Driver+Chemo Brain=YIKES



Steven is a driver.  He always has been.  If you’ve ever taken one of those personality typing tests, a driver is one of the many names, based on whatever brand test is given, to describe a Type A personality.  A leader.  A doer.  A ticking time bomb!  

In about 5 B.C. (Before Cancer), a few years after we moved into our current home, I was examining the orange tree that came with the back yard.  The tree seemed to have some kind of funky stuff growing on the trunk.  The oranges were about the size of meat balls and kind of tasted like meat balls.  I knew that was wrong! I diagnosed it as Botanical Herpes Simplex 10.  We tried a few tree salves, lotions and douches, but it didn’t go away.  

One evening, Steven and I were sitting on the back porch sipping a glass of wine and I said, “I think that orange tree might have to go.”  We enjoyed a little more idle chit-chat and then I got up to start making dinner.  As I was tossing a salad, I heard a chain saw firing up.  What the hell?????  I ran to the backyard and there was Steven, goggled up and cutting down the tree.  Now he’s not Paul Bunyan, so I will say it did take him a good part of the next day to chop it up into small enough pieces to drag to the curb.  But, that tree was down before I finished making dinner.   

The moral of this tale is that I learned, first hand, the true ‘driver’ personality.  They get stuff done.  I also learned that I needed to keep my yap shut until I was sure I wanted to do something.  Drivers are deaf the word ‘might’.  “The orange tree MIGHT have to go”, “ The orange tree has to go”.  Can you tell the difference?  If you can’t, you’re a driver!  If you can tell the difference, these are things you never want to say:

  1. Sure, we can go look at cars.  (Or, at least clean out your trunk first)
  2. I think the family room needs repainting. (Or, pick out the exact color first)
  3. I wish I had gotten my tubes tied. (Or, hide the steak knives)

Now, living in 8 A.D. (After Diagnosis) we have a driver who forgets things.  Sounds like a sit-come, doesn’t it.  Give a smart, adult male with credit cards and an ass-busting personality a second chance at life…and make him forget where he’s going.  Then, watch the hijinks ensue. 

One morning last week, Steven got up and said, “I’m going to make coffee and take the trash out to the curb.”  I thought this was going to give me a little more time for a few more ZZZZs.  It was a beautiful Florida morning, the air was cool, the windows were opened and the birds were chirping.  I dozed off until I thought I heard heavy breathing…in a tree.  It was Steven, up in a 20 foot palm tree with a saw, pruning.    

It was a regular start to a regular day at our house.  The trash didn’t make it out, but they come twice a week, so no big whoop.  The palm trees needed pruning  anyway and look great.  And I’m past the age of needing my tubes tied.  So it’s all good.

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