The pre-520 and post-520 portions of my drive prepare me for the transitions to and from the city life to the salt life, and I’ve learned to use the time to mellow out, think and solve the problems of the world. I just haven’t figured out how to write and drive without running off the road. So I’m not making any promises on regularity here…that’s regularity in composing the written word, not pooping, by the way!
Although I do miss you, and I do miss this. And I’ve have several inquires as to my whereabouts. And suddenly I realized that maybe some of you were worried about Steven. Not to worry, kids. He’s great!
With my job came insurance. Our health insurance kicked in on January 28. Steven went for his oncology visit on the 29th. We didn’t want to waste any time after the horrible year we had in 2012. And much to our shock and amazement, his tests all showed that he is holding steady. There are a few little pesky areas of cancer in his lymph nodes, but nothing that is big or bad enough to warrant chemo. So we’ve got another reprise! And again the Craig Morgan song, “God Must Really Love Me” has been wafting through our home!
Steven’s good health might have something to do with his fabulous weight loss. I have been trying to convince him for years that cancer loves it a little blubber as a growth medium. But it just didn’t register with the big man. He just equated “thin” with “sick” from back in the 2004 puking, bald chemo days. But last year’s trip to Cancer Treatment Center had the lasting effect of the words of wisdom from the doctors and nutritional counsellors who just happened to speak “Steven”. They said the right things, he finally got it and, BOO-YA, 65 lubs later, he’s a mean, lean, fighting machine!
Now, even though I’m dipping my toes back into the blogging arena, I have to make it quick. I gotta get out of the house because the big man, the thin man, the man who battled Stage 4 Lymphoma and kicked it’s ass…has a cold. A common cold. And he’s taken to the guest room bed like a southern belle with the vapors. He’s moaning and coughing and moaning and sneezing and moaning and sniffling and moaning. Get the picture? For a man who could tolerate the rigors of a chemotherapy program that kills some people, I am amazed at the drama that comes with a cold.
And so, as a caregiver, I sympathize. As I human who has had 2 colds already this year, I empathize. As I wife…I gotta hide out, take cover and go underground. This is going to be ugly. A man with a cold is an extremiator. It’s a word I coined that covers it perfectly. Extreme-eeeee-ator! And my extremiator is hocking and blowing and moaning. I’ve earned the right to call myself a caregiver. I have no qualms about rolling up my sleeves and taking care of whatever needs to be done. I held back the urge to barf when I changed the dressings on 2 knee replacement surgeries. I cleaned the hair off the shower walls when the chemo made Steven’s hair fly off his head during showers. I cooked meals and didn’t even flinch when I heard them being wretched back up within minutes. But I’m not strong enough to handle the drama of a common cold.
So, I’ll be back…when the extremiator is better! That’s a promise.