It Is What It Is. @calamitouscrohns - Tumblr Blog

💜

I was not going to update the internet on my situation. I’m still not sure if this is what I want to do or not. Mostly because the small circle I have informed have provided me with generous support and yet I know, to some degree, that it’s also a heavy weight to place onto others.

But here I am, writing this anyway. I have known for quite some time that options were becoming scarce and the time I have is limited. That brings us to now. Nothing has changed in my prognosis, necessarily, except the passing of time has brought me closer to the end of my journey. I’ve been told less than a year, maybe 6 months.

I appreciate the coping mechanism that makes most of us think “but miracles DO happen!” Or maybe you have a friend or relative who was treated and saved at a hospital in a certain state that’s the best of the best. I lovingly thank you for the well intended thoughts and gestures. If you pray, please continue. If you send vibes, I’ll take them.

Please, though, consider Brad and Nola as your primary focus. As that is where I am currently putting my energy. And including, of course, my family and friends. My love and concern for their well being is so intense that it gives me purpose and focus.

I’m reading and writing as much as I can, I’m trying to put in order what I’m able to. I’m living in every moment, feeling the imprint of every hug and kiss. I’m watching milestones occur in slow motion so I can remember every bit of them.

One last thing to say on this update: please do not pity me. I say this with great conviction. I am so grateful for my life, past and present. I am loved, and I’m able to love. My gift to the world will not be solving world hunger or saving our climate. I give you the gift of Nola. Who, without even being aware, is changing the world just by being. I put no pressure on her to do big things. I simply say be happy and spread it far and wide. So far, so good.

I’ll check back in. I promise.

Gettin’ My Shit Together

What a waste this whole thing is if I hold back and am anything but honest. There’s no need for gruesome details; no one needs that. But full disclosure of the emotional kind may be necessary.

I had surgery just over two weeks ago. They removed a small mass from my lung and a not so small mass from my groin. About the size of a golf ball. In a small area on a small person, that shit hurt. Not the removal, but its existence. It had begun to grow into some muscle so they got that too, and other connected parts, like 11 lymph nodes. Regardless here I am on the other side, working hard on physical recovery.

However, I’ve met my match. After decades of illness, specifically these few extra difficult years of cancer, my mental health is at an all time low. I’m not saying fuck it all, I’m calling it quits. Hell I am doing anything I can to be here. But being here is hard. And when I’ve found myself on a month or more long crying spell, unable to really leave the house, it’s time for some changes.

I go to therapy. I am at least at the point of being able to identify my critical breaking points. If I’m not able to self motivate enough, I can acknowledge that my depression is effecting Nola and Brad, and other relationships in my life. And given that time is precious I cannot put off being happy for one more minute.

So I’m starting a new journey. Combining a mix of strategies to get well mentally and emotionally with as much effort I put into physical wellness. I know I have a continued hard road ahead with my cancer. But I know I want to be the best version of me while dealing with it. I don’t particularly enjoy sobbing suddenly while Brad’s mid sentence talking about weekend plans or whatever. Certainly Nola is all done with creating beautiful artwork for me and before it’s even in my hands I’m forcibly crying with no end in sight.

Other obvious signs, for me, have been the need to be at home, at all costs. Seeing people (even those I enjoy) takes Herculean effort, and while so many people that love and care about me stick it out, and continue to reach out, I shut down and turn inwards. I’d honestly just wrap myself in a private cocoon only to come out to see Nola and Brad, cry obsessively over them, then go back in to my safe space.

Fuckin A, you can see I need help, yes? Well worry not, because help is on the way. It will take effort, time, some life changes, and patience. But in the end it will all be worth it. Because what the hell are we even doing if we aren’t trying to find happiness?

Rant

This began as a much lengthier, meaningful post. One with depth and heart. Maybe sometime I’ll take time and flesh it out for myself in a journal.

But I’ll simplify now because I’m overwhelmed and it almost feels like my brain is going to explode. Nola starts at her new school tomorrow. New place, new routine, new everything. She’s been nothing but excited although unspoken signs of anxiety are there, like some of her small tics coming back and behavior changes. I don’t expect them to last. She will adjust, and I have a feeling she will love it all.

If it were only this on my mind I’d feel busy, but also excited for my baby to do big things. Unfortunately I’m also managing some pretty severe pain from a tumor in a lymph node and this week two surgeons and my radiologist need me to drive six hours to and from trip to plan a take down of this in hopes that it will not continue to grow (at least in these areas).

