how am i doing?

It's easy, when people ask, to say, "Fine," or "OK," or "Not too bad," and I suppose in social situations, those responses have to do. But in a nutshell, I'm really not doing all that well. I haven't been since I got home from the hospital.

I have had many moments of resentment, bitterness, hopelessness, anger, negativity. When I mentioned this to Dr. S., his response was to offer to prescribe me antidepressants. It's such a medical response — more pills. "There's no reason you shouldn't be as happy as you can be," Dr. S. said in his always-calm voice, and I had to say, "Are you kidding? Can't you understand why a person in my situation right now might not be happy?" He just repeated the offer of antidepressants. I'd rather not go there for now. But I do think some counseling might be helpful. (Edited to explain: I am not opposed to antidepressants when they are the most appropriate treatment for depression, such as when it's clear there is a brain chemistry imbalance; but first I'd like to explore the possibility that my current frame of mind is situational, based on specific circumstances that I might be able to work through in therapy.)

My right lung is not working very well, after what it went through at the hospital, and my breath is really shallow and fast. I get winded at the slightest activity — coughing hard, walking across a room, turning over in bed. The right side of my back aches so much that I have trouble falling asleep. I have a nagging, persistent cough that is triggered just by my breathing and sometimes takes the breath out of me. These breathing problems seem to be getting worse, but I'm scared to call the doctor about them because I'm afraid I'll have to go back to the hospital. Even if that's for the best.

My hemoglobin level is borderline anemic, which may be one reason I'm so tired and lightheaded all the time.

I have a PET and CT scan on Monday, and while it would be officially great to learn that the last round of chemo worked, part of me secretly hopes it shows it didn't work because then I won't have to do another round of it. It was so hard, so toxic. I am still not over it, and it was three weeks ago. I don't have much of an appetite, and certain foods just don't appeal to me anymore. The next round is scheduled for next week, but I don't want to do it before Christmas. I think Dr. S. will let me postpone it. But ...

I'm hitting a wall in general when it comes to chemo. I just don't know how much more I can take. I am not a person who associates chemo with positive, tumor-killing thoughts. I saw it described in a recent newspaper article as "the scorched earth policy," and that rings true for me. I've had seven rounds of poison, and so far, it's only had minimal success. Stopping growth (or shrinking it, in one case) for a round or two but ultimately letting more new tumors slip through — tumors that are resistant to that particular form of chemo, so on with the next cocktail.

If this round is found not to have worked, the next option is Sutent, a pill form of chemo. It's been on the market for about two years, originally approved after showing success with gastro-intestinal cancers. I don't know how much success it's had with sarcomas. Meanwhile, it sounds pretty toxic. Can I handle it?

I have had moments when I just want to stop all treatment and lie down and let nature take its course.

And of course, that makes me feel like a bad mother, a bad wife. Who would willingly give up on her family like that?

But then I watch a silly-sweet movie like The Holiday, where Jude Law is a widower with two young girls, and he finds love with Cameron Diaz after thinking he'll never find love again, and it gives me this naive hope that maybe things will work out without me, that maybe I don't need to be so resistant to dying, if that's what the cards hold for me.

And I think about Matt Logelin, a flesh-and-blood widower, not some movie character, who is suffering so greatly but also surviving and, in some ways, perhaps even flourishing nearly nine months after his wife died, the day after giving birth to their daughter Madeline.

So, is it OK to give myself permission to die? Or should I keep on letting chemo drugs weaken me and make me miserable — but maybe buy some more time, maybe (though I'm doubting the odds) work a miracle? Or should I find some middle ground and take a break for a while with the intention of starting chemo again later? It's a question I really struggle with.

• • •

But I can't let the title question go without mentioning some of the things that bring me light.

Unexpected gifts, letters and cards from friends. And visits.

Hot baths, now entirely unencumbered.

I'm done with my antibiotics, and the infection seems to be gone.

My hair is still coming in. It's more than an inch long now! I actually washed it yesterday!

Books like Kitchen Table Wisdom by Rachel Naomi Remen and When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron, which help me delve into my suffering and negativity without judgment.

People in the medical community who actually show a human side, who look at me in the eyes and ask me how I'm doing — like they really mean it. And don't offer pills to address every concern.

