And then the waiter stabbed me with a steak knife.

Once upon a time (and by once upon a time, I mean this past November) I went on a cruise with my kids and about 200 family members.

Okay, 20 family members, but sometimes it seemed like more.

On one of the last nights of the trip, my girls and I decided to go, just the three of us, to one of the boat's sit-down restaurants.

By the way, that thing about putting on 15 lbs on a cruise?  Totally not a myth. There's like, never-ending buffets.  Constant eating.  The only thing that ensured that my pants still fit at the end of the trip was walking my ass roughly 5000 km back and forth across the boat over the course of the week trying to meet up and keep up with our ridiculously large group.

But I digress.

We went to the restaurant where we were waited on by a lovely, genial man who had the misfortune of being saddled with a trio of hyperactive doofuses who should probably never be allowed in public ever (that'd be us). 

A lovely, genial waiter who stabbed me with a steak knife.

As he was clearing away our plates, one of the knifes was sitting precariously on the edge of a plate and brushed my arm in passing, serrated side out.

The waiter hurriedly brushed my arm and apologized.

My oldest, misinterpreting the gesture leaned over and whispered "Mom, was he making a pass at you??"

"No!" I whispered back, checking my upper arm for signs of blood. "He got me. With the knife."

The both blinked at me.

"The waiting friggin' stabbed me with the steak knife!"

This sent the girls, who had been laughing like hyenas throughout our meal (Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty punchy myself) into renewed fits of hysterics, because having your mother get stabbed by a steak knife is fucking hilarious.

When he came back to the table he was much more quiet and subdued. I, for some reason attributed it to the fact that we were being so loud and boisterous, and for a moment felt bad that  he probably thought we were laughing at him.

In retrospect, he was probably feeling really shitty about stabbing me.  Also, probably worried, since that's the kind of thing I guess usually gets waiters fired.

All in all, it wasn't that bad, since I wasn't bleeding or anything.

Since we weren't carrying much cash, since most gratuities and costs were covered or billed to the room, I felt bad I couldn't tip him, thinking, again that we were terrible patrons laughing at this poor dude who was trying to do his job.

But then again, he did stab me, with a steak knife.  So, maybe I don't feel so bad, after all. 

Dream Recap: Travel Prep.

It's what I am guessing is a Friday. I am supposed to leave to go to the Dominican Republic with my friend Kaylee but there is so much to be done.  I sit at my computer trying to finish up last minute work stuff.  With each email I check off, I discover or remember one more thing left undone.  Finally, realized I have but scant minutes to pack and leave, I decide to say screw it, leave the stuff unfinished and silently hope I still have a job when I get back.

While I am packing I snap at the girls to clean their rooms up so we can go.  When they ask where we're going it occurs to me that I haven't actually told them I am going away.  When I tell them I am going to the Dominican without them they whine and complain and are ever so slow to move.

I bribe them with the opportunity to go to the store if they just hurry up.  This puts a bit of speed into their step, but not much.

As I am about to rush out the door, I remember "Oh shit! The tickets!" and search frantically for them.  I find them on the dresser, two boarding passes.  Once again at the door I am struck with the thought that I'm going to need stuff to read, LOTS of stuff to read, what with all that time on the beach.  Scrambling, I stuff a pile of books into my bag with no regards to the titles.

All this time I am reminding myself to text Kaylee "Happy Dominican Day!" when I get a spare second.  I get the girls in the car and we get down to Barrie where I make a stop at a store, as promised.  My sister and brother-in-law are there, with all their kids, in two cars.  My girls, without saying good-bye, jump into my brother-in-law's vehicle, who drives away without a hi, hello, how-are-you.

At the counter I tell Nicky how ridiculous my day has been and mentioned that the kids just up and took off with Frank without even saying good-bye to me, even though I'd be gone for a week.  Nicky says something along the lines of "Yeah, a while back I told them to stop hanging around this store all the time."

This confuses me, since we don't live in Barrie.

While I am paying for my purchases (having bought a royal eff-ton of Coffee Crisps and Reese Peanut Butter cups for the plane ride) I count out my change.  I ask the clerk if she will take a Canadian silver dollar but before she can answer it disintegrates in my hand.  The thought that I should text Kaylee starts nagging at me again, before I realize with horror that she was supposed to ride down to the airport with me and I am already half-way to the city, and it will be a full forty minutes back to go pick her up.

I decide I will just drive back to get her, but first I decide to untangle the giant pile of dangly earrings that have accumulated in my purse.  I gently pull each earring from the clump and sort each pair on the counter of the convenience store.  Just has a I have the last pair lined up, that's when I wake up.

SOURCE

I do dumb things.

While at work today, I answered a phone call and hit myself in the face with the receiver.  The caller on the other end heard me say 'ow' as I attempted, and failed spectacularly, to maintain some air of professionalism.

On my third or fourth day of seventh grade, I was leaning forward in my chair, when it slipped out from under me.  I grabbed the desk for support.

You all know how sturdy school desks are, right?  Not very. Needless to say, I made a great first impression as 'the new kid'.

Sadly, I hadn't learned my lesson from when I was six and I nearly concussed myself after leaning too far back in my chair, becoming well acquainted with a wooden work bench.  This was back when first graders were allowed to use saws and hammers during playtime. Oh, the 80s.

At the age of 14 I smoked.  I laboured under the assumption that my parents didn't know.  They probably did.  One balmy summer's eve, I stood out on my back porch enjoying a cigarette when I spotted my dad coming down the hill to our house on the way home from the Legion.  Like the ninja I am, I tossed the butt and raced straight into the house.

And by 'house' I mean 'the screen door.'

Once at the Y, because I am a living cartoon and I have no sense of time+distance, I nearly set my shirt on fire before catapaulting myself across a room, all because I thought that 6 kilometers an hour on a treadmill seemed a reasonable speed for a beginner.

I fell under a bus once.

Just the other week, I provided my children with an excellent cautionary tale called "Why it's a bad idea to jimmy a glued-shut jar of Mod-Podge open with a paring knife," starring Mom's Mangled Index Finger.

