Iron Woman

I've been doing my best to hide it, but I've been especially exhausted lately. Six months of chemo and two surgeries have finally caught up with me, and I'm officially very anemic (although it's getting better). At least there's a physical explanation for my lack of get-up-and-go. I'm taking iron supplements daily now, and at some point they're supposed to make me feel like myself again. Which reminds me: I need to buy more iron supplements.

Exercise has also been off the table since I broke my arm in January, so that probably isn't helping my energy levels. I know it's not helping my mood. I will probably get clearance from my plastic surgeon to start aerobic activity again right around the time temperatures reach triple digits here in Phoenix. Murphy's Law.

You know what else causes exhaustion? Two year olds. It's a fact. Ask your doctor if you don't believe me. Yes, we have daycare during the week, and yes, I feel guilty that I probably need it even though I definitely need it because of that whole full-time job thing. I am honestly not sure I could keep up with this perpetual motion machine all of the time while totally healthy, let alone while recovering from chemo and surgery. It doesn't help that my right side is essentially useless at the moment.

Also, we've moved into our new home (which I love, don't get me wrong), but trying to shop for furniture and organize a kitchen and hang pictures and do all of the things that one needs to do when moving into a new home is a gargantuan feat with a two-year-old around. You might as well try to organize your paperwork for tax season outside in the middle of a tornado. Plus, everyone knows that riding tricycles around the block is way more fun than putting together Ikea furniture. 

Chris told me last night that he feels like we're running just to stay in place lately. 

But seriously, are all moms this tired? Are all two-year-olds this active? On Sunday morning, we walked around the zoo for two straight hours with friends and their toddler, spent another couple of hours walking around Ikea (because assembling furniture with allen wrenches is the key to a stress free weekend -- trust me, really! wink, wink. also, I promise this post isn't sponsored by Ikea), hoped Q would fall asleep in the car ride home (but he didn't), tried for a nap once we were home (but failed), went to the grocery store where Q practiced yoga, and still he would. not. sleep.

And two year olds need naps. Blah blah brain development blah. It's also about their mood swings. Their very melodramatic, Oscar-worthy mood swings, described so perfectly by Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com here (even though she's talking about her three year old):

Because here’s the thing: MARLO. She’s the thing. She’s a kicking, screaming, should have stopped at the tenth shot of tequila and is determined to convince you she is not drunk thing.

Pretty much sums it up. But then five minutes later? It's all giggles and "Mama, read this read!" and sometimes I swear we should have named him Jekyll. Or Hyde. Can we all at least agree that two year olds are lucky they're cute?

I also suspect that my not being able to hold him these past few weeks is taking a toll. No, I don't think I'm doing any lasting damage to his emotional development here. But I do think that in the short-term, he's not getting what he wants and is acting out because of it. If this were just him asking for a toy at the checkout line, I'd say, "Tough luck, kid," and be done with it. But all he really wants is his mama to hold him, and I can't. It is so hard.

And again I want to say, "Screw you, cancer." This is just one more instance of cancer interfering with my life in ways that are not one bit welcome.

When I was pregnant, I knew parenting was going to be a challenge from time to time. I expected that. I just didn't expect this particular set of challenges. I certainly didn't expect cancer. And I didn't expect having to have my surgery redone, in part because I've been lucky not to have many complications since my diagnosis (other than, you know, the recurrence thing). I am still not completely used to this two steps forward one-half step back way of life that seems to come with the territory of having a chronic illness. I still wake up some days expecting my doctors to say, "Just kidding. Our tests were wrong. That wasn't really cancer. Our mistake."

Until that day, I am really looking forward to about a month from now when I will have the permission (and hopefully the energy) to hold my son again.

Making Our Bed

Call me crazy, but every time I wash the duvet cover for our bed, I end up crying as I'm putting it back on our comforter. As I turn the cover inside-out and lay it across our bed, then tie the four corners to the corners of our comforter, I wonder who will make sure Quinn knows how to do this if something happens to me.

Finally, last week, I called Chris into our room while I was in the middle of the bed-making process. "Like this," I said, and I showed him how you turn the whole thing right-side-out once the corners are tied so that the comforter is evenly inside the duvet. "Oh, that makes sense," he said.

And as my mother-in-law was helping me put new sheets on the bed, I asked her--through my tears--if she would show Quinn how to do her perfect hospital corners someday. "Of course I'll show him," she said, "but nothing's going to happen to you."

I'm not really sure Chris cares what our bed linens look like, but it was important for me that I passed along this knowledge. It's important for me to know that Quinn will learn certain things if I'm not around to teach him, even though I plan on being around to teach him. I mean, it's certainly not the end of the world if he doesn't know how to put a down comforter inside a duvet, and what kid really makes their bed anyway?

I asked my therapist about this.

"To you, making the bed represents normalcy," she explained. "And you want normalcy for your son."

Well, of course I do. Every good parent wants that for their children. I want Quinn to hold on to his innocence, his exuberance, his childhood for as long as possible. I want him to feel safe. I want him to know--as all kids should--that I love him unconditionally and immensely, that I will always be here for him.

As a wonderful friend and fellow cancer survivor (and mom) said to me awhile ago, "I've tried really hard to find a balance of believing, with everything in my being, that I will live to see [my daughter] grow into a woman. And at the same time, find total peace with the idea that I might not be here, and that she is going to be okay. She is surrounded by love, my love, and mountains of love from the other people around her. It's so hard."

She sent me the link to this children's book that I couldn't even get through the first time I tried reading it. I was sobbing on the couch next to Chris, who assumed I was reading something cancer-related and told me, "Enough with that crap." I showed him it wasn't crap, so then he just went back to believing I'm a big cry-baby. (All of us Akre's are; it's hereditary.)

Now, we're in the process of picking out hardware for Quinn's bathroom in the new house, finalizing paint colors, and packing up our belongings to move. We are lucky to have family who will spend all day with us sorting through carpet options and ceiling fan choices, who will coordinate with our contractor and help us pack, who will make sure my son gets swimming lessons and money for college and--eventually--a lesson on how to neatly make his bed.

With all of this going on, I'm finding that balance my friend spoke of--that belief that I will be here to watch Quinn learn to swim in our new pool and ride his bike in the neighborhood cul-de-sac, that Chris and I will reconnect in front of our new fireplace, and the peace of knowing that both of my boys will be okay no matter what.

In Like a Lion

They say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Let's hope that's true. The first twelve days of this month have worn me out, and we haven't even started packing for our big move yet. Did I mention we bought a house? And that we close on it this week? That I'm having hot flashes just thinking about all the work that needs to be done?

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.