We haven't started packing yet because Quinn turned two, and who wants their house to be a disaster before the two-year-olds show up? I wanted his party to be something special so of course I turned to Pinterest. Side note: that website has some great ideas, but there was no way I was going to do printable water bottle labels for a two-year-old's birthday. Who has that kind of time? Seriously, who?
Even though I am not particularly crafty, I know how to delegate well. Quinn's friend Sydney's mom volunteered to make the "Happy Birthday" banner, Chris assembled the train cake, and my friend Paula made four dozen assorted miniature cupcakes. That's one way to say farewell to our neighborhood: host a half-dozen two-year-olds on a sugar high in the backyard. All in all, though, we pulled it off without a hitch. Quinn licked the frosting off at least three different types of cupcakes, and I even enjoyed a beer.
To add to the chaos, on Quinn's birthday we found out our 10-year-old cat, Panthor, has cancer. He's seemed a little under the weather for awhile now, but we just haven't had the bandwidth to focus on him. So now I'm feeling incredibly guilty for all those times I got mad at him for puking on the carpet again. Poor thing has cancer in his gut. Originally, the vet thought he might be able to remove the cancer surgically, but a preliminary x-ray today showed a spot on Panthor's lungs, so we've got to make a decision fairly soon about putting him down.
I didn't expect it to be this heartbreaking.
And I'm trying not to compare the cat's cancer to my own. Logically, I know his cancer is not the same as mine, but it is very difficult to watch another being die
of cancer. Would it be any easier if this was some other disease? I don't know. Man, I'm going to miss that pet.
But I haven't even had time to process the news about the cat, because we close on our new house this week, the same day I'm having my swap out surgery to get rid of these damn expanders, which have been in place now for fourteen months. It's a minor, outpatient surgery -- like swapping one sandwich for another in a Ziploc bag, I've heard -- but I'm still incredibly anxious about going under the knife again. Or maybe I'm just anxious about everything and can't differentiate one angst from another anymore.
You could ask why I scheduled surgery right in the midst of all of this, and all I can say is I'm that excited to be able to hug people un-self-consciously again, that excited to be able to sleep on my stomach again, that excited to no longer have two softballs sticking out of my chest.
To summarize: birthday party, cat with cancer, closing on a house, surgery, packing for a move... I think that covers the majority of it. I mean, there are the everyday things like my house looks like a tornado hit it, I still don't have any eyelashes (hello, eyelashes? where are you?), and my skin is suffering immensely from a post-chemo lack of moisture. Do they make hydrocortisone in giant, pump-size bottles? Could you get on that, Johnson & Johnson?
I'll tell you what, though: there is nothing like toddlers hugging each other--blissfully hopped up on sugar and new-toy excitement--to make you feel like everything is alright with the world.