Lastly, a headboard is no place for an antique clock.  That's all I'll say on that topic.

"Tut tut, looks like rain."

Oh, these glorious spring days, when I can sit on my porch and watch the world go by.  I feel utter contentment settle around me as my cheeks warm from the kiss of the sun.  Where I can lazily strum my guitar, pausing to sip a cold drink.

People pass by: on bikes, with their dogs.  A mere few weeks ago, snow banks still stood multiple feet high next to driveways, now melted ice flows down the gutters and pools in the corners of my yard.

My neighbour waves a friendly hand, just before he proceeds to turn around and pee on a nearby bush.

*sigh*  

Maybe spring is over-rated, I think to myself, shuddering as I head back inside.

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This post is part of the Studio30plus weekly challenge.  This week's prompt is "Kiss of the Sun".  Visit them at www.studio30plus.com

The lesson here is to check your non-perishables.

It was almost imperceptible, at first.  A niggling sound at the back of my head, so faint that I didn't really pick up on it right away.  There I'd be, late at night, reading a book or watching television and I would hear it: a chuckle.

The first couple of times I heard it, I assumed it was part of the program i was watching, kind of like when the phone rings and you jump to grab it, only to find yourself calling "hello? Hello?" into the receiver.  Meanwhile, the phone on the television just keeps on ringing, and now you feel like an idiot.

Other times I would hear it while I showered.  Sometimes it was a chuckle, others a giggle.  Once I swear I heard it, whatever it was, snort.

After some time, the sound of giggling became louder.  It was still muffled, but I became more cognizant of it.  No longer did I write it off as a simple trick of the mind.  The nights I heard the sounds, I would shut off the tv, unplug anything that made even the faintest hum and I would stalk the chuckling sound, trying to walk as quietly as possible in order to track where in the house it came from.

I pulled out my children's long-outgrown toys, removed all the old, dead batteries.  I scoured every corner, cleared every closet but the source of amusement continued to elude me.  

Eventually, I gave up the search.  Maybe my home was haunted, or perhaps I was losing my mind.  I tried throwing myself into new pursuits.  One such pursuit was a complete overhaul of my home.  I mean, why not? I had already torn the place to bits trying to locate the source of the mysterious giggler.

I started in the kitchen.  It had high ceilings and rows of cupboards, painted a bright yellow with tarnished brass doorknobs.  An old linoleum floor stretched out and I got on my hands and knees with a giant scrub brush and scrubbed and waxed until the floor shined, trying to ignore the tittering that seemed to come from nowhere.

Only as I scrubbed, as I wiped down every surface and polished every piece of silverware, the subdued chuckle became louder and more frequent, escalating into hysterics.  It was apparent that the sound was coming from within the kitchen, but where?  Frantically, I circled the kitchen, trying to locate the peals that were becoming more and more high-pitched.  I climbed up onto the countertop and began yanking boxes and cans from the shelves. Tossing them half-hazardly into the middle of the freshly scrubbed floor, I pulled every last item out of the cupboards until, in the furthest reaches of the smallest, highest cupboard, covered in dust and cobwebs, I found it.  The source of my troubles.

I blinked in amazement.

"I don't believe it."

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This post was written as part of Studio 30 Plus's weekly challenge.  This week's prompt was really "Canned Laughter" but because my reading comprehension sucks sometimes, I did the wrong prompt.  Visit them at www.studio30plus.com

Forty Dollars

"Momma? I potty..." The little girl's golden blonde curls bounced frantically as she tugged her mothers sleeve.

"Mmhmm?" came the absent reply.  Heavily pregnant and in her early 20s, the child's mother scanned the shelves in the dingy bargain store, searching for the half-price soup that had been promised in that weeks flyer, but there was none to be found.  Sold out already.  What a wasted trip, she thought to herself.  I'll have to get a rain check.

"Momma! I potty! Go potty!!" She yanked her mothers arm again, more vigorously this time, and began jumping up and down in frustration.

"Wha..?" the mother said, snapping out of her reverie. "You.. Oh, jeez.  Okay, sweetie, let's find a bathroom."  Taking her daughters hand, she led the two-and-half year old towards the back of the store where the bathrooms were located.  She silently prayed that there wouldn't be an accident.  They had been in a rush that morning and she had neglected to pack extra pants and pull-ups for the child who was only somewhat potty-trained.  She also hoped that this wasn't a false alarm, borne out of boredom and her child's need for a change of scenery.  Exhausted from the strain of carrying not only her late-second-trimester pregnancy but also a diaper bag (minus the aforementioned diapers) and a heavy winter coat as they had trudged through the snow to the local strip mall, she did not relish the idea of hanging out in a public washroom while her daughter dawdled.

The woman awkwardly pushed her way through the heavy door to the washroom, holding it open as the little girl skipped through the doorway and headed into a stall.  She caught the eye of one of two teenaged girls who stood in front of the mirrors.  It was a weekday, and these two looked, in spite of their psuedo-sophisticated air and heavy eye makeup, like they should probably be in a classroom somewhere, instead of sneaking cigarettes in such a depressing place as a mall bathroom.

Truth be told, the woman was a bit envious.  She craved a cigarette like crazy and had indulged a few times over the last six months, feeling both guilty and relieved every time. It had been a rough winter, after the father walked out, and it seemed to her that the risk imposed to her fetus by the occasional cigarette was mitigated by the need to not break down crying twenty four hours a day.

"Momma.. Help," the little girl called forlornly from the stall as she struggled with her pants.  Crouching down, the woman tugged the tiny denim pants and underpants down and lifted the little girl onto the toilet.  The girls by the mirror snickered and whispered to each other.  She tried to pay them no mind.  Grunting, she struggled back into a standing position.

"Hi! Hi girls! I potty!" the little girl shouted proudly.  The girls giggled.  

After a few minutes, a faint tinkling noise could be heard, indicating that the bathroom trip had not been for naught.  The little girl carefully lowered herself to the ground and shuffled her way across the bathroom, pants tangled up around the tiny snow boots on her feet.

