Cancer and stuff

It's been a busy couple of months.  

My brother has colon cancer.  He's my oldest brother, and the one who gets in the most trouble, so it should be no surprise that he found out about the cancer by falling down the stairs and breaking his arm, collarbone, and two ribs.  I know, none of these have anything to do with the colon.  I'm assuming they were checking for internal injuries, but with Eldest Brother, who knows?  He doesn't like to ask the doctor questions.

He had surgery to remove the cancer in his colon, but got a call last week saying they were going to do chemotherapy as well.  He'll meet with the doc today.  I sent him a list of questions that I'm certain he won't ask, but it made me feel better to send them.

If your loved one is diagnosed with cancer, ASK questions--when I was diagnosed with a cancerous molar pregnancy (gestational trophoblastic neoplasia that was invading the uterine wal, to be exact--and yes, that definitely conjures up pictures of little grumpy dwarves pick-axing my uterus)-- 

image credit: spongebobandfriendsadventures.wikia.com

I didn't ask enough questions, and later wished I had.

What kind of cancer is it? (Do you know there are many forms of colon cancer? And each one requires slightly different treatment.) What stage is it? (Staging also helps decide course of action.) If I require chemotherapy, will it be intravenous, intramuscular, or pill form? (Mine was intramuscular--a shot in the ass.  I combined that with a leukovorin pill, which kept my hair from falling out and my puke from ending up on the floor.)  Is it hereditary? (I still don't know.) If it's hereditary colon cancer, which kind is it? (There are two.) Should my children be monitored for this?  When will my chemo start, and how many "rounds" will I have to go through (there may be no answer for this, but don't you feel better knowing you asked?) And last, but certainly not least, what experience do you have with this disease?  (Because doctors aren't infallible, and you want one who knows his sh*t.)

So.  Ask your questions.  Get your answers.  Get a second opinion, if so desired.  

Then get treatment, ASAP.  Don't ask the doctor if you can postpone until after Christmas, because the kids would rather have you here for five more Christmases. (Yeah, I'm talking to you, Eldest Brother.). And pray. I'm not a religious person, but it can't hurt.

Good luck, and positive thoughts!

And just to cheer you up after this mostly depressing post, here's a hug:

That Comic Book Smell, and Other Memories

Do you remember your childhood places?

Growing up, my brother and I used to frequent the same comic book store every week.  It wasn't anything fancy, just a small sort of hole in the wall, but upon walking through its doors we were transported to our world, a world where story after story came to life on inked and colored paper.  

There was a kid behind the counter, an Asian-American boy with a ponytail and thick glasses.  In the "real world" he was probably a total geek, was probably picked on at school, was maybe an outcast.  Here he was someone special, the cool guy, a Comic Book guru and a font of knowledge.  

We were geeks, too.  My brother was the "fat kid" and I was the "dorky girl", but there, we blended into the crowd.  We bought the newest comics every week, and sometimes back issues of some of the better storylines.  We might get into a conversation with (let's call him Tom), or he might suggest something that would compliment our selection. I'm sure we were slightly memorable, if only because we often came with rolled up change, in significant amounts, courtesy of my father, who used to throw all the change from his tool box into a jar and give it to us for comics.  (He stopped doing this the year he realized he had given us $122 in one bag of coins.)

As life got bigger, as we grew older, we stopped going.  We had buckets full of comics to read through, but we didn't make the weekly trek any more.  Several years after we stopped going, my brother died.  Years of visits to the comic store disappeared in an instant, lost with the shared memories that my brother and I had.  Nobody else would remember the way we would negotiate which comics we were getting that week, and if they were going to be new or old, or a combination of the two.  Nobody else understood the way we hunted for specific story lines, because they interacted between titles, or the need to have the Classic Xmen comic even though we had the same stories printed in the original version.  Over time, the memories began to fade, because no one was there to really share them with.

