Mr. 1inamillion is in the hospital. Every round of chemo is followed by what we refer to as crash week. The amount of good stuff in his blood drops and as the poison runs through his system, he tends to crash. Usually in bed or on the couch in front of TVLand until the count of good stuff increases. This crash week, however, included far too much crashing.
Monday he fell off the porch. I finally met the one new neighbor I hadn't as he helped me pick Mr. 1inamillion up out of the yard. Dane heard our Bruiser barking in the back and headed out the front door expecting to catch Britney jumping the fence. Instead he got dizzy, lightheaded and fell from the front porch. He was dehydrated so his blood pressure dropped each time he stood. We headed into the treatment center for IV fluids.
Wednesday he started running a fever so we headed into the hospital. In addition to the fever, his blood pressure was sixty-something over forty-something (I retain just the bare minimum. Don't judge, it's one of my key coping mechanisms). Apparently that is incredibly low and made his walk up to the 7th floor a bit on the miraculous side. He was quickly admitted and started on more IV fluids, antibiotics and received two units of blood.
Thursday the color returned to his face and he started gaining a bit of strength. (Thank you, A-negative donors. We are very appreciative of your good stuff.) His blood pressure was up, his fever continued but remained low-grade.
Friday morning I returned to the hospital with my laptop in tow, anticipating a relatively routine day of Mr. 1inamillion napping while I worked. I arrived to hear his fever had spiked to one hundred and four during the night. (Did you catch that? Not one hundred point four, but really 104.00. F%$!) It had dropped to one hundred point something and my working while he napped began.
Thirty minutes later that ended when my phone rang for the second time. The first was a call from my office line, which I let roll to voice mail whenever I'm working by the side of a snoozing cancer patient. The second call was from a number with our hometown exchange, so I answered. It was the school nurse, Thing 2 had a fever and was complaining that her stomach hurt. I needed to come pick her up within 30 minutes (which is just the distance from the hospital).
I packed up office, kissed my snoozing man and headed out the door as fast as I could while dialing my dad. We were on the phone as I walked, discussing who could get to the school faster when call waiting displayed another Mulvane number. Thinking for sure this would be the other school about Thing 1, I hung up with Dad and answered the call that would begin my full blown decent into profane rants, out loud.
"This is the Mulvane Police Department. Do you have a Boxer? There is one loose hanging around your yard."
"Son of a b%#@!, Yes, I have a boxer."
"Your dog has bit someone and we have an officer on site but it's giving her a hard time. How soon can you or your husband get there?"
"Well, My husband is in the hospital. I am leaving there to pick up my daughter from Munson who is sick. I have to get her within thirty minutes so I can make it over to the house SHORTLY AFTER 30 MINUTES."
I called Dad. We decided he would head over to rescue Brit from whatever trouble she had gotten into and I would go get Thing 2. (He has proven to be a pro at helping us out of self-inflicted troubles)
I did laugh for a moment at this chaos and then... $%*&....$#!!!......%^&!!!....*%$#.
I called my sister (hands-free of course) as I sped down 135 and greeted her with, "Are you with a customer? Because I need to rant!" She was not, so I was able to continue with,"%$#^....!#$!!....and I'm pretty sure I could be a reality TV star if I could just stop cussing. %^&!......$%^&!!!"
(Shelly said she always thought her life could be a Lifetime movie. I refuse to be one of those. They are not funny. I want to focus on the funny, and I don't want to be one of those who is completed blocked out with all of the bleeps. I need to get my %^&! together and send in a bio to TLC.)
I picked up my daughter and her tiny fever and we made it to our house to be welcomed by the officer with the Animal Control van. Brit had indeed jumped the fence and had ALLEGEDLY charged at a man walking across the street and ALLEGEDLY bit the back of his leg which may have left a small scratch.
God bless that officer. She was incredibly kind and as gentle as she could be while placing the following straw on this camel's back:
"Angela Johnette Daniel unlawfully allowed her dog to run at large within the city as defined in section 205.180."
"Angela Johnette Daniel unlawfully kept, possessed or harbored a dangerous and vicious animal within the city."
I get to appear in court on October 5th to answer the above complaints. (awesome. because I don't have anything going on that day.) If I fail to appear a warrant will be issued for my arrest. Brit has to be in quarantine with the vet of our choosing for ten days.
I tried very hard to bear the weight of this crash week until the officer left, and I almost did. I turned away when the tears started as she was getting into the van but I was heaving in my father's arms as she pulled out.
