brother, although a superb human being, is tight with the bucks. The physical act of pulling out his wallet is painful for this man, perhaps even psychologically traumatic, so he often becomes vewwy, vewwy quiet at the register, pulls a dour face, and goes into his own world, a world where everything is free, and double cheeseburger trees grow in fields of golden French fry bushes, and crisp, clean ponds of LaBatt's Blue Light pockmark the land.
The beer, although advertised as the usual price, was more expensive than in previous purchases, meaning only one thing -- sneaky sin tax.
Rob, being Rob, murmured under his breath about this abomination -- at first, only I could hear. But as he slooowly flipped open his tired wallet, slooowly handed money to the cashier, and grappled with his hatred of all things tax-y, his murmurings became intensely audible to those around us. And then he slapped the thirty pack of brew and uttered "sin tax." Then he did it again, slapped the thirty pack and said, "sin tax." And again. Then again.
As we left the store, Rob broke free of his strange trance, and began laughing. I asked him what the deal was, and he told me that he did the repeated slapping/sin tax thing for the sole benefit of the guy standing in line behind us.
Apparently, after Rob's initial slapping/sin tax utterance, the guy whispered to his friend "Weirdo." So Rob, being Rob, God of All That is Odd, felt compelled to put on a bit of a show.
My laughter rang throughout the aisles of BlockBuster. And it was beautiful.