Around the Web: Like Clockwork

I've been chewing my nails something fierce lately, and I haven't been able to put my finger on why (no pun intended). Then it hit me when the scheduler from my oncologist's office called this morning: I am due for my three-month scans.

Except this time I'm not having three-month scans. I got bumped to every four months, which apparently in my world is just going to mean an extra month of anxiety. My body is that well-adapted to this cycle. My brain knows just when to start acting on-edge, when nightly Xanax pills might be in order once again. After all, I've been doing this for almost four years now.

{photo credit}

It's like clockwork over here.

Except it isn't.

So now I'm all thrown off schedule, my right thumbnail is bitten to the quick, and I do have scans on the books five weeks from now. So I better figure out how to get this anxiety under control because I can't take five weeks on high alert. I will literally run out of nails.

I also made the mistake of mentioning this article from last week's round-up to my doctor by way of his assistant, and so my doctor promptly ordered a bone density scan for me. I've never had one, so this will provide a baseline. It is also, predictably, adding to my anxiety. I don't know if it's cancer, or parenthood, or just being in my mid-thirties, but my mind worries about every possible thing that could go wrong, and not just when it comes to scans (from our toaster catching fire, to getting car-jacked at a stoplight because of course, to sinkholes even though we live in Arizona not Florida. The list goes on.)

Anyhow, here's what I saw around the web this week (but I'm not asking my doctor about any of them, lest he order any more tests for me).

At Long Last, Answering Some Questions about 'Exceptional Responders'

"Silva is what researchers call an “exceptional responder,” the rare patient who has a surprising, dramatic response to a drug. . .

Silva’s story, and those of other exceptional responders, have led to an intriguing set of questions: Could researchers use technologies such as genetic sequencing to figure out what made Silva’s tumor respond to treatment? Could they mine that data for clues that might help other patients? Could they ultimately find a way to make the exceptional more routine?"

Actually, I'd happily submit to more tests if it was to figure out why I've been so lucky, why I've responded to drugs the way I have, and maybe lead to answers that could pass some of that luck on to someone else. 

Last Week it Was the Bones, This Week the Lungs?

"Scientists at the University of Edinburgh said they have discovered a “trigger” that allows breast cancer cells to spread to the lungs. . .

Prof Jeffrey Pollard, the centre’s director, said: “Our findings open the door to the development of treatments that target the tumour microenvironment, which may stop the deadly progression of breast cancer in its tracks.”"

Will the Breast Cancer Test Kit be Next to the Pregnancy Tests at the Drugstore?

"Researchers at the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology of the Medical Center -- University of Freiburg have developed an approach for detecting breast cancer by means of urine samples. The method involves determining the concentration of molecules that regulate cell metabolism and that are often dysregulated in cancer cells. These molecules, referred to as microRNAs, enter into the urine over the blood. By determining the composition of microRNAs in the urine, the scientists succeeded in establishing with 91 percent accuracy whether a test subject was healthy or diseased."

A Case of Two Steps Forward, One Step Back (Or Sideways...)

"Countering previously held beliefs, researchers at The University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center have discovered that inhibiting the immune receptor protein TLR4 may not be a wise treatment strategy in all cancers. This is because TLR4 can either promote or inhibit breast cancer cell growth depending on mutations in a gene called TP53. . .

"This looks like a promising avenue to develop drugs for the worst kinds of cancers," says Brown. "However, if we wish to target this immune pathway, we better pay attention to the TP53 status of the tumor.""

Finding Relief from Post-Mastectomy Pain

Mine is not so much pain as it is a significant tightness throughout my right pectoral muscle and armpit region (to use the anatomically correct term, I'm sure) that no amount of stretching seems to alleviate (although yoga helps tremendously). Chris, if you're reading, I think monthly spa massages would help, too.

My goal {photo credit}

"“Pain is a psychological trigger for worry about cancer recurrence,” said Julie Silver, an associate professor at Harvard Medical School who specializes in cancer rehabilitation. “Treating PMPS really helps to relieve that anxiety.”

