Monotone, Monosyllabic, Monday

More names, please. 

Thank you.

So much. 

Share with friends, if you would. 

Thank you.

So much.

I thank you. 

J thanks you. 

Nurse T thanks you. 

Lance thanks you.

LIVE. 

STRONG.

That is all.

It's Not About The Bike

THE MANIFESTO OF THE LANCE ARMSTRONG FOUNDATION:

We believe in life.

Your life. We believe in living every minute of it with every ounce of your being. And that you must not let cancer take control of it. We believe in energy: channeled and fierce. We believe in focus: getting smart and living strong. Unity is strength. Knowledge is power. Attitude is everything. This is the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

We kick in the moment you’re diagnosed. We help you accept the tears. Acknowledge the rage. We believe in your right to live without pain. We believe in information. Not pity. And in straight, open talk about cancer. With husbands, wives and partners. With kids, friends and neighbors. And the people you live with, work with, cry and laugh with. This is no time to pull punches. You’re in the fight of your life.

We’re about the hard stuff. Like finding the nerve to ask for a second opinion. And a third, or a fourth, if that’s what it takes. We’re about getting smart about clinical trials. And if it comes to it, being in control of how your life ends. It’s your life. You will have it your way.

We’re about the practical stuff. Planning for surviving. Banking your sperm. Preserving your fertility. Organizing your finances. Dealing with hospitals, specialists, insurance companies and employers. It’s knowing your rights. It’s your life. Take no prisoners.

We’re about the fight. We’re your champion on Capitol Hill. Your advocate with the healthcare system. Your sponsor in the research labs. And we know the fight never ends. Cancer may leave your body, but it never leaves your life. This is the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Founded and inspired by one of the toughest cancer survivors on the planet.

LIVESTRONG

- FROM WWW.LIVESTRONG.ORG

Show Me Your LIVESTRONG!

Bonjour, mes amis! L'Tilly here again. Ordinarily, I might throw a bit of the Spanglish in my speech, but today, in honor of Mr. Lance reaching the end of Le Tour de France, I think the Frenchlish is appropriate. Things are quiet here at Chez Halfglassique. Le Dad has a fever, and l'Mom is supervising the administration of fluids and antibiotics (Shout-out to Monsieur Pasteur! You ROCK!), so I am le guest blogger. Again. I choose to use my tres cute voice to get you to add more names to Dad's LIVESTRONG Action page. Last I checked, there were 182 -- which is AWESOME! Really. But, last I heard, Mom was hoping for 200 before the book closes. So show me your LIVESTRONG. Or, if you already have, send a friend to the page. Mom may not be so good with the math, and, I must admit, my talents also are geared more toward the word. But even I know that there have to be 18 more people out there who want to help Mr. Lance fight the cancer. Really. I will check back in tomorrow, but for now, au revoir, ya'll! CONFIDENTIAL P.S. TO ELOISETHEPUG: Thank you for the Frenchlish lessons, ma petite cherie! Vive la Pug!

Oy, vey ...!

I have just been told that "if chicken soup is the Jewish penicillin, then the fried egg sandwich is the Southern." I don't know how true that may be (either claim), but I do know this:

one egg, fried in real butter, salted, peppered, and flipped in between two pieces of toast spread with Duke's mayo and a swipe of French's yellow mustard