A woman who comes over a couple of evenings a week to help out (play) with the boys and offer moral support, which enables Steve and me to do other errands around the house. She started out as a stranger and now is a friend, almost a surrogate grandmother to the boys. She brings cookie dough for me to make cookies with Daniel. On days when I'm feeling like a bad mother, she gives me hugs and tells me how sweet and wonderful they are, and how much she loves being with them.

My sister-in-law Sue, who takes time out of her busy family life and comes over every Monday to help me with the boys. We pay a nanny for that four days a week; Sue does it from the goodness of her heart. Her day has become so important to us, and the boys love her.

The fact that so many women I know are having babies soon. For some reason, this gives me such a sense of joy. It's a reminder of the full circle of life.

Acupuncture — the compassionate woman who administers it and the spiritual strength it gives me.

Our latest home-improvement project: a new, ultra-quiet bathroom ceiling fan and some new, professionally installed attic insulation to keep our house a bit warmer (done in tandem). Sounds super-sexy, doesn't it?

Small steps toward decorating the house for Christmas, and seeing Daniel's excitement over it.

And of course, the sweetness of the boys, and the incredible love and support of Steve, who is going out of his way to try to understand where I am these days and to give me all the space (or hugs and kisses) I need. Sometimes he just looks at me out of the blue, seeing something in me that I'm not seeing, and says, "I love you." I really was blessed with a wonderful family.

Oh — and I've been wearing this hat around in the past few days, so some part of me must be feeling feisty and fightin'. Right?

thanksgiving day

Today was a hard day, I won't lie. It was so nice to be with Steve's big family and watch them play with Daniel and Ben, and my appetite is back enough that I could eat some of the food on my plate. But just going anywhere, being up for that amount of time, is physically and emotionally draining. There are moments when the world starts to spin around me and I can barely pay attention to what's going on around me.

But I did laugh today: I didn't recognize my beautiful, teen-age niece because she'd changed her hair and just ... well, looked so different. So I was sitting across the table from her, making a feather hat out of construction paper, and I figured she was the family friend my sister-in-law Sue had mentioned might be coming. I said, "Hi, I'm Emilie. I think we've met before." She just smiled, bless her heart. What do you say when a brain-addled aunt introduces herself to you like you haven't seen each other at every family gathering and had dozens of conversations? Later, when I realized who she was, I was so embarrassed that all I could do was laugh. It felt good. I haven't laughed like that in quite a while.

But then I go back to a place that feels dark and lonely. I have been having trouble shaking it since my hospital stay. I wonder if there's such a thing as post-traumatic stress disorder for hospitals: I have flashbacks of the lack of privacy, the nurses who wake me up to check my vital signs, the people from the lab who come to draw blood like vampires first thing in the morning, the long gurney rides through the cold hospital corridors on my way to have a needle stuck into my lung or my chest, the loss of control over everything. It keeps me awake at night, and my dreams are fraught with IV lines and the vampires from the Twilight series. It was horrible, and I wish I could reassure myself that I won't ever have to go back, but the fact is, I might have to go back. That is the nature of this illness. And it seems to be on a downhill slide, at least for now. And that petrifies me.

And we get home, and I find a piece of mail I didn't see yesterday, and I open it, and it is a card and a prayer from a priest friend. It has exactly the right words, words that give me hope that maybe I can pull myself out of this place.

I escape tonight, partly, by watching Daniel become enchanted by The Sound of Music. From the opening shots of the majestic, snow-covered Alps — "I could climb up those!" — to the poignant strains of Edelweiss sung on the stage the night the Von Trapp family flees Austria, he loves it. (Meanwhile, I am a teary-eyed wreck. Oh, the nostalgia!) He just doesn't like it if there's too long a break in the music. "I want more songs," he says during plot-building bits of dialogue. And good thing for him, The Sound of Music has plenty of songs! I'd love to find some more old movies he might appreciate, even at the tender age of 2. We already have Mary Poppins. Any more ideas?

this and that ...