PMPS is generally defined as nerve-related pain that persists for at least three months after breast cancer surgery, though it can take up to six months to develop. It tends to occur in the upper chest or the underside of the arm, causing pain that women often describe as burning or shooting, and it sometimes presents, as it did in my sister, as an unbearable itch."

I Might Have to Ask My Doctor About A Daily Aspirin Regimen

He can't order any tests based on a question about aspirin, can he? 

"A daily dose of aspirin may be effective at blocking breast tumour growth, Indian-origin researchers have claimed.

Dr Sushanta Banerjee, research director of the Cancer Research Unit at the Kansas City Veterans Affairs Medical Center, and his team found that aspirin may be able to ensure that conditions around cancer stem cells are not conducive for reproduction."

And How Law School May Have Led to My Cancer Diagnosis*

"“People really should elevate the importance of sleep to the same level they do diet and exercise to improve their overall health and well-being,” he said."

On that note, I'm going to bed. 

* Allegedly.

Sorry, Honey, My Warranty Is Expired

I haven't had strep throat since I was in middle school, the year I had my tonsils out. The surgery was preceded by seven (yes SEVEN) bouts of strep and/or tonsillitis, so at the first sign of health, I was scheduled for surgery. I didn't have another surgery (or even hospitalization for any reason) for TWENTY years.

Then, as Chris says, I started falling apart. Ha. Hahahaha.

Case in point: I had chemo this week, which was fine. I even went for a hike on Wednesday. I was feeling great, I thought!

Then that night I was hit with a fever, chills, and inability to swallow without feeling like I was being stabbed. I've got fatigue that has me winning sleep trends on my Up24 (not so much actual fitness, alas). And a self-diagnosis of strep (confirmed as "likely" by my oncologist's assistant) led to my second Z-Pack in as many months.

I no longer have the fever or chills, but am still holding on to the fatigue and sore throat. Why is there no place to put "I'm sick" in my Up tracking? Instead, my "smart coach" keeps encouraging me to take more steps if I want any chance of reaching the suggested 10,000 per day. I'm not just sitting on my ass because I'm lazy, guys.

Still, I am the worst at being sick, whether my smart coach is goading me to move or not. I want to go to yoga, but won't, because I don't want to get anyone else sick lest my antibiotics haven't kicked in yet. Also, who am I kidding? Down dog when you have a headache is decidedly NOT fun. I should probably just take a nap, but keep thinking there must be something I'm not marking off my to-do list that I should while I've got a quiet day.

I want to do a tutorial on my eyebrows but haven't figured out the logistics yet. I thought about talking about capsule wardrobes, but here's the gist: I cleaned out my closet, which isn't all that exciting. I love to cook and was thinking of doing a series on foods to help you get past chemo but then our stove broke (again) and I haven't had an appetite this week because it is so very, very painful to swallow. Maybe I'll do a series on smoothies?

Or maybe I will just nap, after all.

Kidding. Off to the grocery store. Because someone in this house still has an appetite.

Around the Web

Here's what caught my attention this week.

{In honor of sleep}

What do you think of Right to Try laws?

I think patients who have no other alternatives, when working with their doctors, are probably best equipped to decide whether a drug is too risky or not. But I'd love to hear your take.

"The Right to Try bills aim to provide a streamlined alternative to the FDA process. Instead of having to fill out lengthy and complex paperwork, patients would only need to get an okay from a drug company and a simple prescription or “recommendation” from a doctor to access an unapproved treatment. The drugs involved also must have successfully completed an initial safety trial and moved to the next phase of development."

Thank you, Under Armour.

I can't help it. This kind of news makes me giddy.

"Under Armour Inc. has made a $10 million contribution to the Johns Hopkins Kimmel Cancer Center to fund breast cancer and breast health support programs and a women's wellness center."