"Oh.. Oh, honey.  Come here. Let me pull your pants up.  We're going to have to wipe your bum first." Setting the diaper bag that doubled as a purse on the counter, the woman began pulling items out of the bag until she came across an oblong plastic container, filled with hopefully at least one or two wet wipes.  The toilet paper provided looked little better than number 2 sandpaper.

Cleaned and re-pantsed, the mother lifted the little girl up to the counter so she could wash her hands, then set her down and started tossing things back into the bag, before exiting the washroom.  She thought about letting someone know that the mall's "No Smoking" policy was being violated, but it was getting close to lunch time, and then nap time and if these errands took much longer she knew she'd have a very cranky toddler on her hands.  And cranky toddlers make for cranky mommies.

They made their way back to the grocery section of the store, where the mother grabbed a few staples.. Milk, bread, some arrowroot cookies, a couple of boxes of KD.  Money was tight that month, and there was still a few days until payday, she thought, as the cashier rang up her purchases.  In order to stay within budget, she'd have to stick to whatever could be covered by the forty dollars in her wallet.

My wallet.  

Rummaging through the diaper bag, she reached down into the very depths of the bag, feeling around for her small leather wallet.  

"Uhm.. Can you hold this stuff?  I.. Um... Can't seem to find my wallet."  A vision of the bathroom counter flashed through her mind.  "I think I may have left it in the bathroom."  An older, somewhat chubby woman with a slight suggestion of grey in her hair nodded.  The woman grabbed the little girl by the hand and pulled her in the direction of the washroom.  The child whined and resisted, too close to nap time, so the woman picked her up and kept going.  When she burst through the door, there was no one to be found.  Nor was any wallet.  Dejected, she trudged back toward the cash registers.

As she approached, the cashier greeted her with a smile.  She held up a small, black object.  "Is this your wallet? Another customer just brought this to the customer service desk.  She said she found it in the washroom."

Putting her daughter down, the woman sighed with relief.  "Yes, yes.  Thank you.  That is mine."  The cashier handed her the wallet and she opened up to pull out the two twenties and pay for the groceries.  

It was empty.  Tears sprang to the young mother's eyes.  

"Mommy.."  The little girl whined and fidgeted.  

"Is everything okay, ma'am?" 

The woman swallowed hard, trying like hell not to cry in front of the cashier. "Yes.. Erm.. No.  I mean, no.  There was forty dollars in here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am.  There was no money when it was turned in."  The cashier looked at her with sympathy in her eyes. Feeling the sob building in her throat, she mumbled an apology and took the little girl by the hand.  They walked out of the story, leaving the few merger groceries behind.  Outside, the woman sunk down onto a nearby bench and proceeded to let the tears of frustration flow.  

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey," the woman sniffled.

"Mommy, you sad?"

"Yes, honey.  Mommy sad."

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This was written as part of the Studio 30 Plus weekly writing challenge.  This week's prompt is "Stolen".  Visit them at www.studio30plus.com

A Case of Mistaken Identity or When Life Gives You Lemons...

I was reminded today of an odd phone call I received about three weeks after the birth of my youngest daughter, as surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and children's toys, I attempted to nurse said newborn child.

Picking up the phone and awkwardly squeezing it between my ear and shoulder, I heard a male voice on the other end ask for me by my full name.

"This is she," I replied, adjusting kiddo in one and dragging a nearby chair over to the telephone table.

"Oh, hi!" the voice on the phone said affably. "My name is Dave*.  I know your friend Mike*."

I plunked myself down and took a moment to switch my fussing child from one boob to the other.

"My friend... Mike?" I replied, grunting as she latched.   I knew a few Mikes.  Puzzled, I asked, "Which Mike?"

"Your friend Mike that works for the OPP.  Yeah, he said you were single and that I should call and introduce myself... See if you want to get a coffee sometime."

By now it was obvious this guy had the wrong number, as I was 99% sure none of the Mikes I knew worked for the OPP.  Apologetically, I told the guy, "That's very nice but I'm afraid I don't know Mike that works for the OPP."  

"Are you sure?" The stranger that is called Dave asked, sounding perplexed. "Your name is {redacted}, right?"

I chuckled and replied "It is, but I assure you, I don't know any Mike that works for the OPP."

There was a lengthy pause as he mulled this over.

"Are you black?"

The conversation had officially hit a new level of weird.  Glancing down at my arms, I said "I'm definitely sure I'm not black."  (In fairness, I don't exactly have my genealogy entirely mapped out, so theoretically I could have been wrong).

"Oh.  Mike told me you were black.  I must have the wrong number."

"Yup, I you do," I replied.

The stranger on the phone that was called Dave paused again.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

Flabbergasted, I searched for words. "Um.. Yeah.  Actually, I just gave birth less than a month ago.  I'm not exactly in a dating place right now.  But thanks? I guess?"

"Oh well, figured I'd try!" He said, then hung up.

I guess some people just gotta take a chance when it presents itself.

*names have been changed, because quite frankly, I don't remember them.

Sunday. Bloody #^%+?! Sunday.

I'm a bad Canadian.  "Why?" you ask? Because I cannot bring myself to give one thousandth of a fuck about this Canada vs. Sweden game.  And it's hockey, so it's pretty much akin to treason to not care. Social media this Sunday morning has become a vast wasteland of play-by-play updates.

Oh, well.

I am grouchy.  My body has decided to play an elaborate joke on me, which culminated in a trip to the emergency room yesterday with a laundry list of symptoms dating back to last Tuesday.

I'll give you a brief timeline:

Tuesday: headache

Wednesday: headache, brief dizzy spells, coated tongue

Thursday: body aches, fever, chills, coated tongue

Friday: fever, chills, body aches, rash covering neck, shoulders, chest.

Saturday: ridiculously bad indigestion (7 on pain scale, enough to inducing sobbing) and severe, sudden onset full-body muscle pain, more rash covering most of my arms, trunk etc.

