www.cancermonster.net

8:00a
Had a better night. I only woke up once. I’m not complaining about that since I usually wake up once. So, better night.

The sun is bright. The temperature chilly. Typical day in the neighborhood on the Oregon coast. I can’t believe the difference from the city to the beach. Wednesday, I was melting. This morning I have sweats and a jacket on. Oregon goes from one extreme to the other.

The neighbors beside us are only here to sleep. They have family in a “funner” park. The group ahead of us are planning a party today. The women are already talking menu. And the men are off to the grocery store down the road with the list. A seven year old birthday coinciding with the labor day picnic. They will be taking their party to the beach. I’m not eavesdropping, mind you. It’s just that in RV parks, everyone hears everything.

I had decided that I wouldn’t tell anyone here that I had cancer. . .

As I wrote that, the neighbor lady came out and we started talking. People are always interested in how we live full time in our motorhome. How long will you keep this up? “It was supposed to be six weeks.” And “what’s next” always follows. I hesitated. I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but Dan had already told the people in front of us. “I have a tumor in my gluteal muscle.” Do you like how I avoided saying “left butt cheek”? But she is a nurse, as it turns out, and knew where the “gluteal muscle” is.

“What kind of tumor?”

“It’s a sarcoma.”

And there was that look. Say “sarcoma” to anyone who speaks medical and you get that “she’s-got-one-leg-in-the-grave-already” look. Sarcomas scare the medical professional more than the average person. “It’s only in my rear; it hasn’t spread.”

And they nod.

“I have been trying to get rid of that butt cheek for years. Would have rather gone to JennyCraig.” That always works to change the look. I could come up with a new line, but if it works why fix it?

“I have been in radiation for three weeks. I go to Portland during the week and come home on the weekends.”

“You have the three little kids”

“And an eighteen year old on her own, too.”

“Who takes care of the children while you go for radiation?”

“He does.” I nodded towards my husband inside the motorhome. “He takes them to daycare. Goes to work and picks them up after. Makes the dinner, does the laundry, puts them to bed. Day after day.”

“What a special person.”

“That he is.”

Dan appeared with laundry detergent in hand. “There’s the Superman!” my new lady friend declared.

He had a look of his own to exchange. He doesn’t see what he is doing as extraordinary. “Don’t write about me so much” he tells me. “Dan, you’re part of the story. How can I not write about you?”

My Aunt Shirley was a single mother when she first “got cancer.” Thirty some odd years ago. She was given a year to live and was told to find homes for her children. I can’t imagine doing this without my Dan. I can’t imagine what Aunt Shirley went through alone. Thank God she proved them wrong. She is just as ornery today as she ever was. And her children grew up with their mother. She is my hero.

What Dan is doing is extraordinary. Give the man a paper flower! He is the Hero of all Heroes.

I smell bacon. Time to make breakfast.

********
12:30p
Breakfast was as good as you would find in any restaurant. Bacon and Denver Scrambled Eggs with hash browns, toast and coffee. It was delicious.

It put me back in bed. Within thirty minutes I was nauseous and weak. It took a couple hours to pass through my system. Rats. I have to find something that won’t turn my tummy into a yuck dispenser.

We are going down to the beach in a little while. I bought some industrial strength sun block yesterday at Wal-Mart. Not that I need a bathing suit. The pacific is way too cold for me.

Speaking of Wal-Mart: Dan put away the food last night. When he did so, he cleaned out my cupboards and rearranged everything. He moved a good portion of the cooking supplies to the outside pantry bay. While he was busy redistributing the dry goods, I heard him muttering, “my kitchen now” over and again.

One half of my brain, the realistic portion, agreed that since he is now doing the majority of the cooking, he should have things where he wants them. To the cook, goes the cabinet. The other half of my brain had a hard time with his determination. The kitchen has been my domain. Part and parcel of my role in the family. To see him over-riding my arrangement was to see a bit of myself slipping away.

There was a hint of this while we were shopping. “Do you need ketchup?” You need. . . Do you need. . . Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? He didn’t. He couldn’t understand why his rearranging would be making me sad.

“I suppose you are going to rearrange the dishes and pans too?”

“Well, yah . . . But I need my saw to make more shelves. This arrangement doesn’t work. If we put in shelves here and there . . . wha-wha-wa-wa-waaa.” I didn’t hear the rest of what he was planning. Even though most of what he was saying I had been asking for for months now, I didn’t want to hear it in his tone of thought.