Go the #@%! to Sleep, Okay?

"Dr Akhilesh Reddy, from the University of Cambridge, said the body clock influences every biological process in the human body and the health consequences of living against the clock were "pretty clear cut", particularly in breast cancer."

Have I mentioned how awesome scientists are?

Fighting deadly illness with deadly illness. Brilliant.

"In a proof of principle clinical trial, Mayo Clinic researchers have demonstrated that virotherapy — destroying cancer with a virus that infects and kills cancer cells but spares normal tissues — can be effective against the deadly cancer multiple myeloma."

Reason #439 to adopt a dog.

"With 220 million olfactory cells in a canine snout, compared with 50 million for humans, dogs have long helped on search-and-rescue. Now, a growing body of evidence supports the possible use of canines by clinicians. The largest study ever done on cancer-sniffing dogs found they can detect prostate cancer by smelling urine samples with 98 percent accuracy. At least one application is in the works seeking U.S. approval of a kit using breath samples to find breast cancer."

And then, take that dog for a walk.

"One study published in the Journal of Clinical Oncology found dropping a few pounds could lower a woman's likelihood for developing the disease. In the study of 439 obese women aged 50 to 75, those who dieted, exercised and lost significant weight also reduced their levels of the hormones commonly associated with breast cancer. That study found even a 5 percent weight loss decreased one's breast cancer risk by as much as 22 percent."

Well, this isn't good news.

"Black women are nearly twice as likely as white women to be diagnosed with a hard-to-treat breast cancer known as triple-negative breast cancer, a new study says.

That dramatic difference was found no matter what their socioeconomic level was, the researchers added."

So I'll end on this note.

"Pfizer said on Friday that the Food and Drug Administration would let it apply for approval of its heavily promoted experimental breast cancer medicine based on midstage patient testing results. . . Midstage test results showed that by combining palbociclib with letrozole, patients on average survived 20.2 months before their tumors worsened. That was about twice as long as the benefit for women in a comparison group who received only letrozole."

The Days, They Are Long

I went to a work happy hour last week. I know, I'm not even working, but there was a meeting here in Phoenix that meant a lot of my colleagues were in town from all over the country. I don't know if or when I'll go back to work, but it was so good to catch up with these people, some of whom I hadn't seen in eight months (or more). My former boss was here from Denver, and it was lovely to see her and share photos of our kids over beers.

And then I was happy to get home in time to read Quinn a bedtime story and tuck him in.

I realized I miss certain things about working in an office: the regular adult interaction, for example. But staying home with Quinn is good for my soul. As I explained to a couple of people that evening when they asked the inevitable question about me returning to work, I feel like I'm tip-toeing a fine balance right now and for the moment it's working for me. My last scan was good, my weight is up, my blood counts are mostly okay, and--most weeks--my fatigue is manageable. (Although I've had some other health issues lately, but I'm not sure I'm ready to write about that yet.) I am scared that if I were to add one more element to the mix, I'd fall off this high wire act I've got going. So my answer to them was: not yet.

Also, with the number of doctors appointments I've got every week, it wouldn't be fair to my team. I spend half the day most Mondays at or on my way to (or home from) appointments. Plus there are scans, follow up visits with my oncologist, not to mention "normal" appointments with my gynecologist, dentist, dermatologist, therapist... Plus Quinn's check-ups. It's a lot.

So I expected the question about returning to work. What I didn't expect was the question about what it is I do with my days.

I don't think the guy who asked it meant any harm, but I was caught off guard--and irritated, if I'm being honest. I sort of let the question linger, so I'm sure it became as awkward for him as it was for me. Because--how do you answer such a thing? I don't remember what I said. Probably something to the effect of, "Crazy how raising a 2-year-old can take up so much time!" Later, I thought I should have just said, "Laundry. I spend all of my time doing laundry." It feels that way some days.