Thing 2 was fine after one dose of Tylenol. Britney's paperwork was faxed from the Humane Society proving current shots and we got her secured into quarantine at our vet's office in Derby. MC tagged along for that ride and is now caught up on kitty boosters. Thing 1 got to visit Daddy at the hospital while Thing 2 hung out with Grandpa.
This morning, one of my rock star nieces got up early (morning after Homecoming, how awesome is that?) to watch the kids (and made them clean!) while I stopped by the vet's office to take Brit for a quick walk/run and then headed to the hospital. (Yes, puppy prison allows run visits.) Mr. 1inamillion's temperature is normal. He may be able to come home tomorrow, providing it stays that way through the night.
In less than six hours, crash week should be coming to an end. Our chaos is settling, my vocabulary is improving and after only two minutes of attention this morning, I still have cute hair (Thanks, Carrie!). I may be ready for TLC after all...or news cameras. Or to totally rock a mug shot. (Whatever. It's hard telling what can happen in six hours.)
All I Can Offer...
One of the things we loved about our house in Mayberry when we bought it was the tree in the front yard, a beautiful Bradford Pear tree. Those trees have a special place in my heart because it's a family name and I remember my grandpa planting one in his front yard. It wasn't long after we had moved into our home that our tree was struck by lightning. It split right down the middle. One half remained standing, the other half fell onto the house. We had both halves of our tree cut down, hauled off and the stump buried.
The following year, odd weeds started to grow where once stood our tree. We'd mow them down, but they multiplied and got stronger. We finally realized they weren't weeds. They were branches of a Bradford Pear. Our dead and buried tree was sprouting new life. Of course at that point we kept it and let it grow. I'm sure to most of the neighbors it still appeared to be weeds. Then eventually a new odd little bush of some sort. Now it appears to be a very large bush that is as tall as the house and beginning to maybe resemble a tree.
In the last few weeks we've learned that a friend's cancer has returned. They are at that point of slow....motion. The biopsy said cancer and tossed the puzzle pieces of normal life high in the air. The scans have been done. The pieces are now slooowly falling from the sky as they wait for results. How far will they land? What exactly are they up against? This slow motion, holding out for the next steps, is the worst. I have been praying for joyful distractions for them as they must wait. Now at this point in our journey, I keep thinking I should have something to offer them. Something to say that could provide wisdom or comfort. I mean, really, haven't I learned something here? But I feel I've got nothing. All I can offer them are my tears and the same thing I tell Things One and Two.
Be a tree.
We had quite a storm roll through our part of Kansas last night. Locals reading this may be really questioning my 'be a tree' mantra after driving through town today. There are leaves and branches scattered throughout yards. My dad's yard looks particularly rough. I questioned it myself as I picked up limbs in his yard and attempted to move a very large branch, failing miserably. Then I looked up. It was indeed a very large branch that could be mistaken for a small tree, but it fell from a mighty oak. A might oak that is still a mighty oak but is now letting a little more light shine through.
The storm hits. It shakes out our weakness, sheds what is weighing us down. We are strong when we are flexible and we bend in the wind, moving in the direction God intends. So, be a tree my friends. I do believe we will be stronger and just maybe, even transformed into something brand new.
The following year, odd weeds started to grow where once stood our tree. We'd mow them down, but they multiplied and got stronger. We finally realized they weren't weeds. They were branches of a Bradford Pear. Our dead and buried tree was sprouting new life. Of course at that point we kept it and let it grow. I'm sure to most of the neighbors it still appeared to be weeds. Then eventually a new odd little bush of some sort. Now it appears to be a very large bush that is as tall as the house and beginning to maybe resemble a tree.
In the last few weeks we've learned that a friend's cancer has returned. They are at that point of slow....motion. The biopsy said cancer and tossed the puzzle pieces of normal life high in the air. The scans have been done. The pieces are now slooowly falling from the sky as they wait for results. How far will they land? What exactly are they up against? This slow motion, holding out for the next steps, is the worst. I have been praying for joyful distractions for them as they must wait. Now at this point in our journey, I keep thinking I should have something to offer them. Something to say that could provide wisdom or comfort. I mean, really, haven't I learned something here? But I feel I've got nothing. All I can offer them are my tears and the same thing I tell Things One and Two.
Be a tree.
We had quite a storm roll through our part of Kansas last night. Locals reading this may be really questioning my 'be a tree' mantra after driving through town today. There are leaves and branches scattered throughout yards. My dad's yard looks particularly rough. I questioned it myself as I picked up limbs in his yard and attempted to move a very large branch, failing miserably. Then I looked up. It was indeed a very large branch that could be mistaken for a small tree, but it fell from a mighty oak. A might oak that is still a mighty oak but is now letting a little more light shine through.
