eatthefrostingfirst

I am 49. For 12 more days. I remember when I was younger trying to figure how old I would be when it turned to the year 2000. (32!) Of course at the time I was still changing TV channels with a knob and trying to wrap phone cords around the corner so I could speak to my HS boyfriend in private. But, 32. Ancient. And Im sure I sound like my Dad sometimes when I tell my kids about the "olden" days. Film in a camera Needles on records (and then explaining a record) Walking to the store to get a slushie (Walking?!) (And slushies were around all the way back then? Even blue rasberry?) Collecting Wacky Packs.  Fudgetown Cookies.  Whales on belts and turtlenecks. Loves Baby Soft, mixed tapes and passing notes in the hallways at school. I try to remember my anxiety, social and academic pressure, the uncertainty of the years as my teen eye rollers say a minimum of three words to me each day. Good Fine What's for dinner? I try to remember there was a time w

Tuesday I was on the beach in Bermuda.  I sucked in the sound of the ocean, I soaked in sun and warmth; which I desperately had been missing. I exhaled - a lot.  And my phone beeped at noon.  Like it does every day. Reminding me to take my cancer pill - for the next 1610 days.  My pills weren’t in hands reach so I didn’t check my reminder to “complete”.  Cancer pill would wait til later.  I closed my eyes and went back to paradise.  And I thought that exactly 365 days ago I was sitting in the hospital reclining chair hooked up to, what was/is hopefully saving me. It was a Tuesday after all.  Chemo day.  I felt my scar where my port was.  No more port! I pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes.  HAIR! I had hair!  I told DH what I had been thinking.  “It’s in the past”,  he said. (Not dismissive -but words of encouragement. Words to remind me to look forward) It’s kind of easy to look forward when the ocean is waving behind you and the ocean is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen and your toe

Im moving on. Seriously; no more feeling sorry for myself. Unless another damned shoe drops. Or I continue not to be able to sleep. Or I cant lose any more weight. But after that, no more. An 85 year old woman completed the Boston Marathon yesterday. I am not the only one who sat on the couch watching the runners get soaked to the core and still, STILL persevere. There were victims from the bombing, they lost limbs, who were now in wheelchairs completing the race. Runners who had been running the day of the bombing 5 years ago and continue to go back in spite of the tragic day. People raising money for cancer charities, veterans, MR8, Children's Hospital, the list goes on and on. A 3 times cancer survivor who went home mid race due to the unbearable conditions and no one would blame her. No one would think twice that she couldn't finish the race. Healthy or not. But no, the woman warmed up and got back out there, to complete the marathon at 1:00 AM. THAT. THAT is #

I decided blogging is a fine line ... between being therapeutic or wondering if people think you are a narcissist. Do you think I am seeking attention or trying to help out a stranger or friend? Too sad? Need more humor? Is the sarcasm coming through loud and clear? Do I care enough or too much? Strolling through memory lane I found my old journals. I wished I kept my first one. The one with a lock and a key that my Mom gave me around the age of 12. I'm pretty sure it was filled with my crush on Shaun Cassidy and how I need more privacy in my life. But I do have them since 1985. (No keys) They're filled with mostly talks about past boyfriends. Crushes vs jerks. College nights out and lonely nights in. They stopped when I met DH. I rekindled my love of writing when I started to go through infertility. I started journals to both my boys and wished I had kept them up. I haven't stopped journaling. Blogging (typing) on a computer is way easier than writing

I felt something. I’m sure it was nothing.  Who was I fooling? I  really wasn't convinced. My nothing something was under my new fake breast and it was definitely a something. “Tell me what you feel. What size do you describe it as”, my Doctor asked before she examined me. (Of course I called immediately for an appointment.) I tell her; a pea. “Ok. I feel what you’re feeling. We are definitely on the same page.  I think it’s the size of a lentil. “ Pea. Lentil. Tomato/Tomato. As much as I'd love to discuss the difference of legumes, we decided an ultrasound should be scheduled. She isn’t overly concerned.   It’s Friday. I can’t be seen til Tuesday.  Have you met me?  I am not going with the flow here in spite of her not being overly concerned.  Me?  I’m overly concerned.  I’ve had cancer reoccurrence once already I don’t need to be going for it again.  In my head I already have myself signed up for chemo. I’m annoyed as hell that DH is not feeling the so

Remember when Motherhood was all about snuggles and giggling babies? Poopy diapers and squash stained faces. Mr. Noodle, the lady who said hush and criss cross applesauce. ESPN Redzone, Snapchat, and feet on the dashboard replaced those times.  My little boys are teens and as much as I desperately miss naptime I do love their (mostly) grown-up like conversation and the ability to go independently to the bathroom.  (Although I often question this due to my overuse of lysol wipes on the toilet seat) I've contemplated about life a lot this past year.  There's no luck in cancer of course but there are definite dodged bullets. And I know I dodged a few.  But with that dodging came growth. And with that growth came realization. And with that realization came the fact that my children are growing...really darn quickly.  I want my babies to stay babies where I can keep them safe and know where they are and who they're with and what goes into their bodi

7 weeks to 50. I'm way better than I was when I was turning 30. That was spent crying at a spa with my mother. MY MOTHER. I spent my 30th with my mother. Not that I dont love my mom. I do. Fiercely. But you know, single and upset that I wasnt in love spending ; 30 with your Mom isnt exactly uplifting. Plus the massage person "performed" Reiki on me, which in my opinion, is a crock. Waving hands over my body is supposed to heal me? Unless you plan to unroll my 100 knots in my shoulder through osmosis, I say no thank you Reiki person. 40 was way better. I had my husband by my side and two adorable boys who didn't know how to roll their eyes at me yet. They loved snuggling with their mommy and I felt good about where I was in life. I had two breasts and I could read a food label without glasses. But you know, then the 40's sucked. Shoulder surgeries, cancer, cancer (yea, that's not a typo for those of you new here), reading glasses, knees that m