This is not the first time I've gotten this question. I think most stay-at-home-parents grapple with it at some point, unfortunately. So I've been trying to give it a little thought the last few days. What do I do with my time (now that I'm not working)? I did think I'd have more free time, time to organize photos of Quinn or write or clean out my belly button lint. All of the stay-at-home-parents are laughing right now at my naiveté. I at least thought Quinn would nap.

There are my appointments. And Quinn (who does not nap, and hasn't at home for about a year). On the days he's not in school/daycare, I try to do things with him--swimming, the Children's Museum, the train park, the zoo) rather than spend my time with him cleaning the house or running errands. Then there's the aforementioned laundry. There is also sleep. We cancer patients need a lot of it. I typically get 8-9 hours per night, and I'm still fatigued. My younger self is embarrassed at my laziness, but I can't help it. This disease makes me tired.

I also try to exercise to combat the fatigue. On the days Quinn's in preschool and I don't have doctors appointments, I try to make it to yoga or on a hike.

I try to find time to write. I try to find time to be a friend. I try to find time to nurture my relationship with Chris. I try to stay present, so that I'm not anxious about my future. Because as the saying goes, the days are long but the years are short.

Why do I even feel the need to write this post? To justify what it is I do all day? Part of it is how competitive I've always been, how results-oriented, how type-A. The question about how I spend my time broke open some insecurities I've felt since I stopped working. But my insecurities these days are less about cancer winning, and more about what I'm contributing to the world.

Because I don't have much to show for my days at home, except an almost-three-year-old who challenges (and rewards) me in ways my job as a lawyer never did. I am raising a little man, which I know is as important as any career. So why do I still feel the need to prove the value in that? Why did one little question ruffle my feathers so fiercely and put me on the defensive? I'll let you know if I figure out the answer, but I'd also love to hear your thoughts.

{Quinn takes a selfie}

This is Hard

As I was putting him to bed last night, Quinn turned to me and said, "I so sad, mama."

"Why, buddy? What's going on?" I asked. "What are you sad about?" He was holding my hand, and curled his whole body around my arm.

"I sad Sydney go bye-bye," he responded. We'd had dinner with his friend, Sydney, and her parents the night before. At one point, Quinn hugged her so hard that she toppled off the little wall she'd been sitting on to the ground below. Luckily, it was dirt and her crying was short-lived. They've been friends since before either of them could walk, and Quinn adores her.

"You'll see Sydney tomorrow," I tried to comfort him. He's still in daycare (with Sydney) a couple of days a week, so I can go get my weekly lab work done, and catch up on laundry and emails and sleep.

"It's okay to be sad sometimes," I continued, "but that's when we have to remember what makes us happy, too." We listed out all the fun things we'd done this weekend, Quinn's friends that we'd seen, and the new scooter Chris had just assembled for him.

Quinn seemed fine this morning, but the incident got me thinking: is my sadness rubbing off on the little guy?

For the most part, I try to keep my thoughts here upbeat. Because, for the most part, I'm an optimist. I'm hopeful. I'm able to remember that I'm here now, and that's enough. That hasn't been the case this past week, though. This week has been hard.

Some of it is the treatment-fueled exhaustion -- that even after eight full hours of sleep, my limbs feel like concrete, my head feels like it's in a vice, and I struggle to get out of bed, even when Quinn is asking me to come play trains with him. Steroids don't help.

Some of it is that parenting is hard. I love Quinn more than anything in the world, but I lose my patience when it's 108 outside and he refuses to get in his carseat, throws a complete tantrum in a hot parking lot somewhere. That is not the time when my toddler negotiating tactics shine. Instead, I yell at him to get in the damn car before I take all of his trains away, and then we both end up crying. I texted Chris last week: "What if I die and this is all he remembers?"

Chris told me I was being ridiculous.