So the Well-Travelled One and I make the trip to Emerg, because why wouldn't I want to spend a Saturday afternoon at the local hospital? Most of the ER doctors are tolerable, however the one I got insisted on cutting me off and talking over me, as I listed off the symptoms above, and noted that I am a recovering cancer patient lacking a colon and that I had just (on Monday) gotten off a 21 day run of corticosteroid based anti-inflammatory enemas.

Yeah, you read that right.  21 days of enemas. That's a fun tale for another day.  Or perhaps a medically-themed Christmas carol.

"Oh, yeah.  We've been seeing a lot of this," the doctor tells me.

"What? You've been seeing a lot of people with fever, chills, headaches, rashes, stomache pains, full body aches and coated tongues?"

"Yeah."

"At the same time?"

Jesus.  So, Dr. Interrupto tells me it is viral and to treat the symptoms until the virus runs its course.  Amazing. I'm not sure I'm convinced.  My love who, sometimes to his own detriment, lives to research the shit out of stuff, thinks some of it could be a withdrawal from the anti-inflammatories.  The rash, which inexplicably comes and goes, feels like an allergic reaction. It's not out of the realm of possibility that I could be suffering an allergic reaction, a withdrawal, and some sort of virus at the same time because let's face it, this is ME we're talking about.

All of the symptoms come and go.  Yesterday, the body aches showed up whenever the indigestion subsided.  Then, when the indigestion came back, the body aches would go.  Then, when both of them subsided, that's when the rash came back with a vengeance.  

And I tell you, I am the worst at not scratching.  This is what I managed to do to my tender inner-upper arm flesh yesterday:

I know, that's pretty hot, right?  Sexxaaaaay.

So, today I am sitting at mildly achy, a little itchy and crazy-lethargic.  That could be Sunday talking, however.  I'm hoping whatever this is runs its course soon, and that no one else catches it, as I would not wish this on my worst enemy.

By a thread. (Note: Here there be swears)

I start writing blog posts that get too involved and, in my opinion, boring so I end up abandoning them.  So I'm going to keep this short, like bullet points short.  In the last week or so since I last posted:

- I saw an oncologist about my pathology report.  Stage one tumour, no chemotherapy recommended.  Not sure if this qualifies me as a cancer survivor or not.  I am told that they don't actual consider you "cured" until you have something like six months or a year cancer-free.  This is good. Excellent, in fact. Hold onto that, as it's the high point of this post. It's all downhill from here, folks.

- Right around that time contracted a minor infection in my join.  The one set of antibiotics I am on smells like cat-piss.  The other one can't be taken with alcohol, coffee or dairy.  I missed the dairy part so I have spent the last half a week feeling like absolute dogshit.  I'm off dairy as of today after talking to a pharmacy-tech friend who clued me into that particular contraindication.  

-  One of the odd side effects also seems to be an incredibly heightened sense of smell.  I'm wondering when I get the adamantium claws and mutant healing factor.  In the meantime, I've been spending the the majority of the day hiding in my bedroom from the smell of industrial disinfectant.

- industrial disinfectant, you ask? Why yes. I woke up this morning and was greeted by the eldest, who informed me that she stepped out of bed and into a foot full of wet carpet, courtesy of a failed sump pump.  About 1-2 cm of water greeted us in the basement.  For reasons unknown, the pump, the secondary pump, and the pump alarm all failed during the night. Why? Because fuck my life, that's why.

-  Did I mention this is all just a couple weeks after a broken pipe caused the sewer to back up into my basement and render my second bathroom unusable.  Which is terrific in a house who just had major colon surgery and whose daily movements are still unpredictable, at best.

I was looking over old Facebook posts and I came across one post about what a great year 2012 was and how I was looking forward to seeing what 2013 had in store.  I don't mind saying that 2013 Q4 can eat a giant dick.  I can't wait for this shit-eating year to be over.

I saw my own rectum. They call this "progress."

As of Friday I had my shit figured out.

So, naturally, everything had to change, because reasons.

I got a call from my surgeon Saturday morning, informing me as i sat, dazed from just waking up and not yet having had coffee, that she had contacted another surgeon friend of hers in Toronto, who is, and I quote, both a "guru" and a "godfather" of colorectal surgery and is willing to find a spot for me ASAP in order to perform a restorative proctocolectomy and ileo anal pouch. In laymen's terms, he can take my colon out and make me an internal pooh-pouch in one fell swoop, which means a longer downtime (4-6 weeks at least) for this surgery but less surgeries overall. 

It also means changing the date of my surgery, my surgeon, the hospital it will be at AND my plan of action in regards to work, so I'm going to be dealing with EI and insurance companies and all that fun stuff.  But apparently this guy is a colorectal rockstar who has been doing these reconstructive surgeries since they could do these reconstructive surgeries, who will be doing the surgery in one of Toronto's biggest, swaggiest, gastro-specializing hospitals (Mount Sinai) so I'm thinking all the chaos of the past couple days and the on-coming weeks may be worth it.

It also meant, however, that I had to go in for a flexible sigmoidoscopy today to make sure that my rectum, upon having this pouch built, isn't about to erupt in little colitis-babies.  

Unlike its more invasive cousin, the colonoscopy, a sigmoidoscopy involves a camera about as long as that thing they use to suck the saliva out of your mouth at the dentist, with no anesthetic and no prep involved.  I was freaking out a bit at the no-anaesthetic bit, but it was only vaguely uncomfortable.  It was more comfortable than when the receptionist, working with 10-year-old contact info, mistook the Well Travelled One for the Ex-Hub.  Yay outdated records.

Did I mention a camera? And a monitor. I've officially seen the inside of my own ass.  Cross that one off the bucket-list.

My now-former surgeon, having been informed, my myself, of my history with random blood clots is also quite adamant that, Doppler or not, I should be put back on anti-coagulants, not just because I'll be laid up in hospital, but because did you know what else ups your chances of blood clots?  Give yourself a hand if you said Cancer.

Before that, I had to have a blood-work up this morning that I am pretty sure consisted of every possible test for things that could result in a predisposition to clotting.  After 20 minutes of waiting while the attending nurse entered the requisition, she came out with a strip of vial labels as long as my bloody arm and more vials than she could hold in one hand.

