April's Arrival

April 1, 2011: Tear off the old calendar sheet of March and welcome April!

After a horrible nightmare the night before last, I resolved not to take any more Loritabs for pain. So, last night I took three 200mg Ibuprofen before bed. Whether it was that adjustment or the whirring of my brain or not finding a comfortable spot on the two stacked pillows I've needed since my surgery, I didn't sleep well. When my alarm went off at 6 AM this morning, my only thought was how soon could I crawl back under the covers - and still get something accomplished today. I've needed to shop for groceries - Dean had to go to Maverick the other night for milk - and the gas gauge on the car was dipping dangerously below empty. "Getting ready for the day" takes me eons longer than my usual half hour these days - I'm lucky if I can get out of the bathroom in under an hour, let alone dab on some makeup and do something with my crazy hair that acts as both a camouflage and a sign of healing life.

Travis, a clinical assistant from the Huntsman Cancer Institute, calls today. He's a very nice, personable young man, and I like him instantly. He begins by capturing all my pertinent information - all the who, where, whats of this month-long journey. I breathe a prayer of gratitude that from Day One, I've keep a notebook of places, procedures, and doctors because those are the very answers Travis wants. He asks if I remember the date of my diagnosis. "Yes," I answer, "it was March 7." "Do you remember what year?" he asks. I laugh shakily. "Just one month ago," I reply, and I hear his sharp intake of air. "Oh," he says a bit more tenderly (or maybe I just imagine it). I wonder if this is unusual so soon in the game. Am I a higher risk - or am I just blessed to have a doctor like Dr. Bradley who pulls me into the arena without allowing me time to think or waver? I like to think it is due to Dr. B that I am moving forward at Olympic speeds. For the next 20 minutes, Travis gathers information, talking to himself as he enters "me" into the catacombs of his computer, to be remembered now and forevermore. When it comes time to make my appointment with Dr. Grossman, I pretend to be brave and ask if it's possible to push the date into the week after next so I can go be with my kids (I couldn't bear to lose the ground I gained after yesterday's fiasco!). He says he's glad I spoke up, because the next available appointment is actually for April 8, one of the days I hope to be snuggling a baby. I hear him typing away on his keyboard, looking for another spot, and he admits that the doctor will be out of town himself for two weeks in April. "Hold on," he says, "I'm going to go talk to the doctor and see if we can squeeze you into a time before he leaves." He puts me on hold and I'm listening to some wonderful orchestral arrangement and thinking, oh, please Heavenly Father, another tender mercy, please - let him find something that will work for all of us. Sure enough, when Travis returns, he gives me an early morning appointment on April 13 (which a few hours later is changed to April 14). I am set, ready to go, and it hardly hurt at all...unless you count the butterflies that are already forming in the pit of my stomach.

I pick up Janessa from school and together, we go to the grocery store. I already filled the car with gas this morning, standing at the pump in my glasses and my slippers. I tell her that I feel naked and exposed because I'm not wearing a scarf to hide my wound. She matter-of-factly states that "no one can see it, Mom. It's behind your hair." She's right. We people don't even look at each other, do we? I just feel so "out there". I've also noticed that the tightness of my healing skin makes me keep my head lowered a bit to ease the pain. I feel like a very old woman. So, I walk through the store with my neck as elongated as possible, and when I feel myself collapse inward, I lift my chin. Oh, for the day when there is no stinging or soreness, no fragile new skin, no swollen spots that make me cringe - when I can slather Vitamin E oil or Baby Magic lotion or Oil of Olay from the tip of my ear to the base of my neck and just let it seep into the crevices of my scar. $100 later, we load the groceries into the car, grateful for sustenance for another week or so, and doubly grateful that we didn't see anybody we knew and had to chat with like all is well in the world.

I talk to Chelsea today and hear the healing in her voice. The tears are still close to the surface - and we both take our turn at letting them fall - but she's tough, as well as beautiful. She's tired, of course, and I hear the longing in her voice for all the things left undone, unwashed, unread, unopened, unpainted. And yet I know she and Rob will be back on their two pair of feet before long, adjusting to the routine of a bigger family and a bigger life.

Tonight, I get kisses and hugs from my three little B-girls. They crawl up on the couch where I am, snuggling into my lap, asking me to read them a book. They make me smile and laugh - and forget. Ally shows me her beautiful smile, Avery brings me the Knuffle Bunny book, and Jane yells, "Da Da", at the dogs in the story. These three little princess girls are just the medicine this Grammy needed tonight. Hopefully, I'll dream of them and not wake up once before morning.