Of Exhalation and Exhilaration

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Of all the advice I received over the course of the past week as to how to make it through yesterday, that is the only one I could remember.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I couldn't always remember how to do it. Which could have been a problem. But those words would pop into my head:

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

And I would.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Earnest meditations would form on my lips, only to fade into nonsense thoughts. Prayers I have recited with fervent faith — prayers with words that I know as well as I know my own name — were stumbling around inside of me, unfinished.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Yesterday was Mr. J's second post-chemo scan. Scan one was conducted about a month after treatment ended, in order to give his body time to begin to recover from the poisonous drip, and it was all-clear. Which was a relief. Because if any little cancer buggers had managed to grow while those hideous chemicals were killing off every other cell — well, that'd be more than scary.

So. Team Wedding made a promise. We would not live scan-to-scan. We would not live in constant fear about what rogue cells may have escaped Samuel L. Chemo. We would be grateful, hopeful — and keep looking forward.

That didn't mean we weren't — and aren't — wary. We'd be foolish not to be. Germs were not — and still are not — our friend. And to those of you who can't understand this, I have one word for you:


POISON. P-O-I-S-O-N. Poy-suhn.


When you have it pumped into your bloodstream for four months, and when you have to have a good bit of that bloodstream replaced with transfusions, or — when you have to stand aside and watch it all happen helplessly — then you can talk to me about being overprotective. We'll compare notes.

Vigilance aside, TW did a bang-up job on the positivity over the better part of the last four months. (QUICK NOTE: I have been thinking that Mr. J was six months post-chemo because this was the second "every-three-month" scan. That error — sadly — says much more about the sorry state of my math skills than it does about my state of mind.)

Until this past week. Knowing we were getting ready for the big one. Knowing that Samuel L. Chemo had pretty much left the building. Knowing that whatever little rogue buggers that were run off while Samuel L. was menacing through Mr. J's bloodstream might just come out of hiding.

And knowing that if they were to show up, the most likely time would be now.

To not worry about that? That's one big, honking, super-dee-duper dose of unwavering positivity. And to those of you who can harness that? I really do want to compare notes with you.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I did. We did. And we waited. And we heard those beautiful, beautiful words again: All. Clear.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I tried. I really, really, really did try. But instead, I cried. I cried. And I cried some more. Then I laughed. And I yelled. And I danced. And I sat in the bright Carolina sunshine, looked to the sky and said — over and over and over and over again:

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Waiting For The Other Ball To Drop

Here in Halfglassistan, we have no problem admitting to the incessant occasional lifestyle of flirtation with procrastination. We know our flaws weaknesses well.

And sometimes we declare a state of procrastination for the greater good.

Go ahead, judge if you will. We're also well aware of the concept of rationalization, so we're way ahead of you.

In fact, while we're discussing various -ations, let me get to my point: We are in anticipation of our New Year's celebration.

Yes, I know it's already January 5. Yes, I know that for the vast majority of the world, real life began yesterday.

Guess what? When you're not receiving a regular paycheck and have no office other than the one above your garage to report to unconventionally employed as I am, you can make up the rules as you go.

Jealous much?

I didn't think so, but it makes me feel not at all a wee bit better to imagine you are.

Besides, being unconventionally employed as I am, I actually worked NYE, NYD, and straight through into the wee hours of the third day of this new decade.

Take that, bitches. (Eh. Not really. I actually enjoyed what I was working on and the bowl scene sucked. A "take that, bitches" just kinda felt appropriate with the snark I had going. Carry on.)

So, in light of the great-debilitating-emesis-worse-than-four-months-of-chemo that was inflicted on Mr. J after I unwittingly brought said evil into TWHQ, we toasted at midnight December 31 with Gatorade.

And that, my friends, just will not cut it after the year we've had.

So. Go ahead to your offices. Go ahead and start your diets. Go ahead and lace up those sneakers. Go ahead and start making (and breaking) all your resolutions.

Until next Monday, we're gonna party like it's 2009.

Take that, bitches. (Hmmm? What's that? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that one I meant.)

Thanker's Block

All day long, I've been trying to think of how to properly express everything I'm thankful for this year. 

I give up. I can't do it.