I took advantage of Quinn napping on Saturday to take a nap of my own. About an hour into it, Quinn climbed onto my bed and gave me a hug, letting me know he was awake. Then he took off to go play with Chris, and I fell back into a light sleep for another hour or so. I could hear them chatting in the other room, getting ready to go out into the pool, and I couldn't summon the energy to lift my head off the pillow. I had the distinct thought then that my boys might be okay if I didn't wake up at all.

This is so hard to even admit. Fuck you for this, cancer.

Later in the weekend, Chris and I were trying to organize old photos, to get them out of piles on our office floor, to finally finish moving into our home. Looking at photos of ourselves pre-cancer, I got nostalgic for how carefree our lives were, for a time when I didn't worry that every ache might be cancer sprouting up again, for my old body and long hair and making plans more than a few months in advance.

I'm trying to take my own advice and remember all the things I have to be grateful for, but some days I am overwhelmed with the grief of this disease. Some days, this is hard.

Unhappy Pills

Have I mentioned to you guys how much I dislike steroids? They're the flip side of my happy pills.

photo source

My nurses still administer them to me with every dose of chemo, a preventative measure to stave off side effects like nausea. They also stave off sleep, leaving me buzzing well past midnight, which is too damn late for this old lady. You'd think rest would be a good thing, right? But the steroids, they will not allow it.

Instead, I lay in bed Monday night, exhausted but unable to sleep.

And as usual when insomnia strikes, my head started going to scary places. Damn you steroids and your potential for inducing mood swings. I wondered whether this chemo is working, what my scans later this month will show, how much of this period of our lives Quinn will remember. I looked over at Chris, sleeping soundly next to me, as I approached near panic with the shitstorm racing through my head. Quinn is finally sleeping in his own bed and suddenly, I had to have my family all in one place.

So I did the exact opposite of what any parenting book would tell you to do (especially after the sleep woes our household has experienced this year).

I tip-toed into Quinn's room, scooped him up, and brought him into our bed. And, yes, fine--judge me. Then feel free to ignore me--or smack me, whichever--if I ever complain about Quinn's sleep struggles again.

Just as we got back to my bed, Q woke up briefly to yell out, "I no want my blanket!"which woke Chris, who wondered what the hell was going on. I told him I'd explain in the morning. He persisted. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"No," I admitted. "But I'll explain in the morning," I whisper-yelled. I didn't want to wake Quinn up. Chris probably thought I'd lost my mind, but I just wanted to snuggle in close to both my boys, breathe in the scent of them, hold their hands as the steroids finally lost out to sleep.

Unlike my previous courses of chemo, I don't have to take three days' worth of this crap with each infusion, so you'd think my craziness and insomnia would have less staying power. Somehow, the steroids still stick around in my system for a couple of days, and while I'm sure they're good for something, they mostly turn me into a blubbering mess of worry, compounded by exhaustion.

Just to top it all off (as if crazy train over here wasn't enough), they also cause major breakouts. It's like I'm going through puberty again, which wasn't awesome the first time around.

Tonight, I fell asleep on Quinn's floor while putting him to sleep. Chris had to wake me up to come eat dinner. Three days post-chemo, and the exhaustion has caught up with me. I have a feeling I'm going to sleep like a baby tonight and feel like a brand new person tomorrow morning. Take that, unhappy pills.

Up Next: The Benadryl Method

Last night, I stayed up way past my bedtime, reading snarky comments about some mommyblogger's dating life (so, wasting time online) while I tried to calm down after a particularly bad bedtime "routine" with Quinn. After more than an hour and a half of my regular tricks not working, I resorted to the partial cry-it-out method to give it a shot. A number of people have recommended it, and I was about to resort to heavy drinking, which is not recommended while on chemo.

This method involves letting your child cry for 5 minutes, checking on them and putting them back in bed, then giving it 10 minutes, then 15 (in theory). After the 15 minute increment, you can start back over at 5 minutes. And so on. When you do go into the room, you're only supposed to put your child back in bed, without words or cuddling or any attention whatsoever--because you've already told them it's time for bed, so there's no need to repeat yourself. Two year olds always listen the first time you tell them something. They're kinda renowned for that. No, really.

