57. Isn’t It Ironic
Sand and Surf
Last November, my 86 year old mother learned I have terminal metastatic breast cancer of the bones. Like me, she thought the 2012 cancer scourge was behind me, after all, I’d jumped through whatever hoops my surgeon and oncologist set for me, and was deemed cancer-free in 2017. Like me, Mom was blindsided to learn my breast cancer had waged a stealth attack, taken a firm hold, and destroyed me from within without our knowing it. Like me, she’s spent the past few months enduring long, lonely nights of prayerful thought and, like me, she gratefully welcomes morning’s light, so we can hear one another’s voice.
Last November, my soon-to-be 61 year old sister learned my fate. She did a bit of falling apart, then pulled herself together and got on with business — the business of taking care of our mother. Like me, Marjorie wondered whether the aged woman — the one who has pushed through whatever life handed her without hand-wringing or hand-holding — could shoulder the fear, worry and grief about her dying daughter. Like me, my sister has spent hours in prayerful thought.
I am completely sure Marjorie has spent some of her time in a ‘this for that’ barter with God because who among us hasn’t done that? With every fiber of my being, I suspect she has suffered through panic-shivers in the dead of night with this realization — the two women Marjorie has had by her side her whole life will, in all likelihood, predecease her.
I can try, but I can’t fathom the weight of carrying the loneliness she must already feel — and fear. Nor can I fathom how Mom is handling the newest shit fest to come her way. A couple of weeks ago, my mother took on a whole new set of worries. This time they are about my sister, the person I call, Marchrie. Before I get to the source of concern for Mom, you need a little background.
It is safe to say that Marjorie’s longest and most steadfast friend is Helena Green McCarthy. The two met in grade school and have been buddies forever. They’ve circled in and out of one another’s lives for very brief periods of time, but for decades — five+ decades — they’ve been a constant for one another.
The women are very similar — blonde, light eyed, even-keeled and low key. Both women are very pretty. Marchrie with long lion-mane tresses, and Helena with a short and sassy pixie that very few women can pull off. She rocks it! When they were young they garnered their fair share of attention from guys — neither seemed to dither on about such things — at least from my vantage point.
Today’s Helena McCarthy and Marjorie McCarthy are very successful women in their chosen professions. They are dependable, enjoyable to be around, and very nice people. Not only have they been friends for a lifetime, but they were also sisters-in-law for a brief period of time, each one marrying a McCarthy brother — Paul for Helena and Ken for Marjorie. My sister’s marriage to Ken ended many years ago, but they immediately built a strong secondary relationship — a friendship based on respect and a singular purpose — the well-being of their daughter, Nicole. The adults put their bruised egos and disappointments aside and put their daughter first. They became the prototype of what divorced parents should be.
In my humble opinion.
Anyway, back to the newest shit fest in our lives. First, I should introduce you to one more woman, a friend of Marjorie’s and Helena’s who I call Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo. When Mary Jo started palling around with M&M — McCarthy and McCarthy — Marjorie and Helena — I never quite hit the mark on Mary Jo’s name. I’d say Mary Sue, Marjorie would say Mary Jo. I’d say Mary Lou, Marjorie would say Mary Jo. After a bit of this name-nonsense, I started calling the woman, Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo.
It's a creative quirk — I suppose.
For many years, the three women have gone places and done things. They make it a point to carve time out of their busy schedules to get together — for a weekend trip to the Cape, or a day trip to Rhode Island to park their asses in the sand and watch the surf roll in and out, or simply for a night out to have some good food, a few laughs, and some bonding time. They recently planned a secretive trip to Wells Beach — it turned into a shit fest. I imagine the hatching of this plan went something like this.
“Helena, I’d like to get up to Wells to get my sister some ocean water and sand.”
“I’m in. I’ll call Mary Jo.”
Not exactly a NATO summit — but whatevs.
Calendars were checked — a date was chosen — and a road trip was planned. This is how I learned about the trip.
I hung up from my Sunday evening call with my brother, Don. My phone immediately rang and it was my mother — a bit odd since we don’t often talk at night. We pushed through the hellos and some small talk.
And. Then. This. Happened.
“I’m going to give the phone to Marjorie. She wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
Rustling noises and muffled talk. Then—
“Don’t freak out – I’m okay.”
Not sure how the rest of you would have responded to those words, but my blood pressure spiked and my hands produced a quick sweat. My sister continued—
“I slipped on some ice and shattered my right wrist, sprained my left wrist, might have cracked my tailbone, and may have torn a ligament in my left knee, and I twisted my ankle pretty badly.”
“Jesus. Did you go to the hospital?
“Yeah, by ambulance.”
“Oh, my God. Why didn’t Mommy call us?”
“I didn’t fall here — I fell in Maine. I went to Wells with Helena and Mary Jo to get you some ocean water and sand, and to just sort of hang at the beach for the day.”
My heart sank. My mouth said. “Oh, Marchrie, I’m so sorry. Are you alright? What can I do?” —— Then I Sheryll’d her. “Guess that’ll teach you. No good deed goes unpunished.”