• My first issue of Wondertime magazine came in the mail this weekend, and I finished it off this afternoon. I've read it in doctors' waiting rooms and thought it seemed whimsical and interesting, so I subscribed. This issue hit me as Real Simple meets Parenting. In other words: light, fluffy, pretty and uncluttered, well-meaning, enjoyable, fairly mainstream, somewhat mindless, and over in an hour. (Isn't that the way with all things Disney-owned?) Today I learned how to keep Christmas simple and nonmaterialistic — and how to make my own Christmas ornaments by shaking balls I already own around in plastic bags filled with glue and glitter. Um, no thank you.

• I'm off chemo for now, and I'm going to be starting radiation again soon. There are two larger tumors in my lungs that the oncologists would like to zap — one near my spine on the right side, the other near my windpipe on the left. They're the two that could potentially cause the most trouble if they kept growing, and the one near my spine is the one that hasn't been responding to chemo. I'm nervous about it all, but from I've seen and heard, I think it's the best thing to do right now. They're not going to go after all my lung tumors. They can't; there are just too many little ones. This is all about buying time. (I am looking forward to having my hair grow back! It's already about a half-inch long, but I'm not ready to debut my pixie do!)

• Steve and I went out last night and had a great date without the kids. We need to do that more often! I even wore makeup — which is to say that I went out yesterday afternoon and bought new mascara and eyeliner, which I had thrown out when I started chemo because they said eye makeup (especially old eye makeup) is a source of infections. Anyway ... we went out to dinner at our favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, hit a bookstore and split a latté, then went to the Northrop Auditorium and saw a ballet staging of Carmina Burana. It was breathtaking. I'd never seen it before, but of course everyone knows that music. (The Web tells me "O Fortuna" has been featured in commercials for Reeboks, Old Spice, Guinness and Pringles.)

• Does this little guy look like the Joker? He worked really hard to get that Naked Juice Purple Machine around his mouth just right.

stream of consciousness

blah. what a shitty afternoon ... daniel wouldn't nap and wouldn't nap and i wanted to nap and he just kept being so damn cute playing with my hat, pulling it off my head, playing with my hair, my ears, my eyes, i touched your eye, laughing. i smile but i want him to take a nap so i can nap, and i'm so tired, and finally after an hour and a half and a mess of tomfoolery, i say you can take a nap, or you can go out and play with anna and benjamin, and he says ok, so i take him out there and say, now i'm going to go rest, but then he wants to come back with me because he is so attached to me and doesn't want to be without me. so there's more of the goofing off in the bed and i am not getting any sleep until anna takes him and ben for a stroller ride. finally. so then tonight we have a ticket to go see an author speak about how to cope when your kids are driving you nuts, and i am in such a bad mood cooking dinner, about to explode, poor steve keeps rubbing my shoulders and that helps a little, and then i'm running late and i drive to the school where it says it's going to be but it's not there, a lady says the location was changed, it's at a different school, so i drive to the new school, and i see teacher sue there, and she gives me a huge hug which feels good, and i go sit down, and the talk would be better if i weren't in such a shitty crappy mood, and all i end up doing is feeling really guilty that we don't have daniel's bedtime and naptime scheduled to a t. well, crap, come live at my house for a week. i guess there were some good ideas, but by 8 i was so antsy and irritated i decided to go home early, and when i got home, daniel was in his pajamas and gave me a big hug and kiss, and jane had just gotten benjamin to sleep, and she laid him down on our big bed, and he's there now, and i'm really in the mood to buy some new shoes or stationery or something pretty.

scenes from a saturday

Daniel and his dad discuss the finer points of the Economist while lounging on the race car bed ...


... and Ben gets some attention, too.


Later, we go to an apple orchard, where Daniel runs around in the hay maze, throws himself into the hay piles and takes his very first pony ride.


It brings to mind a photo we have of my first pony ride, at around the same age. I think I look a little less serious!

garden

The flowers are so full and lush right now, just on the verge of falling away into autumn decay, but not quite.




We planted gladiola bulbs around our old stump, and they came in gorgeous red at the end of August, a surprising burst of color for the end of the season.


Steve grew a tomato plant, and Daniel had fun harvesting it all summer long.