I have always had two problems with this method of sleep-training for my particular household. (I try to  refrain from judging other parents' techniques, because at a certain point, you just do what you have to do, am I right?) So my problems are: One, Quinn isn't in a crib anymore, and won't stay in bed if I'm leaving the room, so we race to get to the door and then I have to slam it in his face behind me. Even when I'm completely frustrated with his antics, that has always seemed a bit harsh. Second,  he can turn doorknobs, so this method also requires me to stand on the other side of the door holding the handle so that he can't escape, which feels especially wrong to me. I don't know if I'd be more at peace with closing the door on him if he wasn't adept at doorknobs, but standing there also means that I have to listen closely to his total body sobs, his panicked tantrum, his desperate cries of "Mommy!" I hate that. It does not feel good.

Also, I know my son can fall asleep on his own. He does it easily and without protest for everyone else but me. This is not, then, a matter of training him to sleep, but training him to sleep in the vicinity of me.

Which might be difficult because I'm a softie when it comes to Quinn, even when he's making me crazy because he won't sleep, even on a day that I had chemo, even when I've been a single parent for more than three weeks now. Clearly, he knows what a big softie I am. He has me 100% pegged.

So I didn't make it to the 15 minute increment. Ten minutes had me in tears, wondering what the hell I was accomplishing. He was about to break the doorknob and my heart hurt. I opened the door, picked him up, cradled him in my arms, and kissed his forehead a few times. And after nearly two hours of protesting it, he fell fast asleep--on my side of the bed.

And yes, I do let him sleep with me when Chris is out of town. Like I said, I'm a big teddy bear when it comes to this kid. I often wonder if it's because I've had cancer, or if I would have been this way regardless. Either way, I've hired a babysitter to handle bedtime tonight. It was either that or Benadryl, potentially for both of us.

For those of you cancer survivors out there who are also moms, has cancer changed how you interact with your kids? Other moms, how do you handle sleep issues at your houses?

Third Time's a Charm

It figures I would get a cancer that's (almost) as stubborn as I am.

We met with my oncologist to review the results of Thursday's scan, and it wasn't as squeaky clean as we had hoped for. A couple of spots lit up again -- some minor, but notable increases in activity in my spleen and chest wall, likely a couple of lymph nodes. These areas have been trouble spots since I was first diagnosed, almost two years ago now.

On the plus side, the activity levels were much lower than when I had my recurrence last summer, so at least this fucker is getting successively less troublesome. And while the radiologist suggested we wait another three months to see how things compare, with my history, my oncologist wants to start me on a new treatment course right away (or, as soon as insurance approves it). 

I'll likely start next week. I'll be the first patient at my oncology center to be treated with a new, targeted chemo called TDM1/Kadcyla that was approved by the FDA earlier this spring. Because this is a targeted chemo, the side effects are supposed to be minimal. I may even get to keep my hair. And because it's well-tolerated, it's likely something I'll be on long-term.

When we received the news in January that my scan was clean and I could take a break from chemo, Chris and I celebrated with a champagne toast at a little outdoor cafe. Today, we ran a quick errand and had a late lunch sitting in his car in the parking lot at In-N-Out, trying not to drip our animal-style cheeseburgers all over our laps. He made a joke about how far our standards had dropped. 

As I write this, my two boys are snoozing in bed next to me. There is no better feeling in the world than being part of this family. And I tried to put Quinn down in his own room tonight, but it took a couple of hours (yes, really), and then he ended up dragging his brown blanket down the hallway to our room just after midnight anyway. As I sat next to his bed, rubbing his back and waiting for him to fall asleep, I sobbed as quietly as I could. My drawn-on eyelashes didn't stand a chance today.

I'm still trying to process all of the emotions I've felt in the last twelve hours, and I am exhausted. But you can be sure this bedraggled little army of mine and I are in this for the long haul. I am determined to beat this shit into remission again. Because Chris deserves a reason to toast champagne again, and Quinn -- well, someday I'd like to toast champagne with him, too.  

