The dogs will get in on the “get well” gift act. Because to dogs, nothing says “cut the cancer crap” like the bottom half of a dead chicken dropped at the front door. Please note: It’s best to acknowledge your pups’ presents with a belly rub and the occasional Beggin’ Strip. Otherwise they feel their gift has gone unappreciated, and before long, you’re down six of your best layers.
It no longer matters whether the Giants win or lose. Just that my kids get to watch the game with their dad. Okay, it would be nice if the nitwits would win. . . .
Dinner in the hospital becomes the height of romance. So what if it’s mushy mystery chicken for him and a questionable Caesar salad for you. It’s nothing short of the happiest, most romantic meal in the world. Particularly when he hasn’t eaten one in eight weeks.
The little boy wearing the “Cancer Sucks” cap will want a cell phone. Why? Because the cell phone is the new security blanket. Necessary when Dad’s in the hospital. The perfect paperweight when he’s home.
You enter the wonderful world of prescription narcotics. Hem’s stash of OxyContin has a street value of nine thousand dollars. Hmmm. Pain-free honey, or Manoloheeled mommy? Of course I’m kidding. I can buy twice as many Kate Spades with that kind of cash.
You develop a new appreciation for those annoying feel-good /cope quotes girlfriends forward one another more frequently than Kohl’s sale coupons. Not all of them, of course. Just this one: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.”
Chapter Forty-one
I’M DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS TREE. NOT.
Cancer or not, Christmas falls on Mom. So this season, I did what I could to save what little is left of my sanity and simplify things.
For starters, I did a lot less decorating. The kids and I plugged in the porch lights202 and promptly blew a fuse. This meant someone had to go to the basement in the pitch dark, hope nothing long, black, and slithery was hosting a holiday party with its long, black slithery pals ’round the hot-water heater, and fumble with the fuse box until she heard the telltale sounds of a video game being played above her head. But only because her boys were too busy to stop and tell her the power was back.
Continuing with my less-is-more mantra, I left the HO HO HO doormat, and the fake reindeer, metal Santa, and SANTA, PLEASE STOP HERE! sign I usually place near the steps in storage, and slapped a plain pine wreath on the front door. Last year’s pine wreath, which for some reason didn’t make it to the burn pile and instead got put away with the rest of the holiday decorations and is now brown, odorless, and devoid of any additional adornment save the dead stinkbugs nestled among its needles.
At least, I thought they were dead. The aroma coming from the runner in the hall suggests otherwise.
Undaunted by my decorative disasters, and hoping, quite frankly, that Duke and Willie would finish the wreath off (and why not? They eat everything else), I sallied forth with two traditionally foolproof moves.
First I copped out on making Christmas dinner and ordered Chinese.203 Again. Lest you be appalled, please know my family prefers this to anything I could make myself. It’s tasty, fun, and the fortune cookies typically, and accurately, predict no one will wind up in the hospital.
Second, I did a good chunk of my shopping in the très lovely and legendary town of Middleburg. Maybe you’ve heard of it? No? Well, hit Google when you’ve got a minute, because my farm management skills (not to mention my math and culinary talents) are rivaled only by what I didn’t retain in history.
Sure, there are those who can speak to Middleburg’s hallowed role in the development of our country. And then there are others who, at the mere mention of the place, would see stars—celebrities, socialites, tycoons, and media types—and recount incredible, true tales of the famous personalities who’ve sought respite, rejuvenation, and damn fine foxhunting there. Indeed, Middleburg is the equestrian mecca of the country, and there are experts who can talk at length about that, too.
But I, alas, am none of those kinds of people.
I confess. I’m a lightweight. But at least I know my limitations: fifteen thousand on Visa, ten thousand on MasterCard. Of course, there are no restrictions on my AmEx, but that’s just because Hemingway cut up my card. No, all that history about the heart of horse country is better imparted by those much more knowledgeable than moi.