I’m not reaching out for help because no one can help the chaos in my own mind at the moment. I’m writing because it’s therapeutic and necessary to my own survival. To be honest I wish to god I was weeping over my baby going to big girl school and packing her the perfect bento style lunches with a new note every day and volunteering on the PTA to show my school spirit (and stalk my kid).

But I’m hurting. I will most likely drop her at school and then return home and rest bc moving hurts this fucking tumor. Should I call it something else? Growth? Spot? I soften my wording for Nola when I warn her not to jump on it or bump it. And then I’m even more angry. Because I cannot wrestle with her or even lay comfortably for a movie bc it hurts.

Guys here’s the deal. I’m pissed off and it’s just not a good time for me to be expressing myself for all of the Internet. If anyone wants to send me motivational quotes about attitude being 99% of our well being I would kindly, yet firmly, suggest you shove it up your ass.

My most positive expression right now is that I’m feeling deeply loved and supported by family and friends. They aren’t giving up on me and somehow balance giving me space to grieve and be a raging shit to also pulling me back into the land of the living where dick jokes thrive and things are still happy and fun. My appreciation for them all runs deep.

Ok I’m done for now. Don’t go calling the crisis hotline for me or anything. I’ll be ok. Eventually the to do boxes will be checked. Nola will start her new school life. I will have a plan for removing the Retched Rex (testing out a new name for the tumor - an homage to the doctor who missed my cancer like an incompetent shit stain years ago). And it will be fall. The best season of the year.

Alright, get back to your Sunday routines now. I’m off to Pinterest some elaborate after school snacks for Nola that I will maintain for about a week.

I haven’t been in a healthy place physically or emotionally lately so sometimes I don’t want to update this blog. Also there’s no concrete plan in place for the most recent information I was given and while that obviously stresses me out, it also doesn’t give anyone reading this “answers.” Only information that is confusing and abstract. So, for now, I’ll wait.

What a journey this has been (and continues to be). But I feel like the word journey implies a more pleasant venture. Something that maybe involves skipping along, finding exciting things are happening and meeting delightful new people. It’s been a fucking shitshow of a ride and sweetening it up for the sake of what, inspiring someone? That’s just a complete disservice to those who need to know the truth.

My best analogy is this: there is a free trolley that runs through our downtown. It’s cute and quaint, and resembles the trolley in Daniel Tiger. Nola loves riding it and enjoying the experience of pulling the yellow string at our stop, etc. It is, however, a free service for anyone needing to get from point A to point B and I admit it can be a wild ride with a variety of passengers.

An evening or two ago we hopped on. Very soon into the ride I grew increasingly more uncomfortable. The wooden slat seats were doing NOTHING for this ass and I kept getting a strong whiff of what can only be described as a fart mixed with the tang of expired Greek yogurt. It was on this side of being too warm and I felt like we were stopping at every fucking stop that ever existed. And then, at my most uncomfortable, a passenger took it upon him self to strike up a conversation with the entire load of people, offering loud enough quips that I almost covered my ears.

And then, just as my life journey has gone, I looked at the small seat next to me where Brad and Nola were crammed together excitedly looking out the window at all the downtown sights, giggling over inside jokes, oblivious to the shittiness of the experience. And, truth, I melted. I begin to tolerate the hard seat hurting my ass over every pothole. I tuned out the loud talker. I took my breaths out the window so the stink didn’t make me puke. And most of all I watched my two loves have a hell of a time.

There are many other people, experiences, moments that have made this trolley ride called cancer more tolerable. Even, at times, pleasant. While nothing prepared me for the surgery recoveries or the failed treatments and the disappointment, Brad and Nola and all my other people keep me going.

But I’m over the struggle. I’m past the lessons it’s meant to impart upon me. It’s time now for me to pull that yellow string. I’m ready to get off this ride. This is my stop.