She laughed BIG, then groaned, then moaned. “No shit, right?”
I asked a question about the how and wherefores of the slip and fall and she was off and running.
“We were enjoying the day — it was just what I needed — we were ending our time at the ocean and heading off for some food at Billy’s Chowder House. Helena and Mary-Sue-Lou-Jo (she occasionally mocks me) were at the car — I slipped on a patch of ice — both feet went skyward and I landed on my hands and my ass in a twisted, injured heap.”
She said she knew instantly that one wrist was broken, and feared the second might have had a similar injury. She said she was in agony as she waited for an ambulance —— and then she guffawed uncontrollably when she said her friends were at her side in an instant, tending to her needs, and taking pictures of her supine-sprawled-self-served-over-ice.
A Marjorie Martini
“Save the pics. You might find one that’ll make a nice Christmas card — what with the ice and all.”
“You’re an ass.”
She went into great detail about the very good care she received at the hospital in Maine — that she had some sort of temporary cast on one wrist and a wrap on the other — that she was in pretty bad pain — that she’d need surgery in a week or so — and that she was resting on a recliner in her living room.
I asked how the hell she planned on getting her ass off the recliner given her brokenness and all.
“I’ll figure it out. You don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t need to worry — but I do.”
A little reminder here: My sister, upon hearing that I needed to live the remainder of my life sitting on my ass, took my husband to look for a recliner that would suit EVERY NEED I HAD AND THEN SOME. Then she forked over an obscene amount of money for a recliner that: raises and lowers the leg rest to several positions; raises and lowers the back section from an upright sitting position to various reclining positions; that raises and lowers a headrest section that nestles my head for rest or for television watching; that heats up different sections of my body; that slowly moves to a full upright standing position for an easy-peasy, non-jarring exit from the chair.
Within a nanosecond, my perch upon my luxury leather lounger sent ripples of guilt throughout my body. I tried to diffuse my sudden discomfort by saying this to my battered and broken kid sister, “Too bad you don’t have a really nice sister — the kind who’d buy you a super-de-duper recliner like mine.”
She laughed.
“You know, Marchrie, before you bought my recliner, Tim found a medical supply rental place. He was going to rent a recliner for me — let him and me rent you a recliner. It could be in your home tomorrow.”
“Let me see how things go tonight.”
“Okay, but really think about it. You’re in for a long-haul and you’re going to need to be comfortable especially if you’ve done knee damage.”
“We’ll see how things go.”
I could hear the fatigue in her voice, “You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Nope, I’m good.”
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll call.”
“How’s Mommy?”
“Being strong for me.”
“What the fuck? Seriously. Everyone’s so fearful I’ll break something, and now you’re broken.”
“A freak accident.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna hang up and see if I can sleep.”
“Okay.” Before she could disconnect, I stopped her. “I’ve a question, an important question.”
“What?”
“You still have my ocean water and sand, right?”
“Yeah.” She laughed.
“You protected it, right?”
“You’re an ass.” She laughed harder.
“And you’ll give them to me, right?”
“I know just where I’m gonna put them.”
“Not possible what with the broken wrists and all.”
She laughed – until she cried.
When we hung up. I cried for a very long time.
It’s a couple weeks out and Marchrie is on the mend. She had surgery on her fractured-in-several-places-wrist. It’s been plated and screwed and casted. Her other wrist is feeling much better, as is her knee and ankle. She’ll be going to a knee specialist to check things out, but she thinks it was a bad wrench and maybe not a tear or something. And so far, she’s resisted our offer for a power recliner.
As for my mother. I called the other morning and she answered the phone, a bit out of breath, “Can I call you right back, Sheryll Anne? I’m putting Marjorie’s socks on her feet.”
Really? I’m mean, seriously? Is this necessary?
I’ve changed my prayer.
“God, please don’t give my mother more than she can handle.”
Tomorrow is Sunday and Marjorie and Mom will be chauffeured to my home by Mr. Wonderful to spend the afternoon. It’s been over two weeks since I’ve seen them and I miss them more than words can express. Tonight, Tim and I will tag-team the making of a cheesecake — Marchrie’s favorite of my desserts. I’ve given her one as a Christmas gift for more than 30 years. Seeing her again will feel like Christmas.
As for Mom — as soon as she walks through my door I’m going to get onto my feet and give her a hug.
Marjorie, too!
Isn’t It Ironic?
America’s Favorite Pastime
Remember this: it’s from a January blog.
Christmas. Check. Birthday. Check. New Year’s Eve and Day. Check. Check. Now, what?
I’ve been so focused on living long enough to enjoy those lasts that I didn’t put any thought into what comes next. That realization hit hard early on New Year’s Day.
“What do I focus on now that the holiday milestones I set have come and gone? Do I choose Valentine’s Day in February as my next wanna-see, or stretch beyond that to the first day of spring in March, or should I swing big and go for Opening Day of baseball in April? ……. Or do I just sit back and wait for the telltale signs — the ones that announce my decline and then pick a day or week or month that seems doable — reachable?”