They were gone until my kids turned 12 and 10.  They asked me one day if we could go to a comic store, and the memories of such good times came flooding back.  Instead of going to the place down the street, with it's limited comics and funky fashions, we made the drive to the next town over, back to "our store", on a little corner on Hancock St.  I took my kids down the alleyway, which is how you get there from the parking garage, and it's also how you get to see all the comic book posters covering the window of the store.  The excitement began building the moment I saw the Xmen logo.  Sleek designs, superheroes in colorful costumes, and the smell of old paper hit me as I walked in the door.  

And there behind the counter, sporting a white-haired ponytail, was good old Tom.  

I don't think he remembered me--why would he?  I was one of thousands of customers.  But I remembered him, and in remembering, memories of my brother and the time we spent there came flooding back.  Tears filled my eyes, and I had to disguise them by sticking my face into the bins of old comics.  Coffeeguy realized that it was a moment for me, and showed the kids around a little while I composed my 41 year old self.  

I got it together, and began to show them the old comics, the newest comics, and introduce them to my favorite titles.  They were fascinated, and my heart swelled, watching them look around exactly the way big brother and I had.  

They now ask, whenever we have extra time, if they can go to the comic book store, which makes me so very happy, to pass on a tradition that was such a huge part of my childhood.

The last time we went, just the other day, Coffeeguy had a jar with him.  I asked what it was, and he said, "I remembered the story about the change.  I've been throwing mine in here, and I figured we could give it to them when we get there."  I love that man.

The Adventures of Punkgirl and Happyboy

      Punkgirl and Happyboy are twelve and ten, respectively.  Punkgirl is my Joplin-loving, record-listening, knee-high-sneaker-wearing writer.  She has super short hair and a super long memory, she is snarky and smart, and if I were a kid she would be my idol.  Happyboy is her younger brother, and he has idolized her since birth.  Over the years, he has developed his own personality, though, and now, instead of wearing cute things that his sister would wear, he wears cute things that he likes for himself.  These range from pretty butterfly cardigans to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle t-shirts, so needless to say his taste is unique.  The emergence of his own sense of style and his own sense of self has caused some troubles in our house, mostly because his older sister and he both have control issues (and gee, I have no idea where they got them from.  Ahem.)  There are times when I watch them, and everything jells, and they hit that groove.  In the groove, they are so creative and funny and loving together.  And then there are the normal days.

     On normal days, they correct one another constantly, tell each other what to do, and the word stop (which becomes stooo-ooop) is repeated more times than I can count.  There are times where I think they can't stand it when the other breathes, and it just kills me.  Having lost my youngest brother at the bright young age of 31, I feel every snipe and every sneer like a sharp knife in my heart.

     At the beginning of the summer, I started giving them "challenges" to get them to work together.  Eight out of ten times they got frustrated and angry because neither wanted to compromise on a project.  It became a struggle between them and I began to despair.  But eight out of ten became six out of ten.  By last week it became four out of ten.  They're finding the groove.  

     For my brother and me, it was comic books.  We could fight all day, but take us to the comic store and we were the best of friends, picking out the best issues that we both could agree on (for you fellow geeks, it was Avengers, Xmen, Thor, Iron Man...occasionally Batman, though I had my concerns with the slim coverage Batgirl was given in that comic...) For Punkgirl and Happyboy, it's creativity.  I give them the camera and a theme, and before I know it there are costumes and props and can they use this or that.  I tell them they need to make a comic book and they are on the computer, heads together, the argument they had ten minutes ago about Happyboy constantly singing instantly forgotten as they come up with graphics and snappy dialogue.  They hit the groove.  I don't have to worry then that they might grow up disliking each other...these moments are proof that their sibling love exists.  I cherish them, those moments, more than I could possibly say, and I miss that bond with my own brother keenly but bitter-sweetly.

      I suck at being a stay at home mom. But sometimes, even I get it right.  That's when we're in

the groove.