My perfect Mother’s Day

In this photo I am probably 12 years old. I don’t remember. I’d been sick for a while already, a few years, and at this point was in a full blown flare of Crohn’s. Dehydrated, malnourished, and overall just gross. Still workin’ those giant glasses, though, which are absolutely back in style. I did not know then that my battle was just starting, and that it would be uphill for close to another 30 years. I had a biopsy done last week on a lymph node that has proven to be more cancer. I was not surprised when the doctor shared this with me today (my body knew what my brain did not want to accept) but I think regardless there is always a jolt of instinctual emotion when someone says that kind of thing to your face. Today I was immediately pissed off. I told Brad I had the urge to break something. Anything I could smash. And normally I don’t feel that reaction. But I’m burned out. Some asshole keeps moving the goal post on my health. I do everything I think is right, get the radiation, take the meds, work all the other voodoos, and yet another turd gets added to the pile of shit. I will stop the chemotherapy that I’m currently on, as it is not working, and the plan is to explore others. Unfortunately others haven’t worked before so our list is short. I don’t have much more to say right now. I’m still processing it all. I’m still so happy from my Mother’s Day love from the weekend. And so that’s where I’m going to put my energy for now.

Happy Assiversary

I don’t discuss this aspect of my illness much. Not a lot of shout outs for this because, shockingly, I sometimes still keep things private. So consider this a momentary lapse. And take it for what it is. Oh, and don’t fucking ask me about it later. Or if you do, be educated first. I don’t care to be the poster child for this shit.

This year marks 10 years since I had the ultimate gut surgery that some Crohn’s patients fear and can somehow avoid. In 2008 my poor little colon had had enough. So in comes a colostomy. It didn’t stop there, and after multiple re-dos and test runs, I finally ended with an ileostomy a few years after that. I’m not here to give you a lesson on these things. Be your own teacher if needed. Because at its heart, this post isn’t about this.

There’s never been a moment I regretted the decision, while I will acknowledge that by the time I had it done I’m not sure how much of a choice I really had in the matter. But that was how it had to be for me to have something so drastic done. It needed to be life or death. Or at the very least, life or really really shitty life.

The reason this is on my mind, though, isn’t because I’m just casually reflecting. I’m feeling the weight of time passing and to be blunt, I’m fucking scared. I mean, the last decade has flown by. Some pretty incredible things came out of it, most importantly the miracle of Nola.

So what’s keeping me up at night, what makes my mind wander to some dark corners, is that 10 years is something I’d kill for right now. If I get 10 more years, I’m looking at being a miracle myself. And for fuckssake that is not enough time. I even hesitate saying that, fearing I will sound greedy considering the prognosis they already threw at me. But time has passed so quickly. And it will continue to do so. 10 years is not enough. But given the alternative of “a few” I would have to say yeah, gimme those 10 years.

The medical advancements that can be made are incredible. And I’d love to imagine something will come along for me that will just CLICK. And I’ll be the patient my doctor tells his other patients about as a source of hope. Oh yeah, they’ll say. She had only a few years. But this that and the other and now she’s holding her grand babies.

But I’m not dumb. I’m hopeful, and some may say desperate, but I’m no dummy. I know I’m ineligible for trials because of my Crohn’s. And I know that trying to out run disease doesn’t always end well. Hence how I felt a decade ago deciding to get my ass removed. But crazier things in medicine have happened and will happen. Even that scum bag, drug using, lying shit stain Lance Armstrong somehow caught a break. I lie waaaaay less than he does and so who’s to say I can’t get my miracle?

Anyway, now is the time to do my best to live NOW. Not back then, not later on. But right now. Because it’s what I have. And Brad knows this too. He says much less depressing things than I do, and his clues are more subtle. He no longer discusses saving this or that for retirement. Which, while of course he still saves and prepares for a future, he now pushes harder for experiences now. As a couple and as a family. We are all more aware of time passing.

So happy 10 year anniversary (technically this summer but eh) to Tori (yes, as in Spelling. Everyone names their ostomy. Ten years ago this made sense.) I will be ever so grateful to celebrate our 20th together as well. Let’s hold on to hope.

Depress Express Choo Choooo

Today I’m 38.

We all outgrow larger celebrations as we grow older, have kids, whatever. Unless you’re like, Mariah Carey or something. I don’t know why I chose her. She just seems like someone who will forever celebrate her birthdays in a huge way. Like even with bounce houses and shit.

Of course every birthday AC (after cancer) for me is welcomed graciously and celebrated emotionally in a big way. One more year in the face of the nay sayers and another year of memories to hold onto.

Of course I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t reflect just a minute on what I thought 38 would be. I never thought it’d be this. I had always hoped for family - and mission accomplished. I never knew I’d be robbed of certain basics due to cancer. I didn’t know I’d wonder day to day if it has spread again. I didn’t know I’d be so desperate to turn 40 one day.

