Cancer Ever After

Musings on Infertility, Adoption, Parenthood and Cancer

Can’t Be Sick All The Time

 

At times, it’s overwhelming to have three toddlers and cancer, but on other days it’s so damn wonderfully distracting.  My kids have very little clue what is going on with mama, and just want to play, and laugh and love.  Oh, and go to the park.  Every. Damn. Day.

Luckily, the weather is beginning to cooperate, and my energy levels are holding.

When I was diagnosed and scheduled treatments, there were a couple of events, I wanted to make sure I could do- major life events that I didn’t want cancer to take away from. A big one was Baby H’s birthday.  Birthdays are a big deal in my family.  With five kids, it was the ONE day, that was just for you.  It was my chance to be special.  I want my kids to have that too.

We went all out for the twins’ first and second birthday and Baby H deserved no less- I didn’t want cancer to take that.  But at the same time, I needed to be pragmatic.  There are limitations to my energy and time. My #1 must have, was me being able to make the cupcakes for his birthday. It’s something I love and something I can make just for him.

The problem was, when I originally scheduled chemo I was planning his party for the 26th, and that turns out to be Easter weekend, which meant the kids would miss out on Easter egg hunting- all of the kids, my nieces and nephews.  That’s just not right.  So we had to move the party – to the day after my newly revised chemo session.  And day 2 is a rough one.

My limitations were thrown in my face.  Chemo is what it is. I get tired. I get sick. I get through it, but not always well.  I didn’t want that to detract from Baby H’s big party.

My family knew how important it was to me (let’s face it- a first birthday is really more for the parents), and my sisters and mom all traveled down early to set-up and help me stage  an Old McDonald’s birthday party to die for.  I’ll be honest, it was better than anything I could have pulled together if I wasn’t sick.  It took many hands and ideas to make it special.

The most important thing, was the incredible turnout. 11 nieces and nephews, friends’ children.  The kids all had fun.

Baby H was held and loved and celebrated.  The twins loved the party and want to do it over and over again. After they go to the park, of course.

And for a short time, I forgot that I was sick.

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Nectar of the Gods

So far, the worst part of treatment has been managing the side effects from the medicines. At this point, I think you could say my side effects have side effects. One of my biggest challenges is getting enough liquid in.

I have a complicated medical history and getting enough liquid in was an issue prior to treatment for a variety of reasons. With chemo, this has gone from a small problem of “I can barely get enough liquid in,” to a crisis of epic proportions.

Two of the possible complications from the medicine are constipation and diarrhea. Maintaining a healthy amount of liquids is paramount to maintaining a balance between these.

I guess you could say my inability to drink anything has led me to the bowels of despair.

What? Not funny? Trust me, if you were my bowels over the past week you’d be howling with laughter over this. I just spent $50 on a variety of medicines my doctor thinks will turn my bowels into an obedient child, and am now on “bowel watch.” That’s right, folks, my BMs are so important that I get to check in every other day until we find the magical mixture to balance the pendulum.

Thank you, chemo, I didn’t already talk about shit enough in my life.

Oh, wait? Was it just this morning that two little girls shouted “Poopie butt–hee, hee, hee” across the table at each other? I guess I do talk about poop plenty already. Since I’m already obsessed with the daily BMs of three people, why not add a fourth to the mix? At least I’m not in diapers.

Back to liquid. Water tastes disgusting. I can’t drink anything carbonated. Flavored waters have always grossed me out. Gatorade–depends on the day. Ice-cold seems to help. Don’t ask me why, but cold seems to mask the flavor.

And now I’ve found it: the nectar of the gods. McDonald’s iced tea. Just enough flavor to mask the dead raccoons/metallic blech in my mouth, and not enough flavor to cause my nausea to turn into a full-body rejection.

If you need to find me during the next four months, I’ll be in line–at McDonald’s.

 

mcd

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The Fight of My Life

The battle lay before me, and I tried to steel myself.  Tim and I looked at each other and reached out to hold hands.  You could visibility see ourselves gird our loins.  It’s a battle we fight nightly these days.

It didn’t use to be this way.  Before.

Bedtime.

Before the twins turned two, bedtime was a bit of peace after a hard day at work.  It was something we looked forward to.  Bedtime meant singing and cuddles and then my girls crawling obediently into bed, while I went and rocked the baby to sleep.

These days, bedtime has turned into a war of wills. If we don’t time it perfectly, there is a battle over getting dressed, getting hair brushed, brushing teeth, taking a bath, not taking a bath, reading another story, rocking, not rocking, mommy singing, mommy not singing.  Anything is game depending on the moods of my little dainty dictators.

Last night was a doozy.  I misjudged the level of exhaustion in my children (Baby H was simply not tired, H and P1 were ridiculously overtired.) This simple misjudgment turned the three minutes of getting jammies on into a 30 minute battle of wills with tears, hairpulling and over-the-top wails.

