Sure my toes aren’t bruised this time, but could the nurse have cleaned the Betadine off so I didn’t look like I had just completed a carrot juice foot bath?!

The surge to my hits from the c@st fet!shists is the only good thing about this. They’ll be return readers, right?

I’ve been staring at this blank form for quite some time with no cogent thoughts coming forth. There are plenty of ideas, jumbled fragments, but I can’t seem to wrap any of them up into neat little packages.

And I think there’s probably a very good reason for this.

My best friend has breast cancer.

She’s 37. She has three children aged almost 5 and under.

I’ve known for a few weeks now–about as long as she has–and I think I’ve just been pretending it’s not true.

The doctors caught it early. She just went in for a check up–a routine physical–and the doc suggested she go in for a mammogram to establish a baseline. The doc didn’t feel anything. The mammogram didn’t show anything specific, just some thickening. They sent her for an ultrasound assuming they were just ruling things out.

She has cancer.

And they still can’t even feel the lumps.

That’s a good thing. The prognosis is good.

And I thought I was okay. I mean, I don’t have cancer. I can’t complain. So I’m fine. I’m the fine one. I’m perfectly fine.

EXCEPT WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO MY BEST FRIEND???!!!!!

I can’t fix her. I can’t make it okay for her. I can’t change things when she’s scared. I can’t make it better. And I hate that.

Each time my head starts in this direction, I just say shut up. You’re not the one who is sick. Just shut up.

But I’m afraid too.

When my aunt was diagnosed with cancer nine years ago, I was sure she was going to be fine. Six weeks later I was at her memorial service. I still think of her almost every day.

I’m so afraid to be positive about Pfunky’s cancer.

I’m so afraid.

Bedtime has arrived again and I haven’t recorded any grand thoughts, figured out which came first–the chicken or the egg–or even found some mildly funny words to make at least myself giggle.

In exchange for the prophetic, I leave you with some little nuggets of late.

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room today–the foot and ankle surgeon–I looked up and took in the image of the man in a wheelchair sitting across from me. He had no legs from the knees down. WHAT THE HELL WAS HE DOING SEEING A FOOT AND ANKLE SPECIALIST?? HE DIDN’T HAVE ANY.

First grader came home from school before the holidays with a 3-D paper creation. The hubs complimented him on his dreidel. Son gave him the hairy eyeball and proclaimed, “Duh, it’s not a dreidel dad, it’s a lantern. The Jews use it to celebrate Ramadan.”

My first activity of the new year was so incredible that I don’t know how the rest of the year is going to be able to compare. I woke at 7:00 a.m. to the sounds of a whining puppy. I tried the time-tested approach of putting the pillow over my head to make her stop, but that approach was a failure. I rolled out of bed, threw on the closest items to protect any still-partying neighbors from the sight of my pale flesh and shuffled down stairs. And what was I greeted with?? A nearly six month-old puppy covered in her own poop looking up at me from her crate. So weird how the rest of my family was so tired they didn’t hear any of the whining.

There I was trying to get her out into the backyard and the crate…well somewhere without getting covered myself. Crate unceremoniously deposited in the carport awaiting some other sleeping ass’s attention, the puppy was brought upstairs for a bath–AT 7 FREAKING 30 on New Year’s Day. Oh yeah, it’s gonna take a lot to improve on the start of this year.

Way back in February I broke my ankle. You may remember the photo of the cast that attracted many an eastern European cast/braces fetishist to my site (thanks for the extra bucks my friends).

A physical therapist friend of mine recommended a terrific orthopedist to treat me. I loved him immediately. As the kid of a doc, I’m often hard to please when it comes to medical care, but he was personable and thorough and even cleaned my foot himself after it had stewed in a cast for six weeks.

Granted he missed a second break and a bunch of other soft tissue damage, but none of that was apparent on the x-ray. I still loved him.

His office staff is friendly. It’s easy to get in to see him and you don’t have to wait long in the waiting or exam room.

A virtual medical miracle.

But yesterday the love affair died.

Yesterday, at my three month check-up, we discussed some of my lingering pain and my continued inability to wear heels.

His answer?

You probably won’t ever be able to wear heels again. The area of your injury is affected every time you put your foot at that angle.

*blink* *blink*

Clearly, he doesn’t know that I consider Nordstrom’s Shoe Department the mothership. Clearly, he hasn’t seen my closet. Clearly, he doesn’t understand how wearing a great pair of shoes can make you invincible.

Clearly he’s not the doctor I thought he was.

I’ve started so many posts in my head over the past week, yet none of them have made it down my arms and out the tips of my fingers.

I’ve probably had too much time with my own thoughts lately, and with a good portion of them clouded by a fever, I don’t know that I can access those posts that seemed really important when I didn’t have the energy to open up my laptop.

So here I am now just throwing words down like they’re car mats that need to dry in the sun. But it’s feeling germy in here and I need to open up the windows, air things out and hope to find the purpose of this here blog.

Clearly, I’m going with the “just start writing” method.