And I didn't even get a cookie.

So I'm being put back on anti-coags of the injectable sort for the next several months (at least) which means I'm going to look like a smack addict or a victim of domestic violence but at least I won't need weekly blood tests like when I am on Coumadin.  Also, Coumadin is essentially rat poison, so there's that.

So I'm enjoying my last couple of drinks before I go pick up my script tomorrow and wait to hear when my new pre-op appointment is.

Mama's got a brand new bag.

I hope you'll forgive me the cheesy and obvious joke in the title of this post.  It's been one helluva week, with more doctors appointments, good news, bad news, ambivalent news and just kind of up and down, emotionally.  There's been a lot of tears, and a lot of anger.  Also a lot of people being supportive and awesome.

The good news! I got my CT scan results back, and there's no signs of metastasis (oh, Gord, I hope I'm using the right word there) so pretty stoked about that, but at the same time it's made me extra impatient to have the tumour removed.  Get it out while the getting is good.  Everyone involved has been doing well at getting the ball rolling but at the same time, it can't be fast enough.  

But at the same time I want to hurry up and get this surgery done, I'm dreading it. Herein lies the bad news.  After discussions between my internal medicine specialist, my family physician, and about 25 surgeons at a conference in Barrie (I'm a fucking medical anomaly, yo) the general consensus is that the whole damn thing is going to have to come out - my colon, that is - leaving me with iliostomy bag (..and there's the punchline. *rimshot*) until some restorative surgery can be done down the line.

I'm told it's my "choice" but in that way where, yes I have "options" but that my options are not really options.  Shit in a bag or have reoccurring tumours and a greatly shorted lifespan.

Cake or death?  I'll have the cake.  Thank you for flying Church of England.

This is where I start to wonder why can't i get breast cancer like normal women my age?  Not that breast cancer is not a horrible terrible thing to have to deal with in and of itself, I am sure it sucks on all levels and far be it from me to imply that breast cancer patients have it easy and honestly i'd rather not have to deal with any of this, but at this point in time, if i had to make a choice, i could pretty easily live without my boobs.  They're pretty much ornamental.  My colon, other the other hand, is pretty fucking useful, even if it has been quite literally, a HUGE PAIN IN MY ASS over the years.

All this shizz here got to go.

Which brings me to the more kind of ambivalent news.. This surgery, will, effectively cure me of my colitis.  Since you can't actually have colitis without a colon. Durr.  I won't ever have appendicitis either, since in removing the colon, you pretty much have to remove the appendix as well, otherwise it'd just be bouncing around in your abdominal cavity, attached to nothing.

Also, I will apparently no longer fart.  Which pretty much blew my mind.  Like,that's weird, right? the Kids thought that was hilarious and replied with some exaggerated replies of "Thank GOD!"

So, at this point, just waiting for the surgery date.  They're telling me at the end of the month.  They're able to do this laparoscopically now, which is good, I guess.  Means a lot less downtime than open surgery, but the scars won't be as badass.

I'm hanging in, for the time being.

I'm blaming Bruce McCulloch for this one.

So, this week has been the downer to end all downers.  September 30th, 2013 has officially gone down as the worst day of my life

"The worse day of your life so far." - thanks, Homer Simpson.

Worse than September 25th(ish), 1998 when I was rushed to the hospital with a leg the size of a deli salami and a colon that had been bleeding my life away for months. Worse than January 13, 2003 when a very pregnant me saw her marriage shatter (a blessing in disguise if you ask me).  Worse than April 19th, 2005, the day I watched my home go up in flames.  Worse than that random day that summer when I was fifteen where everyone was fighting and we were broke and everything sucked and I hated life (I don't remember the exact date, but it was pretty craptacular.)

Nope, this was worse than all of them.

As you may recall, I had a colonoscopy a few weeks ago, to follow up on one that the doctors couldn't quite figure out.  Turns out "there's something here and we don't know what isn't is"  IS kind of, tangentially, similar to "holy shit, look at all this cancer," since that's what they found, this go-round.  A malignant tumour in my colon that will need to be operated on as soon as my internal medicine guy talks with surgeons and finds out which hospital is comfortable with taking my case.  You see, it is apparently rare to find colon cancer in one as young as myself.  *flutters eyelashes becomingly*

Go me.  You know, I've never wanted to be a record breaker.

So, this week has been a regular whirlwind of blood tests, CT scans, emotional breakdowns, and inappropriate dark humour.  Actually, I'm pretty sure the five stages of grief need to be adjusted to include inappropriate dark humour as one of the stages.  When I split with the ex, there was a Kids in the Hall sketch that helped me get through it.  Whenever I was down, my friend and I would recite the Hotel LaRut sketch and dissolve into giggles.

Now, once again, during times of trouble, Dave, Mark, Kevin, Scott and Bruce give me solace.  Mainly meaning that I can't get this damn sketch out of my head.

So, thanks a lot Bruce.  You always were my least favourite.

Ahh, but yeah, aside from the awesome healing powers of Canadian sketch comedy, I'm also quite grateful for the ridiculous amount of support I have been recieving, from The Well-Travelled one, who has been marvellous in listening to me freak out and letting me break down, to my family who have offered help in any way possible.  Not to mention friends and the management at work.

I'm not gonna lie.  I'm pretty terrified about all this.  But so far i am functioning on a day to day basis while I wait for more answers.  At least I feel okay.  Which is kind of messed up.  I don't feel sick, like, AT ALL.  I'm gassy and bloated and have occasional stomach cramps.. All that is pretty much par for the course for me.  It's rather surreal but at the same time, I'm glad at least right now I'm not feeling like crap, physically.

I have a rough go ahead of me.  But I will fight.  In the words of Aunt Becky, I'm going to go EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER on this thing. I will win.

Checking in

I'm still alive.  Just busy.

Last week I had a second colonoscopy, since the first one contained some abnormal cells, I guess?  The internal medicine guy I see, who is a vaguely intimidating, yet oddly comforting older Irish-maybe-Scottish dude informed me that after 10 years of being diagnosed with colitis, your chances of getting colon cancer goes up somewhat and as such I should be getting scoped every two years.  