But I’m going to be honest too. I never envisioned being old either. Like never could quite figure out how that would go for me. I thought about letting the grey hairs eventually take over, using some wrinkle cream but being too stingy to get Botox (which by then would be done at department stores and such - no doctor required. Hell there’d probably be an at home version. I take it back. I’d do it.)

I knew my physical limits because I’ve had them almost my entire life. As of now it’s been close to thirty years where I can’t be far from a bathroom and my joints swell and ache and I often hermit at home rather than go out. So really I’ve been living that old lady life for so long. I don’t know how much deeper into old it could go.

I had a doctors appointment last week. I drove myself there, by the way. I’d bathed and dressed myself, spoke to the doctor and remembered what he’d said. Made my next appointment and put it into my phone without using reading glasses. I also witnessed a man come in for his appointment. Basically unconscious. Strapped to a gurney. Small, shriveled, sick. He was old. But I seriously doubt old was why he was like that. He was sick. And that’s where I get more scared.

I can grow old. I just can’t grow sick and old. I saw an article. Betty white. In her 90s or something. Saying vodka and hot dogs key to longevity! More power to her. As long as she’s living the life she wants.

But I don’t want that gurney life. I don’t want to be so dependent on others I no longer am even awake for appointments. I desperately fear the days that will come when I’m not too old but rather too sick to function.

Because it looks as though that’s how it’ll go. Too sick before too old. And I just do not want that. Nola’s witnessed me incapacitated before. Unable to get out of bed, unable to walk, wearing a diaper and using both a wheelchair and walker.

She’s also witnessed me improve, walk again, eventually ride a bike with her again! I fear her witnessing, at far too young an age for us both, my decline with out the eventual improvement. I just won’t allow machines to do the work my body cannot do. And I don’t mean temporarily. I mean long term. As Elaine Benes so eloquently said, “yank it like you’re starting a mower.”

In conclusion, YIKES SHITTIEST BIRTHDAY POST EVER. But life gives us a lot to think about. And medication to forget about it for a minute. So 38. It’s going to be an epic year. Why? Because I’m still here.

I made it sleeping all the way till 530am today! Usually it’s 330 on the dot. So this I will gladly accept. I’m officially done with radiation! I’ve said that before, though, on this blog. So I guess I’ll add “for now.” I know I should be happy. I’m done, I’m home, I’m here in time for Christmas with wonderful people. I don’t feel great but that’s temporary. When I hugged Brad last night it felt so good. I’d say Nola too but kids are unpredictable. She wasn’t in the mood to hug so I’ll wait. And that’s ok. What’s not ok is that I’m feeling down. I hate to say depressed because I don’t know. I’ve been depressed before and it’s been much, much more involved. However I assume there are varying degrees of depression so I guess I’m on that sliding scale right now. I put a lot of mental energy into pinpointing what it is that’s causing this feeling so that I can somehow try to fix it. But, much like watching Joey’s dumbass chase his own tail and then fall over, dizzy, I think it’s a losing battle. At least the part about trying to narrow it down. I have many people, things, experiences that should and mostly do give me great joy. Depression takes those things and makes you wonder why you deserve them or wonder how long they’ll last. For sure I know right now I’m frightened of my next scan. Did the radiation work? Because it’s clear to us all that if not, my choices are even more slim. And speaking of choices it’s now up to me to decipher the advice of varying experts to decide if I should start back on chemo again. Initially I thought this was my way off of chemo. And potentially it could be. So many unknowns. What IS a known is that I did not do “preventative” chemo after my first big blast of radiation/chemo combo after my big surgery two years ago. I tried, completing two rounds of IV chemo that honestly almost killed me. And the cancer was back within a year. Starting chemo (a different one) once the cancer returned proved to be, according to them, successful. It did not shrink the new cancer but after several scans in a row it all but stopped the cancers growth. And so, the assumption is that whatever microscopic cancer cells are chillin in there, waiting to come forward and fuck up my day, will be suppressed by the use of more chemotherapy. As I say all this I realize it’s most likely what I will do. I don’t know the right thing. I just know that I want to extend my life. Fuck, why’s it got to be so heavy? Adulthood is for bills and mortgages and kids and wrinkles. I hate adding life or death to all that. Next post will be better I’m sure. I’ll be able to find my gratitude and all. But just for a minute, bah humbug.