The storm hits. It shakes out our weakness, sheds what is weighing us down. We are strong when we are flexible and we bend in the wind, moving in the direction God intends. So, be a tree my friends. I do believe we will be stronger and just maybe, even transformed into something brand new.
I don't know
"How's your husband feeling?"
I've mentioned before that I don't like the question when not proceeded by "Hello, How are you?". I have come to realize, however, that I simply do not like the inquiry. There is always the question of how honestly do I answer? How concerned is the person really and how much time do they have? Is it just a polite concern? How open should I be? I usually have a response ready, but I always struggle to answer. Regardless of their delivery or our boundaries, I really just hate that question.
This is why:
I don't know. I really truly do not know. I can't comprehend how he feels. I know the burning ache of fibromyalgia causing my nervous system to misfire, but I can't imagine the pain caused by a tumor growing directly out of a nerve.
I only know nausea that comes with a hangover, the flu or a first trimester. I don't know the sensation of having poison run through my veins in an attempt to eliminate cancer. Just think about that...it's poison. It is meant to kill just enough. I imagine it is more woke-up-by-the-toilet-worst-hangover-ever nausea than morning sickness, but still. I swore off vodka before I could even legally drink it. He goes back for chemo again the day after tomorrow.
I have had three surgeries in my adult life all of which for I was awake. For Mr. 1inamillion's first surgery, he was put under anesthesia and woke up the following day to hear that what was removed was the size of a soccer ball. He would need radiation and another surgery. My first surgery removed a nine and a half pound human and was followed by joy. And colic. That boy's head was as big as a soccer ball but my scar is a small fraction of Dane's.
His most recent surgery? He went under thinking a benign tumor was being removed and expecting a couple of tiny cuts. He awoke with a very large incision along his shoulder blade and another cancer diagnosis. My last surgery? A doctor hollowed out the carpal tunnel in my right hand while we all talked about his plans for an upcoming mission trip. I walked out an hour later and Mr. 1inamillion drove me to IHOP.
Clearly, I don't know how he's feeling. Ask the question only if you are prepared to forgive me. Whatever answer I give, I will likely be lying.
I've mentioned before that I don't like the question when not proceeded by "Hello, How are you?". I have come to realize, however, that I simply do not like the inquiry. There is always the question of how honestly do I answer? How concerned is the person really and how much time do they have? Is it just a polite concern? How open should I be? I usually have a response ready, but I always struggle to answer. Regardless of their delivery or our boundaries, I really just hate that question.
This is why:
I don't know. I really truly do not know. I can't comprehend how he feels. I know the burning ache of fibromyalgia causing my nervous system to misfire, but I can't imagine the pain caused by a tumor growing directly out of a nerve.
I only know nausea that comes with a hangover, the flu or a first trimester. I don't know the sensation of having poison run through my veins in an attempt to eliminate cancer. Just think about that...it's poison. It is meant to kill just enough. I imagine it is more woke-up-by-the-toilet-worst-hangover-ever nausea than morning sickness, but still. I swore off vodka before I could even legally drink it. He goes back for chemo again the day after tomorrow.
I have had three surgeries in my adult life all of which for I was awake. For Mr. 1inamillion's first surgery, he was put under anesthesia and woke up the following day to hear that what was removed was the size of a soccer ball. He would need radiation and another surgery. My first surgery removed a nine and a half pound human and was followed by joy. And colic. That boy's head was as big as a soccer ball but my scar is a small fraction of Dane's.
His most recent surgery? He went under thinking a benign tumor was being removed and expecting a couple of tiny cuts. He awoke with a very large incision along his shoulder blade and another cancer diagnosis. My last surgery? A doctor hollowed out the carpal tunnel in my right hand while we all talked about his plans for an upcoming mission trip. I walked out an hour later and Mr. 1inamillion drove me to IHOP.
Clearly, I don't know how he's feeling. Ask the question only if you are prepared to forgive me. Whatever answer I give, I will likely be lying.
We're home
"Hi there. Have you by chance seen a boxer running lose? She's being followed by little dachsund-chihuahua mix."
This was my opening line as I met a few of the folks around our new neighborhood. Not 'Hi, I'm Angie. Nice to meet you', but 'I'm the one that just moved in with the hooligan dogs.' Thankfully, Britney and Bruiser stuck together as predicted and a nice young couple found them and gave us a call.
"Hello. Did you happen to see how she got out? ....She jumped it? ....Darn it, we hoped she wouldn't be able to do that.....Oh, sorry. I'm Angie, by the way. Nice to meet you."