Basically, something showed up that the lab and the good doctor were unsure of, so they sent the results down to a specialist in Toronto (this was back in June I believe).  The specialist, as well, was stumped.  So I got scheduled in for another scope, this time to be biopsied every 10cm of my colon.  Hot, right?

On one hand, I'm not gonna lie.  I'm a little concerned.  Because some thing is not nothing.  On the other hand, saying "something showed up on your test and we're not sure what it is" is far from "Holy Shit, look at all that CANCER."  So I figured I'd just be a sport and go for the second scope, and take whatever comes with it, and hope it turns out like that Pap test that came back abnormal.  I just kept going back until I got a few normal tests and they tell me I don't have to come back in for another year. Easy Peasy, lemon squeezy.

I kind of screwed up and caused myself some extra discomfort during the pre-scope cleanse.  I couldn't remember whether or not coffee was allowed, so I erred on the side of not having any.  Boy, did I pay for THAT.  In the immortal words of Dave Foley "I'm not sure what's in caffeine but I'm pretty sure that without it, your head caves in."

So I did a caffeine free cleanse, so I could have a camera inserted where no camera should ever go and then topped that off with a dental cleaning because I am, ladies and gentlemen, a special class of masochist it would seem.  Speaking of masochism, I have agreed to go camping.  In October. In a tent.  Because that is a good idea?

I jest, I'm sure it will be enjoyable.  I'm looking forward to some fall colors in Muskoka with The Well Travelled One.  

In other news, I have an opportunity to be an extra in a movie that is being filmed locally.  I just need to see about getting a day off.. I'm not entirely sure I have any personal days left.  But if I can swing it, I'd like to do it as there are a number of locals also taking part and it sounds like it could be a lot of fun.

Well, that's my brief update.  Hopefully with winter approaching I'll at least have a bit more to talk about.

Tootles!

Arglebargle ranty rant rant rant.

My phone has converted itself somehow to T9 typing, which is both irritating and useless.  By the time the T9 function offers up the word I am already finished typing it.  And it won't let me swear.

I love swearing. Especially when I have a shit-tastic day like today.  I also like to make up words.  But technology these days is determined to thwart my every attempt to fashion myself the love child of George Carlin and Dr. Seuss, linguistically speaking.

I decided to complain to the Well Travelled One.

"Duck this T9 bulldog."

*sigh*

Took my car in for work this morning.  The aforementioned man-friend and I decided to drop the car off and make the walk to the next town for work.  About a 90 minute walk, which wasn't terrible, aside from being humid as hell.  Oh, and the bugs on the trail deciding once again that I made a tasty feast. 

After getting my quote from my mechanic, and a minor coronary, I figured some creative banking would be in order, since my GST cheque had come in yesterday.  However, as I was leaving, I realized that my bank card was still in my shorts after buying gas.  So, great, I'll have to drive home to get it.

Only I don't have my bloody car.

So that's that.  Okay.  Not that it mattered, since I didn't end up paying for the repairs today ANYWAY, but I'll get to that.  My co-worker gave my a ride back to the shop, but thanks to people who think it's totally cool to call a company at five minutes to closing and ask inane, open ended questions with no answers, I was late getting out of work and didn't make it to the shop in time.  It was locked up tight, having closed at 5 and it was, at that point, about 5:10.

So S. offered me a ride to the house, which I accepted.  We were almost there when I remembered where my house key was.. 

That's right.  On my key chain.  With my car keys.  Which were locked up at the mechanic's with my car.  

Yup.

So I asked if I could get a ride back to town so I could get the man-friend, who had the other key.

Needless to say, any plans we had to go out of town tonight have been shot all to hell, and I've decided not to cook dinner since I have no desire to see what myriad ways I can fuck up dinner.  Last thing I need is to burn down another house, or give both the man friend and I acute food poisoning.  The kids are away at camp, so they get to escape my reign of terror.

Lucky kids.

Rock 'n roll and comic books and bubble gum..

So last night me and my friend Amber got all gussied up and headed to Barrie to catch a show from the Headstones who, much to the delight of many a 90s Can-Rock fan, starting touring again a year or so ago.  Helluva a show, y'all.  Helluva show.

Before leaving the house, of course I had to make at least one trip back inside to actually retrieve the tickets, because it's me and it's probably nothing short of a miracle that I didn't leave them at work.  So I freaked out a bit when we got down to Barrie and I couldn't bloody find them!  Fack! We searched the car up and down and finally located them in the visor where I never put anything ever.

Getting inside we pretty much got a drink and then moved as close to the stage as we could get without my claustrophobia kicking in.  We arrived a few songs before the end of the opening act, a band by the name of Riding Shotgun, who didn't impress me greatly at first but earned a number of cool points by pulling out a pretty nifty cover of Nazareth's "This Flight Tonight" which is, I might add, my favourite Nazareth tune.

Within minutes of finding out place we were approached by a couple of vaguely older dudes, early 40s I'd guess.  Poor Amber.  As my oldest and dearest friend, I can say that she has the unfortunate trouble of being Douchebait for idiot guys with no concept of boundaries.  I have to say that in my old age and since hooking up with The Well Travelled One, I've never been so appreciative that drunken assholes tend to leave me alone out in public.

Some of us are not so lucky, which is how I found myself trying to defend my friend from Grabby McGropeyHands, to no avail.  This guy was with his brother, who was decent and fairly respectful, but not quite cool enough to tell his brother to keeps his hands off this obviously uncomfortable girl who is opening cringing each time he tries to put his arm around her.  

So I offered my services to play angry c*ckblocking friend, but this guy was oblivious enough that even telling him to fuck right off didn't get the message across.  So, the best choice seemed to be to abandon our post at stage right and head for one of The Ranch's Go-Go cages.  At previous shows, I've found them handy for getting a good view of the stage while catering to my claustrophobic tendencies.  It's also a good place to inadvertently injure yourself or flash hundreds of people at a time,but those are stories for another day.