We got a small lavender plant last summer at the farmer's market and kept it under a growing light in the basement all winter. It has flourished in a patio pot this year. We rub our fingers on it and smell them — it makes me want to go to the south of France or someplace warm and relaxing like that.

mashed potatoes

This morning was the kind of morning that I've looked forward to having as I watch Daniel grow into more of a toddler. In short, we made mashed potatoes.

It was a messy morning that started with Daniel deciding he wanted to make some "soup." We went and sat in front of his play kitchen with a few carrot sticks, and I got out a couple of red potatoes I had on hand, and we used plastic ("safe") implements to try to cut up the potatoes, which took forever, but we finally accomplished it.

At one point, Daniel strained and grunted and said, "I can do it!" And then he popped his potato in half, and I was so proud of him.

We washed the potatoes and carrots in a strainer, then put them in some water to boil. A while later, when they were soft and cooled off, we sat on the floor and mashed them with a fork. Daniel added plenty of salt and pepper, and I added butter. And then we ate them (until Daniel poured his milk into them and made them all runny and then poured them all over his high chair tray).

The whole process held our attention for a good bit of the morning. I loved it. I love watching concepts click in his head. I love seeing his sense of accomplishment. I love that we can do things like this together now.

round and round and round we go

I read in the paper recently about a controversial new roundabout at an intersection in suburban Woodbury (well, more like where suburbia meets rolling farmland, which seems like an odd place for a roundabout, but apparently it's very busy during rush hour). Accident rates are higher now than when there was just a plain old stop sign at the intersection. The article said that there are basically two types of drivers contributing to accidents: the aggressive ones who don't yield at the edge of the roundabout to traffic already in it and the timid ones who drive slowly and aren't sure which lane to be in.

Sunday morning, a letter to the editor claimed that the new roundabout is too small, at least compared to the large ones in France. And I said to Steve, "I want to see this roundabout they're talking about." Because Steve and I have driven through our fair share of roundabouts, too, in Ireland, and we thought they were pretty smart once you figure them out. You can get through an intersection without having to stop and start (except for the one-time yield), even in rush hour. I figured, what can be so hard about this Woodbury roundabout?

So we loaded up the car, and we investigated. We drove through the roundabout not once but four times, each from a different direction, each time taking a different turn to get out. Our concensus? This roundabout is a piece of cake! It's not too small. It's very clearly marked. Even if you get in the wrong lane, you can usually still get out — and if you can't, you can just drive another loop around the middle until you figure out where you are.

After our roundabout adventure, we drove to a little park in downtown Afton, where we had a picnic lunch. Everyone had a good time ... even Ben, who napped on a blanket in the warm, afternoon breeze.

our $400 bathroom makeover

The weekend my sister Ellen was here, she and I painted the bathroom. I'd had high expectations of getting it done before she arrived, but I was on chemo, and we spent that whole week with blue masking tape on all the edges and splotches of paint samples on the walls. It was great to have Ellen's help. We made a good painting team!

Steve and I went into the spring season fully expecting that this would be the year we remodelled the bathroom. It was the most challenging room in the house when I moved in nearly six years ago. The terracota tiles were matched by an equal shade of intense, pinkish-melon walls, and it felt oppressive. (I don't have any "before" pictures here, but you can click here for an idea.) The light fixture was ancient and flourescent and sometimes took 20 seconds or more to flicker on. And the mildew between the tiles on the shower walls was just insidious. Steve detested that the most. I detested the overbearing color.

But things happened (cancer, new fence), and we put the remodelling plans on the back burner. In the meantime, we've tried to make the most of some basic cosmetic changes. I was inspired by an article in Real Simple magazine that showed bathroom makeovers without the need for remodelling. A new coat of paint and some updated fixtures and accessories can go a long way.

So we lightened up the paint on the wall above the tiles, using a rich, creamy color (Benjamin Moore's Antique White), and it really opens up the room. (Ellen said it felt "spiritual, like a Jewish temple" — not that she could explain what that meant; it was an impression she had, and she went with it.)

Late last year, we ripped out the ugly light fixture and replaced it with a more modern one. Unfortunately, this left gaping patches of unpainted wall and screw holes where the new one wasn't able to overlap the borders of the old. The paint job, along with some sandpaper and Spackle, took care of that. (See right photo.) And, after I got spoiled during trips overseas, we replaced our fixed shower head with a handheld one (mounted overhead so it can be used as a fixed head), which feels like a little luxury.