For ease, one of us usually takes Baby H while the other does bedtime with the twins. Normally this isn’t an issue.  However, our twins have taken it into their heads to pick which parent is theirs.  I’m P1’s, Daddy is H’s.  On a rough night like last night, there are meltdowns if each kid doesn’t have “their” parent rocking them for bedtime.  Queue meltdown.

Bedtime was 60 excruciating minutes of tough love, comforting, rocking and trying to get a very untired baby to sleep.  We both were completely wiped by 9:00 p.m.  How that hell are we going to manage this if I’m sick?

These days happen.Bbedtime is sometimes a breeze, and some days it’s the seventh level of hell.  That’s life with a toddler. Their moods change faster than the wind.  This is my worry and my fear.  Normally, I reach deep and try to maintain calm in the midst of all of this chaos.  I’m not sure I can do this if I’m nauseous, exhausted (more so than the norm), or in pain.

Time will tell.

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A Much Needed Break

The Sunday after our Pancake Feed, Tim and I declared it an official family day.  Every single evening has been filled with lists of to do’s for the last month.  First it was the home study and filling out pages of questions, we spend lunch hours tracking down legal documents, and then try to promote our event. In the evening we’d creep out to visit places to hang flyers or try to find another way to get the word out.

We have been running in circles trying to accomplish so much in so little time.  Our regular items like laundry, cooking, and cleaning that we do in the evenings has crept into our time with the girls.  I don’t like this.  I don’t want to have to worry about getting laundry done during the evening hours that I have with them. I want to be able to enjoy story time, watch them play on the slide, and play patty cake. I want to chase them up and down the hallway playing monster.  Heck, we even play fetch with our girls. The dog won’t play fetch, so why not play it with them? For some reason, they think it’s the best game ever.  The dog– not so much.

Sunday was a rare day. All of the prepping for the home study allowed us to get completely caught up for once. Meals cooked for the week- done. Diapers washed and stuffed – done. (Yes, we use cloth) House clean- completely!  Sunday became our funday. We hung out in jammies until noon. We chased each other up and down the hall, we pretended to talk on the phone to one another, we “cooked” but this time it was in the play kitchen and we made asparagus and wooden block soup.  Anything the girls could stack on or in something, we played with it.

Even better, we sang.  My girls love to sing. We sang Itsy Bitsy Spider, I’m a Little Teapot, Row Row Row Your Boat and more. If I could think of the song, we sang it together making up motions for the song as we went.  Then we all danced in the kitchen together and exchanged sloppy kisses and group hugs.

My girls now think it’s hilarious to kiss one another. They pucker up their lips so big and will lay the sloppiest, wettest kiss on you.  It’s incredibly gross and incredibly wonderful all at the same time. Each kiss, each hug, each giggle reminded us why we are working late into the night. It reminded us why we are pursuing this adoption. We love our girls so much, and we have room in our hearts for one more.  We can’t wait until our fundays include juggling a baby while watching the girls be silly or try to climb on chairs. We have no doubt that they will teach him the word “No!” or how to play in the dogs water dish.

We can’t wait.

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School’s in Session

In the normal scheme of things, you meet someone, fall in love and have babies with them. There is no qualification or license to be a parent. In a lot of ways, infertility makes you feel like you have to prove yourself worthy to be a parent. Somedays, you feel like you have to get an approval stamp to magically become a parent.  Adoption takes that approval process up about ten notches.

The 30+ pages of questions and essays Tim and I just filled out, are apparently not enough. We have to take classes. The fact that our adoption is transracial makes us subject to more scrutiny with the adoption agency. Somehow that hadn’t occurred to me when we started the process.  I guess it’s because adoptive children will always have to come to terms with being adopted and also because I will never have the same experience or perspective that my son will. These classes are intended to open to our eyes to some of the challenges we may face raising a child of a different race.

I have not been in his shoes. I don’t know what he will face or deal with.

But in some ways this is also true of my daughters. I was an odd child: a tomboy and proud of it. I was so rough and tumble, and any teasing that went on because of it pretty much rolled off my back. I didn’t grow up in today’s world of selfies, Snapchat, and a slew of fashionable children’s clothing stores. My girls’ hair is already longer than mine has been for most of my life. They cry when I take dresses off them.  I used to cry when I had to put one on.

I guess Tim and I will just learn as we go. Hopefully these classes give us food for thought and give us the ability to talk through how we would handle potential situations. Since we have to take 16 hours of classes, I sincerely hope we learn something from them!

So much of parenthood can’t be taught in a class. It’s trial and error, it’s a willingness to grow and change. There will be times when I do not know what to do, or I do the wrong thing. I just need to make sure that my children are secure in our love and know that whatever comes up, they can come to us, and we’ll figure something out together.

 

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