This girl’s shtick is shopping.
And good shopping, close to home,204 really helps keep things simple.
I have friends who swear by Fair Oaks, and still others who are willing to endure all kinds of traffic to get to Tysons. But I already spend too much time on Route 66. I’d rather spend some in Tully Rector trying on coats and cocktail dresses I don’t need but can’t pass up ’cause they’re so darn cute. And unique. And often on sale. Which makes my “Something for you, something for me” giftbuying system almost a hundred percent justifiable. Almost.
I have pals who’ll shop only in New York and buddies who won’t buy unless they’re abroad. I even have a group of girlfriends who insist that Los Angeles is the height of fashion.205 And when they all give and get the same snakeskin belts from J.Crew, the same black sweaters from Banana Republic, and the same oversize totes from Ann Taylor, I shake my head and think, Thank God for Lou Lou. And Lou Lou Too. Jewelry, belts, boots, bags, pants, tops, sunglasses—you name it, they’ve got it, and I’m giving it.
Christmas list done and dinner ordered, I was on a hot streak of simplification and totally ahead of schedule. Now all I needed was a tree to magically alight in the living room. Since I couldn’t count on Harry Potter to help, I went with the next-best thing: the Internet.
Even for me, a counterfeit farm girl, it’s painful to confess that I broke down and ordered a fake tree. I mean, I live in the country. We could have gone to a tree farm and cut one down ourselves. Or maybe if I’d taken a good look around the property, I’d have found a spruce or Scotch pine out there somewhere. But I didn’t have the energy or the time and, to be honest? My heart wasn’t in it.
And so I searched the World Wide Web and discovered a world of fake tree options. I had no idea they came in any color but green. But there they were in red and blue and, be still my childish heart, pink.
Bright, pure, baby-girl-bedroom pink.
I clicked, and a sparkling six-footer popped into my shopping cart. A shiver of delight ran down my spine. And I got an idea. A great idea. I’d give the boys a totally pink Christmas! I’d get a complementary-colored tree skirt, gift wrap, paper goods, even pink stockings! I could see them now, stuffed with iTunes gift cards, Tropic Thunder and The Simpsons Movie DVDs, and the kids’ favorite kinds of candy. But what if I couldn’t find pink Christmas stockings? What if Wal-Mart or the dollar store didn’t have them?
No problem, I heard myself say, I’ll just be like other mothers and make them!
The sound of my Suzy Soprano honk snapped me back to my senses. What the hell was I thinking? I don’t do crafts. And the McMen don’t do pink Christmas trees.
A white one, on the other hand, just might work. Particularly if it was a spectacular, six-foot-tall, prelit-withzillions-of-twinkling-white-lights wonder that would’ve made Peter Allen proud. I typed in my credit card number and mailing address, hit “purchase,” and said a prayer.
Why God chose that particular moment to go deaf, I don’t know. But it’s on my agenda for that “come to Jesus” meeting I mentioned earlier.
The tree was barely out of the box, an undertaking that alone took more than thirty minutes, when Casey said, “Mom, that’s so not us.” He was right, of course, as my older son frequently is, so I repacked the cheesy cheap mess,206 hauled it to the post office, and forked over an eyetooth in order to have it back to the manufacturer by Christmas Eve.207
Not exactly the simple, low-stress, time-saving solution I was looking for.
I left the post office and went, in the first snowstorm of the season,208 to buy a real tree from the B
oy Scouts. Or, I should say, their parents. The boys were at a party. Their parents were at the tree sale, doing the boys’ dirty work and freezing their buns off. Based on this description, both my sons would make great Scouts.
Casey and Cuyler did, however, help me get the tree up and decorated with garland made from the hospital bands Hem’s been collecting since he got sick. You may think that’s sick, but we think it’s funny.
Almost as funny as my trying to simplify things.