And finally, we got rid of the mildew. Loathe as we were to contaminate the house with highly toxic cleaners, I did not say no when one of the women who cleans our house once a month (thanks to a generous and wonderful gift from some friends) asked me if I wanted her to scrub it out with some heavy-duty bleach cleanser that left an odor wafting through our house for about 20 minutes. What magic, though! Steve's jaw dropped when he got home and saw it. It was like having a whole new tub! (I wish I could remember the name of the product; I think Clorox makes it.)

Now I've grown to be at peace with — even a little fond of — our bathroom. The total cost? Probably around $400, including what we paid the electrician to get the light fixture installed. There's still more I'd like to do, but ... knowing we can wait on a complete overhaul? Priceless.

(And while we're on the subject of bathrooms, you must take a look at my friend Vanessa's new downstairs bathroom. Gorgeous!)

feeding time

First the bottle ...


Then a good burp ...


Then Daddy's turn ...

this is the easy part

Lately I've been reading a cancer blog written by NPR's Leroy Sievers, who has brain cancer. Steve heard him speaking on a radio program recently and told me about him. He's pretty far along. These days, he's writing about things like whether to get hospice care and how he sold his Jeep because he hasn't driven it for six months. The other day, he posted something his wife wrote: "So I guess we've been through the 'easy' part of this experience ... it's going to get hard from here on out."

And I realized: I'm still in the easy part. Sure, chemo sucks (really, really sucks). And I don't like that I have to get around with a cane and can't go for long walks anymore and am so much more tired than I used to be. But I'm still in the part of my life — the part of this journey — where I'm still fully focused on living. I can wash my own face. I can walk downstairs to do laundry. I can drive places on my own. I can host a party. I can lift my boys up in my arms. I can (sometimes) have sex with my husband. Sure, dying is a fear on the horizon, and sometimes the idea of it petrifies me. But the prospect of actually going through the dying process hasn't become a reality yet; the doctor hasn't told us to get our affairs in order or take a cruise. We're still working on keeping this thing at bay, and even within the crappy margins of success that exist for this sarcoma, there's still hope that maybe I'll get more time. So we haven't had to turn onto the hard road yet, the one where you know where it ends, and you have to actually face it.

Last week, Randy Pausch died, two years after finding out he had pancreatic cancer. You may have heard of him; I guess he got a lot of press for his book, "The Last Lecture," based on the talk he gave last fall at Carnegie Mellon University. I'd read it this spring and admired the way he dealt with his terminal diagnosis. He was honest about how hard it was to prepare his family for his death, yet he was also pragmatic. He did the things he needed to do to make sure his wife and kids would remember how much he loved them. He took them on trips. He made lots of videos and wrote them letters. He was real, and full of enthusiasm and positivity. And he died. He didn't just go through the motions of preparing to die and then get miraculously healed, as if his positive attitude and fighting spirit were going to cure him. Don't get me wrong: I'm terribly sad for his family, and if he'd somehow managed to live, I would have held him up as a reason for hope. But he did die, like many cancer patients do. He didn't escape the hard road.

I get kind of tired of hearing well-meaning people tell cancer patients that it's important to keep a positive attitude, as if that will turn the tide of the tumors or make chemo more effective. It's a tall order. No one can stay positive all the time — not me, for sure, and I know it's normal to go into that black hole from time to time. Sure, some people are naturally more optimistic than others, but I refuse to buy into the notion that it's the optimistic people who live and the negative people who die. Positive people die of cancer all the time ... witness Randy Pausch.

So anyway ... I'm keeping an eye on Leroy Sievers. He writes honestly and simply about what it's like to enter that hard part of the journey. I feel like I need to know what it's like because I may be going there sooner or later. For now, though, I'm very aware that I'm still in the easy part, no matter how hard things seem.

ben's first boo-boo

Yep ... he got cut with the nail clippers, and now he's wearing a tiny bandage on his finger. He's perfectly fine, but he sure bled a lot at first (and gave us a scare!)