We made our way over and started climbing and THAT'S WHEN THE COOLEST THING HAPPENED, YOU GUYS!

As I was struggling to get through the floor of the cage without strangling myself with my purse, which did not want to fit through the trapdoor with me, I hear Hugh Dillon himself, from the stage say "What's this fucking chick doing?? She's going to fall and break her fucking ass!!"

You guys, that was me! I was going to fall and break my ass!  I didn't, but holy hell was I ever stoked!  I got called out in the middle of the show.  And we escaped the category five clinger, to boot!  A song or two later Hugh pointed back up to our cage and said something to the effect of "You two look good up there!"  At least that's what Amber told me.. I couldn't quite make it out, my ears were ringing and I was too busy grinning ear-to-ear.

Near the end of the show, we decided to climb back down and try to get right up in front for the encore but sure enough as so as we hit the ground running, Grabby McGrabass was back and at it again.  Amber and I rolled our eyes at each other and tried to get deep enough into the crowd that he couldn't follow us but this was one determined and like I said, oblivious dude.  At one point I made like I was all dancing wildly and pushed him off balance, "accidentally".  It made no impression on the guy and I gave amber a "I'm trying, friend, I really am" and she kind of shrugged helplessly at me.  Meanwhile a guy behind who had seen what happened, tapped me on the shoulder and high-fived me.

The band played a good mixed of new and old stuff and it was, overall, a highly energetic and entertaining show.  We left during the third encore, a rendition of Three Angels because I had to work this morning and it's a bit of a drive.  

Did I mention they covered ABBA? I shit you not.  ABBA.  be still my 70's cheese-loving heart.  

Just some stuff.

My grandmother fell and broke her hip, or more accurately, my grandmother's hip broke and she had a fall as a result. She is having surgery for it tomorrow. I'm more than a little worried and upset. I've been lucky enough to have both my grandmothers around for a good long while.. I mean, not everyone is lucky enough to get to their 30's and still have grandparents around. Hell, I know people not much older than me who have already had to deal with losing both parents. So I'm lucky, I know that much.

Because I realize this, it's all the more upsetting to face the fact that they are both of them not as young as they used to be.

god. Isn't that the most ridiculous saying? Not as young as you used to be. Well no shit. I'm not as young as I used to be either. in fact, i'm a whole day older than i was yesterday. Seriously, what an idiotic saying. I feel like punching myself. It's as bad as saying "It's always in the last place you look!" Again, no shit.

I digress.

So I'm clearly worried, and I don't really know what to do. Damnit.

*************************************************

So, my hearing sucks. It's terrible. I'm pretty sure years of headphone abuse combined with a history of chronic ear infections (the over prescribing of antibiotics for said infections eventually, I believe, leading to my ulcerative colitis, but that's a story for another day) have done irreversible damage. I don't hear a lot of ambient noise, and I can have trouble making out what people say, especially if they talk low, fast and don't enunciate well.

I know it can be frustrating for those around me, having to repeat things to me, and me not always understanding things the first time around. It's not like it's not frustrating for me. I hate having to ask people to repeat things, or not to whisper to me. I hate having to fill in the blanks sometimes when people talk to me. I hate that I have to watch movies with the closed captioning on half the time, otherwise I have to have the TV blaring. I've had tests done, and looked into hearing aids, but for the actual amount of difference an aid would make is negligible, as apparently the loss "is only minor."

I'm told that I don't have any fluid build-up but... Well, I love to swim. Love it. A few years ago I went cliff jumping at Grundy lake and when I hit the water, it rushed into my ear and I couldn't hear properly for weeks afterward. Now I find that when I swim, if I stick my head too far under, my ears and head feel like they are going to explode with pressure.

I don't know if I should go back for another second opinion or not.

Hell. Not great mood overall. I kind of wish I had my covered porch again so I could watch the storm.

An open letter to the guy who insulted me as I went for breakfast.

Dear Asshole,

Today I got up and went for breakfast. The man friend was not up for it, so I decided to take a book for company instead. Seeing as it was a lovely, sunny, brisk morning I decided to walk to the restaurant. It seemed like it could shape up to be a decent day.

Thanks and a hearty "Fuck You" for ruining it.

As I was entering the front door of our local dining establishment, you and your probably equally douchey friend were coming out. I guess my appearance caught you eye because you felt compelled to exclaim "Wow! Holy fucking teeth!" at me.

For those who may not have seen pictures, I have prominent front teeth and a bit of an overbite. I know this, because assholes and dentists have insisted on pointing this out to me pretty much since my adult teeth came in. I'm 32 years old. It's nothing I haven't heard before. Doesn't mean it doesn't feel just as shitty now as it did when I was a kid.

So, thanks a lot for reducing me to feeling a goddamned awkward twelve-year-old and making me feel ugly and insecure once what you had said registered.

And then.. And THEN, you had the audacity to look outraged when, realizing that I had just been insulted to my fucking FACE, I turned around and told you to fuck off. Like I was the asshole here.

My apologies to any diners who were within earshot of that, by the way.

Believe me, that was the least you deserved for not keeping your bloody comments to yourself. A full-on public shaming would have been fitting so you could have felt as humiliated as I did at that moment, but unfortunately I'm not verbally eloquent when I'm upset. Hence why I blog.

So fuck you for making me feel like shit about myself when I was just minding my own business, enjoying my Saturday. Fuck you for the fact that I was just a little scared about walking home after breakfast, in case you and your friend decided I needed to be put in my place for speaking up. And fuck you for the good possibility that had the man friend been with me, you probably wouldn't have said shit because I'm pretty sure that's precisely the kind of cowardly piece of excrement you are.

I hope a large piece of frozen airplane toilet water crushes you from a great height.

And with that, my TV decided to channel Kurt Cobain.

I'm feeling rather grateful. It's been a stressed out week and a bit, but as the dust (and smoke and burning plastic smell - but more on that later) settles, I'm feeling immense gratitude.