Technician took a picture for me today to give a view of set up. And I’m like this, arms up and all, for about 45 or so minutes. That belly pusher sucks. You see how hard that thing is indented? Yeah it’s not cozy. But 5 down. 5 to go. And the possibility of many extra years. 💪🏽👊🏽 (at Comprehensive Cancer Center Of Wake Forest University Baptist Me)

Three full treatments completed. Side effects so far seem to be tired AF (nothing new there) and my skin is sensitive. Not calling the waaaaambulance yet. And here I am again. I find myself awake as hell at 3:30 am just waiting to leave for N.C. This will be my only full week of treatment because after Friday they’re only going to do two more and then I’m done. This thought gets me through a full week away easier. I realize it’s a short amount of time, in reality. But I’m a diehard routine person with severe co-dependency on my family. Soooo any length of time can fuck my anxiety all to pieces. My weekend was insane. In tough ways, good ways, and wonderful ways. It started with me having an accident on the way back to Greenville on Friday afternoon. Minor, so much so that the other driver drove off no harm done. Me, not so lucky. Bad weather only made it that much more chaotic. But because of luck and kind people I’m taking our Subaru back to N.C. while Brad borrows a friends car for the week. A bandaid on the situation as we will have to figure out my car eventually but immediately, this will work. We are grateful. Overall, though, the weekend was the recharge I needed with Nola and Brad. There was no slowing down. Lots of busyness and play time. We visited Santa. This was her first year making a list. And it was adorable. I wish I could say she wished for world peace or for the orange toad to be impeached but she’s 5. So it was basically toys. I’m sure she will get there soon. We baked cookies and watched holiday Trolls (which was clearly meant for 5 year olds and anyone on hallucinogens). We played in the first small snow of the season. No sledding or building snowmen. Just walked the dogs and searched for “clean” snow for Nola to eat. By Sunday afternoon I was crashing. There were a few unfortunate necessary errands that required a visit to our mall (Santa, for one) and here’s where mistakes were made. I hadn’t taken my anti anxiety meds in three days. I wanted to be super alert when I was with my family, you know? But shit, what I forget is those medications prevent me from dealing with complete and total meltdown panic attacks. Rightfully, the accident Friday kind of tipped one off. But it never really stopped. And after one hiccup at the mall I just lost my mind. It’s not a visible flip out, although it can (and did) involve crying but crying in public is par for the course with me sometimes so oh well. There were just too many things happening in my brain. And I felt the anxiety hit a tipping point. Later, at home, on meds, our weekend ended and I got back to a more stable state of mind. Nola again made me special notes for every day of the week that I’m gone. She created some awesome art this weekend. We played Guess Who? I did laundry and packed. This time more clothes and lots of projects to work on during down time (if I’m not sleeping). I’m going to lay here, awake, for a bit longer and check things off my mental list. Then I’ll get dressed and drive up to the hospital. But first, where’s my medication......

I’m leaving in about an hour to get to N.C. for my first treatment. I’m anxious about getting there and getting into a new kind of routine but not the treatment. I’ve had worse. Last night Nola and I read our favorite love books. There are so many good ones but if you have a child with anxiety or just one that needs a little reminder about LOVE these work well. And her little sleepy head picture is with the bunny made by Let There Be Mom. I gave it to her to have while I’m away. I told her when she hugs it like she’s hugging me and I’ll feel it. And then we cried and hearts exploded 😭😭💓💓 ok ok, we are fine. Wish Brad luck on his weekday solo parenting. He asked me last night, somewhat panicky, how to do her hair. I’ll miss him so much. (at Historic Overbrook)

Takin’ Care of Business...Again

Today’s Monday. On Wednesday I go to N.C. and start my radiation. I plan to come home Friday after treatment, then head back early the next Monday. And this will be my routine for the next few weeks. Which is all this anxious person really needs. A routine. I don’t care, necessarily, that it’s kind of a shitty one, as long as it’s consistent. And also, I guess, that it ends with the results we desire.

I’ve told Nola that I’m going to be gone, a few different times, in a few different ways. She doesn’t say much in the moment. But everything about her actions in the last couple of weeks has shown me that she is definitely listening. She’s been increasingly more interested in Brad and, honestly, less interested in me. I’m typically her go to. For food, comfort when hurt, basic needs (MAMA COME WIPE ME!)