He's also developing his hand skills and is able to pick a few things up. (He can pull his paci out of his mouth, too.)

fence

Privacy in the back and security at the gates make for a whole new feel in our back yard. Dakota Fence of Minnesota did the work, and they did a fantastic job with our little space. We are loving it.

Before ...


During ...


After ... (One thing we learned during this process is that the horizontal rails customarily face the yard of whomever owns the fence. The neighbor gets the nicer, finished side.)


Before ...


After ...


A side yard view with the gate open ...


Busy yard ...


"Stuck." That's what Daniel says when he encounters a gate he can't push open. (We decided to keep one side of chain link fence that adjoins our neighbor's very private and beautiful yard. To replace it would have meant trampling on her extensive and gorgeous landscaping — and besides, we didn't want to lose the view.)


The crew (plus Daniel and our nanny) pose next to the main front gate.



Next stop: The garden store! Now that we have a proper yard, we want to try to landscape the back section a little more.

a few random pictures

Daniel must miss winter. He still insists on going out in his hat and gloves from time to time.


How do you like my handsome boy? How do you like my careful framing?


Because people asked ... of course, some makeup and a cuter top would help make it an outfit!


A little update, also for those who asked. I'm feeling OK (OK = a little run down but otherwise fine) since finishing my chemo session Tuesday, but I'm trying to stay away from big groups and people with colds and other potential sources of infection. Every two days, I change the dressing of my Hickman catheter and flush out the lines with heparin to protect against clotting. But really, I'm trying not to think about cancer very much. My sister left Friday after a very nice (but short) stay. Now I'm spending a lot of time with my family and a few friends — and in the garden. For the past two weeks, we've brought the paper and coffee out to the patio and enjoyed a quiet Sunday morning there.

Or maybe not always quiet. Stressful, sometimes. Work has begun on the fence (photos forthcoming). It's pretty exciting! But at the moment we have no fence at all — just tall cedar posts, eight feet apart — which means it's really hard to keep Daniel from running into the alleyway. Someone always has to chase him. Or keep him busy with a shovel.

oasis

For all the years we've lived in this house, we've never quite gotten around to dealing with all the weeds that sprang through the cracks in our patio. It was a chronic problem. When we didn't have children, we had plenty of time to spend pulling the weeds out, meticulously. One year I sprayed it down with toxic weed spray, but that wasn't something we wanted to do permanently. The past two summers, with children on board, we've been lucky if we can pull away the really tall ones before we have guests over.

Lately, though, we've decided we want the backyard to be more restful. On our honeymoon, we spent a few nights at a wonderful bed-and-breakfast in Monterey, California. Our room had a small, private garden, filled with plants and a small table and pair of chairs where we brought dinner one night. It felt magical, having a gorgeous space of our own outside, surrounded by beautiful flowers and wood trellises. It was an eye-opening experience, and after that, we kept wondering if we could make our garden more of an oasis like our garden in California. A place that makes us feel like we're on vacation, but without having to pack anything. With our climate, we certainly can't duplicate the California foliage, but we've been working, modestly, over the years, to turn more lawn areas into flowerbeds, create a row of patio pots and add to our mix of perennials. Last year, we added hydrangeas, which are everywhere in Minnesota. I can't wait to see the first puffy blossom.

Now we're on a roll. This weekend, we finally got rid of the patio weeds. Three of Steve's brothers (ably assisted by rake-wielding Daniel) came over and spent the morning lifting the patio tiles, raking the dirt underneath, trying to level out the areas lifted by roots from the old tree. They spread a pourous landscaping plastic over the dirt and replaced the tiles, and now we have a relatively flat — and weed-free — patio. And a patio table and chairs, too! Those, along with the canopy, were our summer treat to ourselves. (It's the Woodbridge collection at Lowe's, if anyone cares.) Sunday morning we spent the entire morning out there reading the paper and making sure Daniel didn't pull up all the flowers.