Suzy’s “Things to Be Thankful For” This Christmas
The fact that my honey’s weight is up, and his tumor marker is down. God willing, he’ll soon be fat and cancer-free. You know, like he used to be.
The goats’ habit of getting into the garbage. It’s disgusting, but it saves me a trip to the dump.
“You have no new messages.” Music to my voice-mail-overloaded ears.
Doctors, physician’s assistants, and nurses who answer my questions and calm my fears day and night, on weekends and on holidays. And who still hug me when they see me.
Days I have to bathe Tug only twice.
An empty e-mail in-box.
Chardonnay via IV drip. (Okay, I’m kidding. But a girl can dream, can’t she?)
Duct tape. Sort of a stunt husband. Just don’t try to spoon with it.
My new automatic poultry feeder. Now if I could just get it to gather eggs . . .
Online shopping. When the going gets tough, the tough click “add to shopping cart.” (White faux Christmas trees not included.)
Good friends and wonderful family who listen, do, support, and send care packages bursting with goodies for Hem, the boys, even the dogs. And occasionally vino for Suz-o.
My Turbo Power 4400 Titanium hair dryer. I still stink at straightening my hair with it, but dinner defrosts lickety-split no matter how late I get in from the hospital. Plus I can unfreeze pipes, blow the wolf spiders making themselves comfy in my kitchen into the stratosphere, and dry Tug almost all at the same time. And on that note . . .
My GHD (Good Hair Day) flatiron. My weekly trips to the salon are a thing of the past, but thanks to my flatiron, a whole lot of Garnier Fructis Sleek & Shine, and several private lessons from my favorite hairstylist and friend Ashley, I can actually tame the hay bale that results from my attempts to use a round brush and a blow-dryer.
Fentanyl patches, OxyContin, and oxycodone. And no, we’re not drug addicts. We’re pain abhorrers.
The teachers and counselors who care so much for Case and Cuy.
My state-of-the-art dog deskunking kit. Liquid soap, baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, three personalized pet towels, and a pair of rubber gloves all wrapped up in a Rubbermaid tub roomy enough for a Barcalounger and a big-screen TV. Thanks, Santa! Dog grooming gift certificates are so impersonal.
My therapists. (Yeah, plural. Because I’m twice as nuts as you thought I was.)
Casey and Cuyler. Cuyler and Casey. Sure, they’ve matured lots since their dad got sick. But they still brawl over who gets top billing.
Hem.
Chapter Forty-two
IS THAT A POINSETTIA IN YOUR POCKET, OR ARE YOU JUST GLAD TO SEE ME?
You know the snowstorm that hit the day I bought our Christmas tree from the Boy Scouts or, more accurately, their poor, frostbitten parents? It was just the overture, the prelude, the preamble to what we in the forest primeval shall forever refer to as Snowmageddon or, more accurately, the Time We Forced Short, Fat Pete to Do His Business in the Cat’s Litter Box. It was either that or watch him suffocate in the snow, because there was no way Tug and Grundy were letting him use their—I mean the—living room rug.
All told, we got forty-five inches of the white stuff, and now that it’s melting and becoming mud, and Tug, our harebrained golden, is anything but, I almost miss it.
Of course, neither Hemingway nor I miss having Casey and Cuyler home for thirteen straight school days. That’s right; thirteen school days. Counting weekends that’s nineteen surprise days of drudging, round-the-clock, full-time, crazy-making family time.209
At first, both boys were only too happy with the sudden instructional interlude and found lots of fun ways to enjoy themselves. And then they got bored and things really got recreational. Right this second there isn’t a Coca-Cola left in the house. (And they put a darn good dent in the Jack Daniel’s, too.)
Of course, the back-to-back (-to-back) snowstorms didn’t just leave us with more reasons to toss the living room rug (as well as the brittle, brown, stinkbug-ridden pine wreath not even Duke and Willie would eat) on the burn pile. No, no. We were also awarded a very nice dusting of dead chickens, several rodents seeking respite and, quite possibly, squatters’ rights in our utensil drawer, and a clutch of cows in the backyard.