Suddenly, when she falls, it’s Brad she calls out for. She’s asked him to wrestle more often and to tuck her in. My ego is bruised but I’m in awe of her natural defenses preparing her for my absence. She sat in the car seat on the way home recently and asked me to list everyone who loves her. I started with myself and she said quickly, “no no - everyone else who loves me.”

It’s comforting that that list is long. I selfishly worry she won’t need me when I return. I worry about Brad being burned out on single parenting. And before you roll your eyes, step down off your high horse and remember that Nola, in all her loving glory, is also not your average kid. She has the energy of ten mountain dews laced with pixie stix, and the will to match. She is tough, even with the two of us (plus our village of others) and so yes, I worry for him too.

He’s not your average guy either. Cooks elaborate and well balanced meals, helps Nola with calming meditation, channels her energy through walks and wrestling and bike rides. He’s attentive to her needs and what more could you ask for? I know that my dishes may be in disarray. I’m not sure if this fucking Christmas tree will get watered at all. And who, I wonder, will make the beds *just so*.

Anxious minds find something to worry over even when the stuff that matters is settled. It’s just how we operate. But I know this one thing that will get me through it all. They will be ok. Maybe even more than ok. Because Nola has a dad that is engaged and loves her. Because we have family, friends, neighbors, teachers - all who keep our motors running.

I’ll let you know how this journey goes. It sure as hell better go quickly. And if it gives me more time in the long run to be Nola’s mom and Brad’s wife, I’ll take it. Catch you on the flip side.

Less than two years ago I had radiation on some incredibly sensitive areas. Without sharing the graphic details (or pictures) I’ll just say I couldn’t walk well or sit at all for months and months. It was...ouch. However at the end of the 28 or so treatments I told my radiologist that I wasn’t worried. I would take care of my skin and heal enough to ride a bike. He laughed but not over lack of belief. He laughed because I was obnoxiously determined and maybe because, like, why a bike? Why not like running or swimming? Anything that didn’t require sitting. Well Brad bought me a bike and here we go! Family bike time ♥️

WARNING: NOVEL NOT A CAPTION I’ve never really had baby fever. Just Nola fever. I’ve not yearned for a second child, maybe knowing it isn’t really an option anyways. But certainly I’ve longed for baby Nola, wanting to relive our days of nursing and newness and yes, even diapers. Because the joy, the pure intense joy that I felt being in her presence was (and is) the greatest feeling in the world. However, time stops for no one and today I find myself the mother of a bright, daring, hilarious 5 year old. She can read and write and kill it on the monkey bars. She can crack a joke better than any adult. She loves so deeply, often smothering the dogs and assuming they return the same affection (they do). I am so proud of Nola. Just before turning 2 she abruptly lost her grandmother. And for most of that year, before turning 3, her own mother was unwell and my cancer diagnosis and surgery came weeks before she turned 3. And now, a week after she turns 5, I’m off again to treat more cancer. It hurts knowing she’s had such chaos and pain in her early life. And I comfort myself with the idea she won’t remember. But she will. And maybe that’s ok. Because clearly she’s continuously come out stronger afterwards. Proving what is always said. Kids are resilient. And Nola’s not just any kid. She’s observant and insightful. She’s emotional and intense. Brilliant, and above all, unique. And while no one would describe Nola as easy, everyone who knows her is aware that she’s got something special going on. And I can’t wait to be here to see it all unfold. Happy 5th Birthday, Nola! You’re my greatest achievement. I’m honored to be your mama. Love you to the farthest quasar.

A week ago I went to get marked and measured to start radiation. I thought no big deal. I wore my feminist shirt for strength and looked at that big ass machine like cool, I got this.

Then, all of a sudden, I’m down to only my undies and socks, having a square plate screwed down on my diaphragm to adjust my breathing and getting marked, poked, pushed around. I felt anything but strong. I felt vulnerable and exposed, especially when the physicist who came to adjust my breathing took more than a glance under the sheet. I mean hey dude: my belly is *here* and my tits are up *there*. At least try to be subtle pervey perverson.

But now the real work begins. I have a week of wonderful ahead of me before starting up. And I will savor the weekends in between these somewhat long and bitchy treatments. Because at then end, in the immediate, will be Christmas with my loveys. And I’m hoping, in the long term, it will be cancer free for a good bit longer.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

It Is What It Is.