Appreciate your patience while I wasted your time giving myself a kick in the pants.

It’s 9:00 p.m. and I just heard a trumpet played from my son’s room.

What part of getting ready for bed this is I’m not sure.

Today is Mother’s Day, and I had a wonderful day.

There are a number of reasons why I would be just as likely to be sitting here reporting the exacty opposite, but I’m not.

The last few days my head has been so quiet and I’ve felt more at ease and able to just be than has been possible in…well honestly I can’t remember.

Today I gardened in the rain. Today my ankle continued to hurt. Today my house was still messy. And today I still hadn’t lost the weight I’d like to.

But today I was able to enjoy each minute for what it was and for that I’d personally like to french kiss my psychiatrist.

Modern medicine is an amazing thing!

A diagnosis of depression years and years ago was the jump start I needed to take back control of my ever-racing, self-insulting brain. Therapy and medication did wonders to lift the yoke I had been carrying–carrying for so long at that point that I felt positively weightless once it was removed.

Then marriage and children and life continued and I became convinced that I could handle it all and I didn’t need to manage the depression anymore.

You can stop laughing now. Really. No, seriously it’s getting annoying.

A brief stint back on the meds after giving birth, justified as the baby blues (read ridiculous PPD that I couldn’t bring myself to name) and then heh heh heh I was fine. I would just wean myself right off that medication.

But darn if those years of therapy didn’t actually come in handy.

I started to notice the signs. And much to my disbelief, I stood up for myself. I marched my ass right to the aforementioned doc and demanded something new. Okay it took me three years to do it, but I did.

A few dosage adjustments and a couple of months later and I freaking enjoyed a dreary Mother’s Day because I was able to enjoy the single moments that made it up.

Now back to the bedtime, trumpet playing son.

We made the decision this year to treat his recently diagnosed ADHD with medication. My story should make it clear why I’m comfortable with this approach (along with close medical supervision, of course).

After just a few days, we had a son we could sit down and talk to. School came easier again and the sweet boy we had known had returned.

It was fairly miraculous. But I was familiar with this.

Now he’s still very much a pre-teen boy, and I would have stopped the medicine immediately if he was anything but. But once again, I’ve been applying chapstick and hoarding the Binaca getting ready to maul his doc.

So why the trumpet playing?

Oh, because today he didn’t take the wonder drug. And today, he spent most of the day picking at his brothers, talking back, not doing what was asked of him and bouncing off the walls–in other words, being reprimanded ALL day.

So tonight, this Mother’s Day evening, I want to thank the mothers of the scientists who conducted the research and invented the drugs who make our lives better–not just those that improve our mental health, but our physical well-being too. Thank you for raising such brilliant people–and I promise I won’t try to french kiss all of them.

Because of you, I enjoyed today and my son won’t have to suffer many more days like he did today.

Thank you.

As I left for my physical today, I stopped for a moment and wondered.

Which am I looking forward to the least–stepping on the scale or getting a
PAP smear?

The PAP? Wasn’t the worst I had.

*sigh*

I know I owe you some winners from last week’s contest. I know you’re just dying to know where I was, but first I need to fill you in on a little thing that took place while I was away.

Yep! I broke my ankle.

And that dark stuff on my foot? I swear it’s not dirt! Just some se-xy bruises.

Since I just love giving stuff away (I’d be happy to give you this cast, really), I have a great prize for the most entertaining story describing how I’ve found myself in this predicament. Write the story (please, because I need one) on your blog and link back to this post and I’ll pick the winner at the end of the week.

The biggest surprise about blogging has been the incredible community that exists to laugh together, cry together, mock each other and when necessary bolster each other in times of need.

I think I broke my funny bone.

See! That’s the best I can do right now. It’s pathetic.

I spent last winter and spring walking through life witnessing all sorts of moments that just begged for a humorous interpretation on this here blog and now? My blog is getting all serious with posts written from my heart and crap like that. I mean how will I ever regain my cred with him or her or her or him or him or her or him? Heh. That’s funny. Like I evah had cred with them.

What are my typical go-to topics?

Sex: Haven’t stopped any lines at the airports lately to have a dildo inspected.

Kids: No one’s been naming body parts lately.

School: Well I was in charge of the annual Fun Fair Cake Walk, but there was nothing funny about crawling around on the floor of the school to tape down letters so already over-weight America could win the 124 cakes that were donated for the event. (Oh and a big BRAAAGH! to the woman who went to Costco, bought the three bread box and split them up and wrapped them individually to make it look like she baked them herself. Own it if you don’t bake sweetheart, but don’t try to make it look like you slaved away all day.)

Hair Removal: My esthetician went on vacation for two weeks! Trust me. Nothing fun(ny) there at all.

Family: Dad hasn’t tried to set my brother up with any other starlets lately. If I get desperate for material (or bored) I might just offer him up on eBay soon.

Politics: SO not funny right now.

See?

Is there a doctor in the house? It’s a matter of humor or death. Quick. Send help.