I can't find the words because there are no words.

I've never felt unloved in my life, and I know how very blessed I am to be able to say that. But — I've never felt more loved than I have this past year. 

And — it's ridiculous to even try to define the people who have held us up throughout this journey. Family, friends, caregivers, neighbors? Labels are insignificant. So many people gave so much of themselves, and sometimes when — and from whom — we'd least expect anything.

And, I will carry every last little bit of that goodness with me always.

Thank you.

CHARLESTON, NOVEMBER 2009: Mr. J snapped this pic of us. He probably won't like that I posted it, what with that fuzzy, chemo-hair, wind-induced-Mohawk he's sporting. I don't care. We look happy. We look strong. We look like survivors.

Move On Over & Let Tilly Take Over

Hullo, fans!

Just a quick note from moi, home healthcare worker extraordinaire, to vous. 

The peeps today are feeling all, ummmm ... how you say? Yes, yes, that's it: Sick ... Ill ... Sore ... Puny ... Under-the-Rainbow ... Wait! What? Oh! Under-the-weather!

My educated opinion is that it is a combination of: 1- last night's pizza (I tried to tell them it was too rich for Dad's tummy and that Mom should really just have a salad, and they should just feed it ALL to the Tillmeister, but no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o ...); 2 - Dad being only six days off the drip and no matter how many endorphins may be flowing through his veins, they haven't had time to overpower Samuel L. Chemo's aggressive presence (that dude can really take over a situation!); and, 3 - a flare-up of one of Mom's annoying afflictions that has her flat on her back with strategically placed cold packs on various parts of her beautiful (she's looking over my shoulder right now) body.

So-o-o-o-o-o, I am on the job, trotting back and forth for Gatorade, ginger ale, fresh cold-blue-gel-pack-thingies, and various anti-getting-sick medications. Those last things make the peeps pretty sleepy, so I imagine it won't be long until I can take a break and join them .... (YAWN) ... there goes Mom ... and there ... goes (jeez, Mom, could you snore any louder?) ... Dad ... ahhhh. My work is done — for now.

T-Rat out.

Wordless Wrapped Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless (kinda-sorta) Wednesday

Samuel L. Chemo

We are in round two of aggressive chemotherapy.

I feel compelled to continually use that modifier, simply because I only imagine that if our protocol is described to us in that manner, then others must be hearing modifiers as well. Modifiers less -- or more -- threatening than aggressive. Like mild or moderate -- or perhaps, intense.

Or is mild chemotherapy an oxymoron?

And, is calling chemotherapy intense simply redundant?

I also can't help but anthropomorphize aggressive. When I hear it, I think aggressive personality. And then I can't help but wonder if, like personalities, there are assertive, vivacious, friendly, or even shy chemotherapies.

But would you want a shy chemo?

"Um, hello. Uh, hi there ... If it's not too much trouble, Mr. Rogue Cancer cell, um, er, would you mind ... but only if it's OK with you ... would you, um, mind, uh ... just going away? Please? No? Um, but, listen ... I'm just trying to do my job. Come on, please don't make me have to go back and tell my boss that I can't get you to leave. Really. 'Cause he'll wanna come on in here himself, and um, well, uh ... he's kinda ... um, mean. OH! How mean? Um, he's uh ... well ... um, well ... I don't know if I can say. What? Well, um, yeah, I can say, but, um, uh, I feel kinda funny using that, um, uh ... well, language. What? Well, if you really wanna know, my boss is ... well ... um, uh ... My boss is well, um ... he's a meanie. Are you laughing at me? OK. Well then, I'll just say it. OK. My boss is an um, uh ... (blushes) ... um, uh ... an a-hole. OK. You made me say it. Are you happy? Now, please Mr. Rogue Cancer cell, would you please just let me do my job? Would you please just go away? OK, now you're laughing again. That's not cool. Really. You know, you're kinda ... um, uh ... well, you're kinda an a-hole, too. Quit laughing at me! What? You want to meet my boss? Um ... well ... I guess I could go back and tell him ... OK. I'll send him in."

No. Just no.

For this job, I want aggressive:

"Get the fuck out ... DID I STUTTER? GET. THE. FUCK. OUT."

Yeah. That's more like it.