And this week, if everything goes according to schedule, the meager chain-link fence that separates our yard from the somewhat loud and public alleyway behind our house will be torn down and replaced by a six-foot cedar fence that will run along the back and up the side of our yard. That pickup truck you see in the background? Gone. We're going to have solid, gap-free gates that the boys can't slip through to escape. I cannot wait. I think that's when our yard is really going to feel like an oasis.

a sort of ordinary week

So it's my last week before another round of chemo, and I'm on the tail end of the recovery from my last round, which means ... feeling not too bad. Just tired sometimes, but the mouth sores are gone, and my appetite is back. And I'm getting used to having no hair. (Got it all shaved off last Saturday so I could really get started on the wigs, scarves, hats, etc.)

I did a lot of ordinary things this week. Went to the mall with the boys and our nanny to buy some summer clothes and pajamas for Daniel. I hadn't been to a mall since January. It was almost like old times, except it was a double stroller this time. And I was walking with a cane and wearing a wig and didn't feel quite like the other mall moms. (Did I ever?) But still. It was fun to buy a coffee at Caribou and walk around looking at baby clothes.

Got a bikini wax for the first time since before Ben was born. Because, no, not all the hair is falling out. I broke down crying when I told Anne Marie about my cancer, though. I've been going to her for years — longer than I've known Steve, I think. She's seen me through quite a few life changes.

Spent a lot of time sitting outside on the front steps watching Daniel play. It's been so sunny — I'd be crazy not to take advantage of the nice weather. Some friends came over today, and we sat out there for a little while and watched our boys play with scooters and toy dump trucks and rocks and dirt and other boy things. Thanks to some babysitting help Sunday, Steve and I got to go to the garden store and buy some annuals to fill spaces in our perennial gardens. So now I go for little walks around the yard to see how everything is growing. My hip has been hurting a lot more this week, though. I don't know if I overdid the mall walking or if the fracture is getting worse or if the cancer is coming back in. I just don't know.

Made some leek and potato soup and added bacon this time. Not too bad.

Ben laughed for the first time this week. It's like an enhanced coo with a big wide smile. He just takes an extra breath in, and there it is — the sweetest giggle in the world!

Daniel does not like bugs. A large fly got into the house the other day, and Daniel freaked out when it got too close to his head. Freaked out big time — Steve said his face reminded him of the picture of the little Cuban boy, Elián González, when the troops stormed his relatives' house in Miami and pulled him out of the closet. The same thing happened the next day when he saw a big ant. Our nanny said he screamed and ran to her and would not let go. Later, when I was putting Daniel down for his nap, he was lying there looking at the ceiling, and he turned to me and said, "Ant." (He pronounced it with a British accent — "ont." Just like he says "Amelie" when he says my name. So cute!) Then, when I asked him what happened with the ant, "Finger. Window." The most I can gather was that he saw an ant on his finger, freaked out and shook his hand and knocked the ant onto the window, which is where it was when the nanny found it (and disposed of it). Poor little boy. He's so sensitive. I don't blame him, though; I hate ants.

score

Driving through south Minneapolis today on my way to Vanessa's for play group, I spotted a "Free" sign taped to a play kitchen. I drove a few more blocks making mental calculations regarding the size of my Honda's trunk and wondering if I should turn around and go look. I did — and as soon as I got out of my car and looked at it, I knew I (er ... Daniel) had to have it! A man walking by with a cup of coffee in his hand offered to help me load it into the car, and I drove the rest of the way to play group with my trunk hood halfway up. When I got there, Vanessa managed to shove the kitchen all the way into the trunk, and we were set.

Totally worth it. Daniel had the best time with it this afternoon. (That's his actual lunch he's taking out of the refrigerator.)


Now we just need to decide where to put it. It can't stay in the front yard all summer, though I'm sure Daniel wouldn't mind.

today was a good day ...

... because:

Liz came over to help out with the boys, and she came bearing gifts from her recent church trip to Argentina: soccer outfits for the national soccer team of Argentina, complete with a little ball. Daniel looked so adorable in his, even though it's still a bit big for him. Gotta love the blue socks, brown shoes and ubiquitous paci hanging out of his mouth!

It was a sunny day.

My former coworker Pat drove me to radiation, and it was so good to see her and catch up with her.

I finished my monthly column and turned it in, technically, on my deadline. OK, it was after business hours, but still. It's not easy to come up with one succinct, spiritual column about this cancer business.

