DARE

So, the other day when I picked Big Kid up from school and buckled him into the car, he said," I learned all about DRUGS today."

He said this in a serious tone, with a pause before and after the word "drugs", and I thought sensed some accusation or judgment in his tone, although I couldn't imagine why.

"Really? What did you learn about drugs?"

"I learned about all kinds of drugs...like ones you drink." He paused and looked at me seriously.

(Where the hell is this conversation going? my tired mind wondered) "Drugs you drink?"

"Like beer dat gramps drinks, or WINE dat you drink," he said slowly, definitely in a "caught you" kind of tone.

As I started the car, I felt a little angry. I know I joke about it a lot, but I am not a drinker. At all. I probably drink 6-8 times a year, I get drunk once every couple of years, usually at weddings, never with my kids around. I'm a 2 glasses of Pinot on a Saturday night with dinner or an Amstel Light or two on the beach every few months kind of girl.

And now my 5 year old thinks I do drugs because someone showed him a wine glass and a Budweiser can and told him that was bad. I know it had to be a picture of a can of Budweiser too, because Mr. Ashley enjoys a Heineken or two on most evenings, and here he was getting off free and clear because Big Kid recognized the can that he's seen his grandfather with.

"Gramps doesn't drink beer anymore. When he found out he was sick, he made the right choice and decided to only eat and drink healthy foods, and he hasn't had a beer since. I hardly ever drink wine, Big Kid. Those kind of drinks are alchohol, and although it would be bad to drink too much of that kind of drink, it is not against the law and adults are free to make that decision for themselves."

"My teatser said it was drugs."

"Then she was wrong, or you misunderstood her." I snapped, in an I'm-done-discussing-it kind of way.

Then we saw my dad on Memorial Day, and my dad told me that he had asked Big Kid if he knew he was sick. Big Kid replied with, "Yep, I know, and I know you laid off da beer, too." My dad was laughing about it, but I was sure to explain the back story so that he didn't think we were making a big deal out of his beer drinking (or not drinking) to our five year old.

Several days later, Big Kid pops up with, "You know, you don't have to die when you're 60. Some people die when dey are 87 or 93 or even 100."

Wondering what the hell he was talking about, and wondering if he knew more than I thought about my dad, I asked what he meant.

"If you do drugs or drinks you will die when you're 60. If you don't, you will live to be 94 or 98 or somefing."

"Uh, well, it doesn't work exactly like that. Drinking too much or doing drugs is not healthy for your body, that part is true."

Now I'm very irritated again. I'm not sure if Kindergarten is the appropriate forum for drug and alcohol abuse. Somehow the message has been passed on to my Kindergartner that if he sees me with a glass of wine, I'm doing drugs and am going to die at 60 vs 98. Also, we all know that Big Kid told (at least) his entire class that his grandpa and I drink drugs all the time.

Then, the day before yesterday, I had the boys making cards for me to take to my dad in the hospital. Big Kid wrote "Feel better Gramps" on the front and drew a parrot that he glued a googly eye and a feather too. I asked Big Kid what he would write on the inside.

"Hmmm, I'm finking...'you shouldn't have drank all dat beer." he said matter-of-factly.

I'll admit beforehand that my immediate reaction was a bad one. It was the day of the surgery, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, the alcohol lectures had annoyed me a few times already in the last week, and I was realizing that Big Kid believed that my dad had cancer because he drank beer, thanks to school.

"Listen to me, one does not have to do with the other. Gramps is not sick because he drank beer. Drinking beer was an unhealthy choice--but one that he had the right to make as an adult. Don't mention him drinking beer, or me drinking wine, or anyone drinking anything ever. Write something nice on the inside of the card, and don't bring this up again."

His eyes were wide and he mumbled that he'd just write that he loved him, and got right to it.

Then I felt bad, and after several minutes had passed and I thought of it objectively, I realized that a "Feel Better--you shouldn't have drank all that beer" card from Big Kid would be way, way funnier than your run of the mill "Feel better--I love you" card.

My dad loves to tease and Big Kid is always trying to get him back. Plus, my dad loves a story he can retell 9 zillion times and that could've been a good one. He would have thought it was funny and Big Kid's practical, safety-patrol, hand-washer extraordinaire persona cracks him up.

I told Big Kid that I was sorry I snapped at him, and asked if he wanted to make a second card as a joke and he declined immediately, saying he was pretty sure the joke wasn't funny and forbidding me to tell Gramps he mentioned the beer.

Now every time my dad tells me how the medical staff admire his cards, I think of how much funnier it would have been if I had let Big Kid do it his way.

I Don't Think So

I was just reading this heart warming story about a mother bird who saves her babies, when I did a double take there near the end. Go read the article, I highlighted the important part.

This mama bird immediately senses the danger, comes up with the solution of puffing up her own body and using it as a dam so her nest doesn't get flooded but the daddy bird manages to feed everyone and gets credited with doing "most of the work"??

Only a man would think so.

Little Things

Here are the bunk beds we refinished for the boys. We got them off of Craigslist for $50 because they were trashed. I accidentally touched someone else's kid's boogers during the cleaning/painting process. The bulletin board was all scratched up, so I had Mr. Ashley cut out a piece of cardboard the same size and I stapled batting and retro rocket ship fabric and ribbon to it. The whole ordeal, with the bunk beds and the mattresses and the bedding, was barely $200. They don't get to keep my pear chair, I want to find them a small red Ikea-ish modern one.