just went down easier than anything else I've seen pass Jamie's lips in the past week. And that includes Gatorade and Jell-O. I also have a fridge and pantry filled with the makings for jambalaya, taco salad, spaghetti & meatballs, barbecue chicken, hamburgers, Chicago dogs, 11 more fried egg sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, snickerdoodles, and big bowls of Cap'n Crunch. The same eight to 11 pounds have been dropping off and reappearing on Jamie's frame since round one of chemo. These stats are greeted by our nurses (and me) with equal disdain and excitement, depending on which side of the median they fall. I've listened to Tess and Wendy encourage Jamie to eat, eat fat, eat sugar, just eat and eat as much as possible. And I've seen his gills turn green when I've encouraged the same munching, but in the wrong moment. I entered this treatment adventure with many fears and very few preconceived notions. But, my biggest misconception and mistake was somehow confusing chemo with Cuervo, thinking that one would (or could) somehow build up a tolerance to the infusion of poisons much like one does to the ingestion of potent potables. Might have something to do with simple naivete coupled with wishful thinking. Might have something to do with a long history of feeling poisoned on random Saturday, Sunday (or Thursday ... or Tuesday) mornings and that being my strongest frame of reference to overwhelming and insurmountable nausea. Maybe. It could go either way. What I've learned -- and feel more than a little foolish for expecting otherwise -- is that chemotherapy, particularly the aggressive badass version assaulting Jamie's system, has quite the cumulative effect. It has not been easy to see my husband's vibrant glow and lusty appetite for the richly layered flavors of both well-aged steaks and Scotch disappear. It has not been easy to see his skin pale, his pace slow, and his cuisine limited to liquid protein and well-chilled electrolytes. It has not been easy to hear that although injections are boosting his white cell count, his red cell count is shot and anemia is unavoidable. So forgive my excitement over the menu items listed above. Forgive my embracing real butter, real eggs, real sugar, white pasta, whole milk, and a big ol' mess of all kinds of trans-fatty things for which I've learned substitutes. Forgive me if, along with the 10 or so pounds my husband keeps losing and finding, I've found a good five to seven that aren't seeming to budge right now. Forgive me, if right now, part of the whole taking-care-of-myself-so-that-I-can-take-care-of-others includes indulging my own cravings for the food that's earned the label of "comfort" for a damn good reason. You'll forgive me, because I have. (And -- when a little bit down the road, I ask for your support as I whip myself into a better shape than I started with so I can keep up with Jamie when his healthy ass is up and running again -- I think you'll give it to me.) That entire menu up there? The one that that looks like what Harold & Kumar would eat if they didn't go to White Castle? It all may not make it onto Jamie's plate over the next two weeks. But some will, and the idea of each of them at least sounds appealing to him. And that has me feeling more -- much more -- than a little verklempt.

It's A Happy Tilly Kind of Day

Hi all! Tilly here. Just logged on and noticed Mom had not done a post yet. It is now 4:24 p.m. Tilly-Standard-Time and daily subscriptions to the ramblings here in my house go out at 5 p.m. (Yeah, I know, right? That is pretty cool. I think it would be cooler if residuals went into our bank account daily at 5 p.m., but I haven't been able to work that out quite yet.)

So, Mom's napping and Dad's chillaxing. The air just cut on so if I time this just right, the clickety-clack of my claws (I need a pedi-pedi in the worst way!) will be muffled by the sound of the A/C cycle.

We are on holiday again (HOLLA!) and that's pretty sweet. The peeps went for a quick injection of the special sauce (Go Neulasta! Go, go Neulasta!) this a.m. and no more dates with the drip are scheduled for another two weeks. N-i-i-i-i-ce.

That means a lot more silly dancing and singing with my Moms and a lot more laughing and playing with my Dads.

And that, my friends, makes for a very, very, very happy Tilly.

T-Rat OUT!

CONFIDENTIAL P.S. TO PAPA: I know you think that I type aLL SiLLy LiKe tHiS, but that's just Mom trying to be cute when she sends you messages from me. Don't tell her I told you — let's just let her keep having her fun. (On a related note, though, I do like to lick your head. I do.)

Wordless (kinda-sorta) Wednesday

Oh Snap!

My rebound from Ughville has bounced my puny self into Craptasticville.

Craptasticville is a suburb of the lesser populated Chemoville, where the residents have plenty of reason to say:

"Hey! Quit whining about how your throat-head-right-eye-tummy-left nostril-lower-right-earlobe-and-your-weird-little-pinky-toe hurts. 

I. Have. Poison. In. My. Veins. 

No, not a bad 80's hair band with a lead singer currently making money by letting VH1 film skeevy, unemployed, clear-platform-heel-and-bad-weave-wearing-skanks-with-vomit-breath stick their tongues down his bandanna'd, guylined, suspected-collagen-lipped throat. 