I'm getting some nanny leads.

The midwife at my post-partum visit gave me her leftover breastmilk. It felt good knowing that both of us were gaining something positive from the exchange: I can give Ben breastmilk for a little while longer, and she is able to help someone who really needs it. Last night at 4 a.m. was the last time I nursed Ben, and it was probably the last time I'll ever breastfeed again, since we don't plan to have any more kids. That's sad, but it's OK.

Other people have started offering me breastmilk, too. Between that and all the other gifts and kindness coming our way, I feel as if we are being held up in a giant web of love and support. It's so nice.

David Cook is still on American Idol. Yay! Though I have to say, I was expecting better things from his rendition of Hungry Like A Wolf.

I saw my very first commercial for the Sex and the City movie, which opens May 30, and I have to say, my heart went all a-flutter!

Daniel went to bed early tonight, and Ben fell asleep during his bottle, which gave Steve and me some quiet time to hang out on the couch together this evening. With all the offers for childcare pouring in, we really should start going on dates again.

a saturday in may

Everyone in the family got haircuts this week (except Ben, who barely has hair) because we wanted to look nice for Ben's first photo shoot. Some wonderful friends pooled their money and, as a gift, hired the same photographer who took Daniel's first (and only) professional pictures to come over and photograph Ben. (She didn't take this one, though; Steve did.)


Daniel is getting over a hacky-cough, crusty-nose cold. I'm worried he's given it to Ben — one of Ben's eyes has goop around it and sticks shut after he's been sleeping. And I hope he doesn't give it to me because I need to be healthy when I start chemo.


I also hope he didn't give his cold to Father O'Connell, who came over last night to visit. He is the priest who married us and baptized Daniel. We think the world of him, and so does Daniel, apparently — he dropped any trace of shyness and ran around all evening saying "Father O'Connell" and wanting to sit in his lap. I took pictures of that, too, but on my film camera, not the digital. (Low battery.)

hanging in there

Steve has taken Daniel to ECFE class, so I have a few hours to myself tonight, which I really need. American Idol is on soon, so I'm going to go fix a pot of tea and find out which four are getting sent home. (I can't believe I've become an American Idol fan.)

I'm having a less comfortable week than usual because of a procedure I had at the doctor's office Tuesday. I'm not going to go into detail here (to protect the sensibilities of my more squeamish readers — yes, I'm thinking of you, Adam — and because it's rather embarrassing and gross), but suffice to say, it's so uncomfortable that it makes my hip pain seem more tolerable in comparison! On the other hand, I was up at 3 a.m. last night because with all the pings, pangs and aches in my body, I just could not sleep. The discomfort should be gone in another few days. In the meantime, I'm just in survival mode, and that means lying on the couch a lot and, in the case of today, spending the entire day in my pajamas and robe. At least my spirits are relatively stable. Most of the January funk that spilled into February seems to have lifted, leaving only residual traces of occasional melancholy and crying. Now I'm just setting my sights on getting through the next three and a half weeks — which is how long I have before I hit my due date.

I can't decide if time is moving slowly or quickly. I feel like there's so much on my calendar: two columns and a major article to finish up, a tour of the hospital so we know where to park and go when we get there, last days of my WomenVenture class and Daniel's Music Together class, a meeting to help me prepare for my hoped-for VBAC (which stands for "vaginal birth after cesarean," if you aren't up on the terminology), another meeting with our doula, install the infant seat in the car ... and, oh yeah, there's Holy Week and Easter. The fact that it's Lent right now has been so far from my mind.

Baby Lemmondrop, of course, is oblivious to it all. He's been rocking and rolling all over my belly and seems to be having a good time in there. On Monday, he'll be at 37 weeks of gestation, which will make him full term. I can't believe we've come so far. I can't believe he's almost here. Yet we are slowly getting ready for him. This weekend, I washed and folded all the sweet little baby clothes Daniel used to wear (was he really so tiny once?!) and put them in the newly reorganized dresser drawers in the nursery. We bought a new crib mattress last week, and we're remaining optimistic that at least one member of this family will sleep in the crib. (!)

Well, Ryan Seacrest is on, so I'll wrap this up. More soon!