I'm grateful that a week and a half after my sciatic episode, I'm pretty much pain-free. I've known people with sciatic injuries who have suffered for months and years on end. To be about 99% recuperated before I even had my first physio appointment, is pretty A-okay if you ask me.

I'm grateful that when my car started needing work, I had friends who were willing to step in and help with advice and work. I'm also grateful that when the need became especially urgent and said friends were unavailable due to circumstances beyond their control, financially I still had the option  of going to a shop and get the work done, armed with the advice given me.

I'm especially grateful that my pain-in-my-broken-ass kept The Well Travelled One and I home last Thursday night when my 6 year old Electrohome CRT television decided to literally go out in a blaze of glory. Let's be clear, when I say it was 6-years-old I refer only to the timeline in which I bought it. I wouldn't be surprised if they stopped manufacturing them much sooner. Its time was due. So as I sat there watching season 4 of Newsradio, Phil Hartman's head got really skinny, then kind of fat, then a little of both. I wondered if it was the connector and the WTO, who had a side view of the set from the vantage point of the computer desk calmly stated "actually, no, it's a small fire" before jumping over to quickly unplug it from the wall and disconnect all the peripherals.

So I am grateful that we had turned down the chance to go to karaoke, otherwise the girls would have been home, probably watching My Little Pony, wondering why Rainbow Dash's face was distorting when the set went up in flames. Thank Gord for oddly timed coincidences. Putting aside the most obvious, horrific possible outcome of that scenario.. Well, one traumatic house-fire is enough for any kid. But since my broken ass kept us home, the fire remained contained to the back of the casing, the only evidence a lingering smell of scorched plastic.

Better to burn out than fade away indeed. Tell that to all my other electronics that simply stopped working and didn't feel the need to get all showboat-y about it.

My body betrays me, once again.

Illness is an asshole.

There was a time when slowly, over a period of months, my life oozed away and my body, in it's attempts to keep that life in place became a ticking time bomb.

I rose, I recuperated, I fell once again. The threat still existed but had grown weak. There came a long, long period of good health, where my body felt strong, felt functional.

This time, when the signs began to show themselves, I was prepared, and I swore I'd be pro-active and take control before this thing took hold of me. I got the meds, I got the supplements and I embarked on a self-care plan.

Sunday, the pain in my legs began and I panicked. I had a full on panic attack, terrified that once again, I had that bomb, that cluster of cells, deep inside that was ready to break free and lodge itself in my lungs, in my brain. I feared Death. I feared everything I had worked for slipping away from me.

I'm not going to die. Not yet, anyway. Not statistically sooner than anyone else.

A swirling deluge of relief, annoyance and shame washed over me when the doctor reported there was no sign of clotting.

Relief, for obvious reasons. Not dying! Yay!

Shame for the worry and fear that had manifested in myself and affected those I love.

Annoyance because my diagnosis, an injured sciatic nerve, was just another fucking issue to deal with. And annoyance because the pain, which mimics the pain that nearly killed me, is triggering as hell. Annoyance because I don't have the luxury of assuming a pulled muscle.. The leg pain could mean a few days discomfort, or it could mean a lifetime of anti-coagulants (Three Strike Rule, y'all) and higher risk of stroke, heart disease or pulmonary embolism. I don't have the luxury of saying "Meh, I'll walk it off."

I'm optimistic, though. Today, the pain is tolerable. I've faced worse than this, and so have countless others. I have hope that this is a short term injury (the most plausible cause being a slight misjudgement of a step at a friend's house that brought my foot down a little too hard) if the improvement between today and yesterday is any indication.

Wherein an era comes to a close, and customer service flies out the window.

So annoyed right about now.

I went to pick up the girls only to be informed that the youngest's indoor shoes, which I bought not more than two months ago, were broken and in need of replacing.  It seemed a good idea to take them back to Zellers and ask for a refund because in no universe should a pair of children's runners fall apart after two lousy months.   She never even wore them outside.

Zellers used to offer a "Kidurable" guarantee on all of their children's wear.  If they wore it out before they outgrew it, then they'd replace it.  Since I still had the receipt, I figured piece of cake.

Yeah, except that not too long ago, Zellers got bought out by Target and now all the locations are either in the process of becoming Target or, if you live in an area that is economically depressed and already has a Walmart such as we do, being liquidated and closed down.  One of the first steps was saying "effyoo" to the Kidurable guarantee.

No, wait it gets better.

So because the shoes are no longer guaranteed I have only the option of exchanging them for a new pair.  Which would be awesome, if there were more than, oh say, two pairs in the kids size available.  And two of those pairs cost about twice as much as the original pair.  We had the foresight to re-measure her feet, thankfully her feet had grown and she was up a size so this brought us up to three or four possible pairs.  That's if you count the ones in the boys section as well.  Yeah, it's safe to say they're pretty picked over in their shoe selection.

So let's recap shall we?

1. The cheap-assed shoes that lasted a mere month beyond the 30 day return period can only be exchanged.  No money back, even though logic would dictate that if I bought a shitty pair of shoes somewhere which fell apart after two months, I'd want to take my money elsewhere, perhaps somewhere the shoe selection was less shoddy and craptacular on-the-whole.
2. Had I not been able to find a suitable replacement, I'd have been stuck with the original broken pair.
3. I not only have to go through the whole pain in the ass that is children's shoe shopping a second time, I have to pay extra for the privilege since no shoes are available in the original price range.
4. Because of the exchange-only policy and the lousy fucking 'We're liquidating and oh yeah it's winter' selection of running shoes I am limited to the same shitty line of shoes.
5. This means that in two or three months time, I'm almost inevitably going to be in the exact same boat only this time Zellers will either be in total liquidation so my exchange-only selection will be even MORE limited and shitty or the whole damn store will be gone and I'll be completely shit out of luck.

So, thanks for nothing Zellers.  If not for the bitter taste this incident has left in my mouth, I'd almost be sad to see you go.  At least your demise blessed us with this:

Oh and then in all but perhaps karmically unrelated incident I proceeded to dump the contents of the green bin on the kitchen floor.  Which was awesome.

So, how is your night?