Thus began a snit about changes in Opening Day schedules and math equations based on calendar ditties and the beginnings of some bickering between Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful which led to this proclomation by the missus: “I’ve decided I’m swinging big. I’m going for Opening Day.”
And. Then. This. Happened.
My cell phone blew up with texts a week or so ago: MLB Opening Day cancelled!!!!! — Did you hear? — No Opening Day!!!!! — Oh, Sheryll, did you hear the news?
I heard and I felt gutted.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Contract negotiations pushed on and on and on. And everyone came to their senses. And my cell phone blew up with texts: MLB Opening Day is rescheduled!!!!! — Did you hear? — Opening Day is happening!!!!! — Oh, Sheryll, did you hear?
I heard and I felt elated — for two reasons. My Opening Day goal was back on. Opening Day was set for April — as it should have been all along!
Three plans are now set in stone. I’ll be watching my beloved Red Sox on Opening Day. I’ll be getting onto my feet during the 7th inning stretch. I’ll be singing Take me Out and Sweet Caroline.
AT. THE TOP. OF. MY. LUNGS.
I’m swinging big, friends.
Isn’t It Ironic?
Where is Alanis Morissette When You Need Her?
I’m so messing with her lyrics right now.
It’s a pill that can douse a flame.
It’s a pill that can change a game.
It’s a pill for another day.
It’s a pill that takes teeth away.
Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?
Yeup! Tooth loss. Sort of. That’s the new and exciting shit fest going on in my life. I thought long and hard about sharing this fabulous fuckery. Then, my mind traveled back to a conversation I had with Tim when I started writing the blog.
“If I write it — I write all of it. Right? Even the hard, ugly stuff. Right?”
“You write what you need to get out. The blog is supposed to be therapeutic. Right?”
“But, I suspect some of the stuff that’s heading my way is going to be hard for people to read.”
“If you can write it — they can read it — or not.”
So, I’m leaving it up to you. Read it. Or not.
This is my very simplistic explanation of what’s happening with my body. I had breast cancer. That is my primary cancer. I have bone cancer. That is my secondary cancer. My metastatic breast cancer is fueling my bone cancer.
In December, I was put on a drug, Letrozole, to work against the fuel source. Theory: if the fuel source could be doused a bit, then the spread of my bone cancer might be slowed down a bit. That is how I connect the dots of information.
As with every drug I am currently taking, there can be positive and negative outcomes for the drug itself — and all of the drugs need to play nice together. So, needless to say, there is a lot of pharmaceutical jig-saw-puzzling being done by Dr. Wonderful and Nurse M. They are always monitoring and weighing benefits v risks — particularly when it comes to really powerful drugs.
Letrozole is a powerful cancer drug. Tim needs to wear gloves when he’s handling it. He’s handling it because I’m taking it. The benefit of taking Letrozole: it can slow cancer spread. The risk of taking Letrozole: a whole bunch of scary stuff including tooth loss.
Last weekend, I lost part of a back molar whilst eating a banana. Initially, I didn’t know what the hard object surrounded by mushy fruit was. I spit the banana mush out, rooted around for the shard, cleaned it off, examined the fragmented piece from all angles, declared it was part of a tooth, saw how fragile it was, then crushed it between my thumb and forefinger as though it was a cookie crumb.
I told no one. I wept myself to sleep with a whole lot of ugly crying going on.
I lost a piece of a different tooth on the same side of my mouth the next morning, and a third piece of tooth on the other side Monday afternoon. I called Dr. Wonderful’s office and spoke to my contact person there — yes, I have a person who takes my calls, and she is beyond helpful and knowledgeable. I told Sharon what was going on, said it was absolutely not an emergency, and that I could wait for a return call that evening from the doctor.
By the time I spoke with Dr. Wonderful I’d lost another piece of a different tooth. He took me off of the drug — the one that might have been slowing my cancer. I think the drug might have done some good, but that is no longer the case. I know my body in ways I have never known it before and I know the cancer gnawing rat is everywhere now — he still enjoys my thighs, but he’s also nibbling away on my right shin, my left ankle, both shoulders and across my back in the thoracic area. Bottom line: the cancer isn’t slowing down, it is ramping up — and the pill that could have helped with that is a risk to me now.
Physically AND Emotionally!
I cannot begin to tell you how upsetting — nope, how absolutely devastating it was to lose pieces of my teeth. I’m sure plenty of you have had dreams about losing your teeth. I’ve had them. And they are very disturbing dreams — imagine now that the dreams become a reality.
I don’t have to imagine. Banana Day made me profoundly sad.
And it made me pissed as hell.
My life has been on a downward spiral since mid-November. I’ve sucked up every bit of emotionally crippling news that’s been fired my way, I’ve tried to prepare my loved ones for my loss, I’ve worked very hard at dying with dignity and without the constant refrain of ‘woe is me’ — but to fuck it all — this last bit of shit — just isn’t fair.