That was how I had introduced myself to the man next door two days prior to their neighborhood adventure. He was mowing his lawn and being followed by our boxer when we got home from church. We had already witnessed Bruiser slip between the gates that morning and secured him inside before we left that day.
As my sister and I were analyzing the situation, trying our best not to install a invisible fence, we were greeted with "Are you trying to find how they got out?" from the neighbor that lives behind us. She had witnessed the start of their break out. After Bruiser slipped through another spot along the fence, he paced along the front yard waiting for Britney. She made a few failed attempts to jump the fence before giving up and climbing it. My fabulous new neighbor said that if we can block the holes to keep the little one in, we ought to have them both contained. Thanks to the help of my sister's knight in denim, the holes are plugged. We did not have to spend a large amount of money on invisible fencing, and Mrs. 1inamillion did not have to exert crazy amounts of energy installing it. (Oh, and the fabulous neighbor's dog's name is Chaos. I think that is a great name and it likely means we aren't the only ones with hooligan pooches.)
M.C. won't leave the garage. He's now a bigger, healthier scaredy cat. And I think I'm giving up the battle to find him a new home. (Unless of course you want him, in which case I will bring him to you right now).
Chloe, the only cat I really like, would not come with us on the day we moved. She was willing to let me put her in the car when I went back the following day. She accidently got trapped in the garage at the new house, then made a run for it after the door opened. I thought for sure that between a mangy kitten and the move, she was done with us for good and off to find a new family. After nearly two weeks, though, Chloe has returned. Excited, I called my dad to tell him that she didn't hate us and hadn't left us for a new family. Dad being my dad pointed out that maybe the new family she found went out of town for the three day weekend and she just needed fed.
The dogs are enjoying their new back yard and playing through the fence with Chaos. So far, they seem content and in no hurry to climb fences. M.C. did finally step foot onto the grass today and Chloe still hasn't left us. It's only a couple of days past the holiday but surely a new family would have been back by now. I think maybe she still likes us. And I think now that our comfort creatures are finally settled, maybe we're home.
This was my opening line as I met a few of the folks around our new neighborhood. Not 'Hi, I'm Angie. Nice to meet you', but 'I'm the one that just moved in with the hooligan dogs.' Thankfully, Britney and Bruiser stuck together as predicted and a nice young couple found them and gave us a call.
"Hello. Did you happen to see how she got out? ....She jumped it? ....Darn it, we hoped she wouldn't be able to do that.....Oh, sorry. I'm Angie, by the way. Nice to meet you."
That was how I had introduced myself to the man next door two days prior to their neighborhood adventure. He was mowing his lawn and being followed by our boxer when we got home from church. We had already witnessed Bruiser slip between the gates that morning and secured him inside before we left that day.
As my sister and I were analyzing the situation, trying our best not to install a invisible fence, we were greeted with "Are you trying to find how they got out?" from the neighbor that lives behind us. She had witnessed the start of their break out. After Bruiser slipped through another spot along the fence, he paced along the front yard waiting for Britney. She made a few failed attempts to jump the fence before giving up and climbing it. My fabulous new neighbor said that if we can block the holes to keep the little one in, we ought to have them both contained. Thanks to the help of my sister's knight in denim, the holes are plugged. We did not have to spend a large amount of money on invisible fencing, and Mrs. 1inamillion did not have to exert crazy amounts of energy installing it. (Oh, and the fabulous neighbor's dog's name is Chaos. I think that is a great name and it likely means we aren't the only ones with hooligan pooches.)
M.C. won't leave the garage. He's now a bigger, healthier scaredy cat. And I think I'm giving up the battle to find him a new home. (Unless of course you want him, in which case I will bring him to you right now).
Chloe, the only cat I really like, would not come with us on the day we moved. She was willing to let me put her in the car when I went back the following day. She accidently got trapped in the garage at the new house, then made a run for it after the door opened. I thought for sure that between a mangy kitten and the move, she was done with us for good and off to find a new family. After nearly two weeks, though, Chloe has returned. Excited, I called my dad to tell him that she didn't hate us and hadn't left us for a new family. Dad being my dad pointed out that maybe the new family she found went out of town for the three day weekend and she just needed fed.
The dogs are enjoying their new back yard and playing through the fence with Chaos. So far, they seem content and in no hurry to climb fences. M.C. did finally step foot onto the grass today and Chloe still hasn't left us. It's only a couple of days past the holiday but surely a new family would have been back by now. I think maybe she still likes us. And I think now that our comfort creatures are finally settled, maybe we're home.
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