Yes, for the first time in all the time we’ve lived here, the cattle guard behind our house froze solid. For the uninitiated, a cattle guard is a series of parallel metal bars installed in a roadway over a ditch. The bars are wide enough so a cow’s hooves and legs will fall through, but cars can drive over safely. Lest you think we’re being cruel, please know that most animals are smart enough to recognize the potential hazard and stay away. In this instance, we got so much snow that it filled the ditch, covered the metal bars, and froze. And then, as I watched from the kitchen window, a dozen or so mama cows, baby cows, and at least one bull sort of skated right across it.210 They strolled all around our backyard, peeked inside our pickup truck, and then came right up to the door of the mud porch. I didn’t have range cubes handy, but they ate the dogs’ food just fine.
Short of the fact that all four of us spent about forty-five minutes in twelve-degree weather cajoling the cattle back into the pasture and then locking them in by parking the pickup squarely between the fence posts and over the frozen cattle guard, we really got off easy. We never lost power, ran out of pain medication, or had to make a hospital run, which, frankly, we couldn’t have, as the Virginia Department of Transportation had our road closed in both directions for two days. In fact, probably the worst thing that happened was that our satellite went down. This was bad because we had no Internet service, no access to e-mail, and we missed the start of the Olympics and all the cool stuff Shaun White was doing. But it was good because, without Internet service and access to my e-mail, I actually got some work done. And it was great because when we finally reconnected with the world and I could watch all the Shaun White I wanted, I did it my way—in thirty-second snippets on YouTube.
In fact, there were a couple of good things that came out of having a dead satellite dish. For one, we escaped the ceaseless, stultifying weather reports:
“Here in Fairfax, we’ve got a lot of snow. And I mean a lot of snow. What about by you, Bob?”
“Here in Winchester, too, Dan. And it’s so white! I’ve never seen snow so white! And fluffy! Have you ever seen snow this fluffy?”
“No, Bob, I can’t say I have. Snow that’s white and fluffy; it’s truly incredible. To address the issue in such tedious, plodding detail as to make viewers want to throw themselves in front of a train, a move they’ll have to wait on, as there’s currently no service due to, you guessed it, snow, we turn now to meteorologist Dr. Mark Makesumthinofnuthin. Dr. M., so good of you to join us!”
We also managed to miss the inane “What’s Topper’s Real Name?” guessing game our local news211 had going.
No offense, folks. I don’t know what Topper’s real name is, and, while he seems like a very nice man, I don’t care. I only know I’m stuck in the house with a sick husband, two squabbling sons, two dogs that haven’t relieved themselves outside in almost a week, a third that will go only in the cat’s box (a development that’s got the cat in shock and shitting on the couch), a dwindling supply of club soda and paper towels (gee, wonder why), one last, lonely bottle of chardonnay, a container of wood alcohol that’s starting to look real good, and the growing possibility that my picture will wind up in the post office if you don’t put The Big Bang Theory back on.
Whew.
They left for class, and we went for chemotherapy and a tumor count. In September of 2009, when we began the pancreatic cancer odyssey, Hemingway’s tumor marker, aka his CA 19-9, was just under eight thousand. Eight thousand. Last Wednesday, it was thirteen. In case you don’t know, and I sincerely hope you don’t, anything under thirty-five is considered normal.
Double, triple, quadruple whew.
Such fabulous news deserved to be celebrated. And since one of us has been sick for a while and we don’t really do the whole dining-and-dancing thing these days, Hem and I raced home from the hospital with grand plans to eat a half gallon of ice cream each (please note: He has to eat like this; I’m just stuffing myself in solidarity, as any good wife would), beat the boys in a rousing game of Simpsons Scene It, and enjoy an eight-o’clock comedy. With our eyes open.
500 Acres and No Place to Hide Page 20