Here is little kid sitting on his bed. He insisted that I take this photo. No, he's not wearing pants.



This is a dove who has made her nest above our back window, not knowing my record with "saved" baby animals. She sits there still as a statue on her eggs, and every day we all trek out to see what she's doing (nothing much).


My real camera has been sitting unused for way too long, so I finally recharged the battery and forced the kids into the backyard so I could take a couple of pictures after school today. This was the very first shot I took, and the closest thing to a good sibling shot we've had in a long time.

Today

Well, the surgery went well today because they got the big tumor out, but it has unfortunately spread to his liver and is Stage 4. In my heart of hearts, I knew this. He seems a weird color to me and the tumor seems so big and some local organization has offered to pay for everything and his liver has been so badly abused to begin with--all of these things have had me suspecting that doctors might have known that things were pretty bad. The doctor did know for sure when he saw the CAT scan earlier this week, and told my dad right before surgery.

I'm not the professional, and maybe he had a good reason for doing so (sedation soon after?), but it breaks my heart to think of my dad so scared and upset right before major surgery. My dad's crushed reaction was worse than finally hearing the diagnosis.

My mom told me on my way to the hospital this morning, so hospital anxiety and the post-surgery consultation were pretty anti-climactic. The waiting room was nice and the volunteers were very nice and my mom and I can have a decent time pretty much anywhere, so the waiting wasn't bad. The hallways and elevators sucked big time, but my dad looked much better than I had expected and was coherent and not hooked up to too much stuff.

He was worried though and seeing that is hard. The doctor told him he had 2 to 3 years, and I told him that the same doctor told us he had patients just like him who were doing well at 5 years out and medical technology improves daily. And that it is just an average and an estimated guess, and that a lot of those people weren't eating and exercising, and that a lot of them are way older. I had read an informal study done by a doctor where he told some of his patients that they were doing really well and things were looking great, even if that wasn't necessarily the truth, and that they lived longer than people with an "expiration date". I don't think it can hurt, especially if that's what they want to hear.

So, it was sad. I am pretty much sadded out today, so we'll have some non-sad stuff coming up soon. Thank you very much for all of your well wishes and comments, it definitely brightened my day.

Eve of Tomorrow

So, my dad's surgery is tomorrow morning.

I feel like we're heading into a situation where one day our befores and afters will be defined by what happens tomorrow. When we were hanging out on Memorial Day, I kept wondering, "Will this be the last 'normal' holiday we have? Are things about to be complete sickness and misery?"

It is nearly impossible for a pessimist who has a dad with a 7 inch tumor and 2 best friends whose fathers died of Cancer earlier this year to think positively in a situation like this.

It's also really unfortunate that he feels better than he has in 30 years and he's about to be sliced open, dissected and poisoned regularly. Sickness and misery seem inevitable, regardless of tomorrow's outcome.

I've talked to several other adult children of people who have had cancer and their tiredness/defeatedness (not a word, don't care), and empathy, and "sucks to be you and you don't even fully know it yet" shines through their advice, encouragement or consolation and gives me a glimpse of what's to come.

Also, although this should be the very least of my worries...I would rather ride a million escalators to a million post offices run by a million mean librarians than step even one foot in a hospital. Hospitals are the absolute pinnacle of anxiety-inducing situations for me. Even typing about it, the skin on my chest is burning and I can't breathe deeply and my hands are itchy. The thought of seeing my dad in one makes my heart hammer and my breath catch. I've been testing out that image in my mind for weeks now to try to acclimate myself to the idea, but it still makes my stomach flop every time I try to go there in my head.

I hate the smells, I hate the sounds, I hate seeing people in hospital beds, I hate tubes and machinery, I hate linoleum, I hate the awkwardness, I hate other people's discomfort or pain, I hate all of it. I have puked, fainted, hyperventilated and needed medical intervention while visiting others in the hospital. Most of the people I have visited in the hospital have died, and a lot of that happened when I was a child, so my anxiety has a really valid root but now is not the time for my craziness.

Oh, deep breaths. I guess immersion therapy starts tomorrow on that one. I will be okay.

I keep trying to think of things from my dad's point of view. I can't imagine facing your own mortality after something as earth-shattering as a cancer diagnosis. I made the mistake of watching the Farrah Fawcett documentary and keep thinking of how she said she would miss the rain. Man, I can't imagine facing that, or having someone trying to quantify your time left.

Well, this is depressing. I'm always torn on writing about this stuff because we mostly come here for fun, and because I don't want anyone feeling sorry for me, and because a little bit of me feels like if I don't commit it to type, it's not really happening--at least not "in here" in this fun, alternate little universe we have here. And sometimes I do avoid the tough stuff for as long as I can, but it would also be too hard to leave big gaps in the Ashley family saga or to try to act like all is well in Ashleyland.

So keep your fingers crossed for me tomorrow...I mean, my dad. All of us, I guess.

I'll keep you posted.

It was too quiet

I just found little kid in his room with nail scissors and a potato.

That could've been bad.