“Wait ’till I go back to the city. I don’t want to see it happening. And for the love of Peat, (I hate Peat, makes my hands dirty) don’t touch my personal clothes cabinets.”

Change is hard.

When he was done with his chore, he sat down beside me to explain his decisions. “It’s ok. I understand. But if you suddenly found yourself . . . somehow . . . less than you are, and I rearranged your work van, moved all your tools aside and filled the shelves with my sewing machine and art supplies . . . Then went off in it to do your job, how would you feel? ” Maybe he got it. Maybe not. It doesn’t really matter in the whole scheme of things.

But in the tiny fine print . . .

He’s gone to the auto parts store to get some kind of meter thing-a-ma-bob to check the batteries. That’s still his job. Everything is his job now. I feel like a toddler. I might refuse to do something just to gain back a bit of control. Nah. Life is too precious for middle aged temper tantrums.

I think instead, I will go get ready for the beach. Yah. Much better idea.

********
5:45p
The Oregon shore is breath-taking. So different from the beach I grew up on. The beach we visited this afternoon was almost as far from the Gulf beach in Southwest Florida as one can get and still be in the same country. Both on the map and in the mind. When we finally do get to Texas, my three smallest children will be amazed to see white powder sand where they expect fine ground tiny pebbles. They will be shocked to find sea grass covered sand dunes in place of the steep rock cliffs. The water may be too warm for their liking. And the sky too blue to imagine.

What they won’t be surprised to see on a Gulf of Mexico beach is their mother. I promised them that we will go. All of us.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Today’s beach trip was nice. The weather was just right. The cove not too crowded. The trek from the car, down the park path, across the wide gravel “sand” beach, all the way to the water’s edge, and back up beyond the tide line (you don’t lay your blanket on wet surface in Oregon silly!) was an arduous trip for Limp-a-Long Cassidy.

What was I thinking, you ask? I was thinking how long it has been since we took the kids to the actual beach while living “at the beach.” As soon as we settled onto our plot of paradise and spread out our plethora of play things though, I was thinking about how far back it was to the bathroom. That’s what I was thinking. I was thinking that I was not thinking. I was trying to decide if it would pass. I was trying to calculate the distance and speed and time available to make the decision of whether to run/hobble/walk as fast as possible back in the direction we had just came. I quick snapped a few pictures just in case I didn’t make it all the way back out there once I made the decision to run for it.

“Where are you going?”
“The bathroom!”
“Is it an emergency? It’s a long way back!”
“You think I would be going if it weren’t?”

Don’t ask stupid questions of a woman in a bad way.

Eventually, I did make it back out to the party. When Dan saw that I wasn’t doing so well, he said that maybe we should give the kids fifteen minutes and then pack up and go. “Oh, that’s not long enough! It’s been so long since we brought them to the beach. We can stay a while longer.”

“If you say so.”

I said so. I want to believe I had only the good times of the children at heart. I want you to think I was being strong for their sakes. I want to, but I have to tell you . . . I am a terrible, awful person! I was STALLING for time! There was no way I would be ready in fifteen minutes to make that trip again! None. Zero. Nada. No way! “Let the children play” my . . .my Tumor. I wasn’t gonna make it back up there yet. I would be like “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! I don’t want to get up! Leave me! Go on, save yourselves. I’m done.” I can see me lying there with the cast off sea shells and washed up sushi flotsam. I’m telling ya, I wouldn’t have made it. Even without a bump in my butt, it was a long way. You’ve seen my picture. It wasn’t happening.

“Please let the children play, Dear. They are having such a nice time.”

Ppfft. Liar.

********
7:30p
“I put out some bratwurst for dinner” I said settled in my chair back on the porch next to my best friend and split-apart, Dan-the-Man.

“What do you think we should have with them?” he asked casually.

“I’m sure you will be able to find something in your reorganized cupboards to make in your very own kitchen. I’m going to lie down and watch TV. Let me know when dinner’s ready.”

Hey, you know what? This might not be so bad after all. I feel kinda’ like . . . kinda’ like ahhh. . . Kinda’ like a MAN! I can’t wait for Thanksgiving!

Too bad it’s not tomorrow!