No. POY-suhn. P-O-I-S-O-N. POISON. In my veins. Yeah. 

And you don't hear me bitching."

They have puhlenty of reason to say that. But they don't.

In other fun facts, Craptasticville is Halfglassistan's top repository of antibacterial soap, Purell, alcohol wipes and sneezed-into-tshirts. It is also quickly becoming known for its booming development of guilt, but residents are working on curtailing production of that useless commodity.

It should probably also be noted that the mayor of Craptasticville might still be holding a grudge that stems from a cancelled concert circa 1989. 

Maybe. Just a little bit.

Turn on the Lights; The Party's Over

***BREAKING NEWS ADVISORY FROM TNN***

DATELINE: SOMEWHERE IN HALFGLASSISTAN 

JULY 18        Tilly — renowned author, singer, home healthcare worker, dancer, rawhide gourmand, owner of the Tilly News Network (TNN), and all-around bon vivant — reports that the half-glassed Pity Party on the half-glassed couch has ended.

TNN will interrupt regularly scheduled programming as this story develops.

###

(c) 2009 TNN ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Life's a Bitch and Then You Cry

Half-glassed is just that. Half. I have claimed to all the world (well, Bloggyland) to be an amateur optimist. I still do. Until I receive my professional certification and accept any compensation as a paid endorser of optimism, however, I think I'm entitled to a little whining. And, even when I do join the pro optimist tour, la caca will still happen. And I'll deal with it. Hell, I'm trying be more positive, not achieve sainthood. So, I'll just say it: Today I feel like crap. I have some kind of summer cold/flu/bug-that-has-kicked-my-ass-and-makes-me-hurt-all-over. I feel guilty because I feel sick. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty. I feel hot and sticky and nasty in Columbia, South Carolina (aka the other side of the screen door to Hell). I want to cry and I feel guilty for wanting to cry and I feel guilty for feeling guilty for wanting to cry (didn't I tell you I was raised Catholic?) and that really makes me want to cry. So I do. And it makes me feel better, just like sometimes nothing else can. I often (OK, almost always) hate what little control I seem to have over my tear ducts. And then, I hate even more the times when I need the release and I cannot summon a cleansing sob. And then there are times like these: When my whimpering, simpering, foe becomes my familiar weepy friend. I welcome her, knowing all she needs is to get it all out of her system, so I let her. We both know that everything will still be there when eyes are dry, and, let's be honest, the headache is worse. But, we also know that the clouds will seem a little less oppressive, the load a little bit lighter, and deep breaths a little easier to swallow. And the next step (...and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and, yes, the one after that...) a little easier to take.

More Than / Not Quite Halfway There

Meet The Dripkeeper (aka the phoenix). Today is dose one of round three, or number five of eight scheduled doses of chemotherapy. My mathematically inclined friends tell me that means we're now more than halfway through this gig. That other hand in there? That's me. Doing what I do. Holding my man's hand. Or that's what it looks like, anyway. He's actually holding mine. A lot of folks have been reaching out and touching us lately, but I know there's still plenty of love to go around. Add your name to Jamie's page in the LIVESTRONG Action book of dedications that Lance Armstrong will present to world leaders after he completes the Tour de France. It's all part of a worldwide commitment to raise awareness, push for better treatment, and fight cancer globally. A donor has committed to giving $30,000 if the book fills with 30,000 signatures by the end of the Tour. All I'm looking for is 200. Names, not dollars. In less than three days, we've collected 78, and it's made us feel like a million bucks. Family and friends have put out the call on Facebook; friends and strangers alike have tweeted and re-tweeted the link on Twitter, clicked through, and joined their names to ours on a petition for a worldwide commitment to advancing cancer treatment. I don't know all of those names on that page. But I do know this: They are names of people who love us, or know someone who loves us, or know someone who knows someone who loves us. And one thing I am sure of is that each of them knows someone somewhere affected by cancer. Thank you -- all of you -- who have helped, and will continue to help us build this page. My cousin J put it best:

"...I'm not asking for much, just that you stop by their LIVESTRONG Action page and add your name. Everyone feels better knowing that they are not alone..."

She's got that right.