Plus, the third time's a charm, right?

Emotionally Hungover

I lost a friend to breast cancer yesterday--a Facebook friend, someone I met through the Young Survival Coalition's board and never in person, but a friend nonetheless, and a mom to two beautiful daughters. I spent a good portion of my day at work being thankful for high cubicle walls, so that no one could see me sobbing behind them at my desk.

And then, as I was looking at kitchen faucets in Home Depot last night, news popped up in my email that another Stage IV woman I'd reached out to a couple of weeks ago had passed away as well. Her cancer had actually been caught in the early stages, but had been completely unresponsive to any forms of treatment. I wanted to drop to the floor and rip my wig off right there in the middle of the store, but I held it together, at least until I got home.

To complete the hat trick, a friend posted this news item about a local guy who lost his fight to colon cancer after gaining national attention for standing up to Big Insurance (and winning that battle). He was so brave. It turns out, cancer doesn't care.

It was not a good day to be a young cancer patient.

I remember my grandmother once said something about how hard it was to get older because you start losing so many friends. (On the other hand, as my dad always says, getting older beats the alternative.) My grandmother was probably in her 70s when she made that statement, and incidentally lived until she was 93. I vaguely empathized with what she was saying, but what did I really know? I was in high school. I certainly never thought I'd have to start facing that reality in my 30s. Wherever you are, Grammie, I get it. It hurts, and it's scary as hell.

Just when I thought I'd rounded a corner and was managing my cancer-related emotions okay--even talking to my therapist about non-cancer-related things like parenting and how to incorporate more date nights with my husband--a day like yesterday comes along and knocks me on my ass again.

I know people die all the time, and it's a fact of life that all of us--eventually--will. But I always imagined it as it happened for both of my grandparents (two are still alive) and all of my great-grandparents: peacefully, in their sleep, and in their eighties or nineties. That seems like the natural order of things, the way things should be, the way I grew up believing they would be. I do not want to--nor do I know how to--wrap my head around the fact that young, otherwise healthy people are getting cancer and dying for no reason that makes sense. That I could be one of them. Fuck you, cancer.

***

Quinn and I fell asleep watching Cars (for probably the three thousandth time) around 8 o'clock last night. Chris was at rugby; I didn't even hear him come home. I slept for ten hours and woke up feeling slightly hungover. An emotional hangover? Turns out, it's possible.

We have about a dozen family members in town this weekend for a mini-family reunion, and the festivities start tonight. The restaurant we're meeting at has these soft pretzel balls that you dip in provolone fondue, and I'm looking forward to curing my hangover with them. (Hey, you don't come here for nutrition advice, do you?) Tomorrow night is homemade lasagna--Grandma Campisano's own recipe--and Easter Sunday will begin with ten kids hunting for eggs and prizes in Chris' aunt's backyard.

I could draw parallels to Jesus rising from the dead, but I think it would be sacrilegious to compare myself to Jesus (right?). Let's just say I'm celebrating life this weekend. Because what more is there than family and food and a few prizes hidden along the way?

Also, this. This is what keeps me going. This is stronger than cancer.

Two

Dear Quinn-Love,

Just like all the parents before me promised, I blinked, and suddenly you're turning two this week. Two! I'm fairly certain that, at this rate, you'll be driving next month. When did you get so big? Was it yesterday?

You're curled up in bed next to me as I write this. And for now, let's skip past your sleep issues that I'm fairly certain are related to separation-from-mama-anxiety that only gets worse when your dad is out of town. The truth is I don't mind. I love hearing your soft snores, love falling asleep next to you, love waking up with you nestled in the crook of my arm--even if it means getting kicked in the face a few dozen times as you climb Mt. Everest and run a marathon in your sleep.

From the minute you wake up--this morning at 6:30, saying "Bite-a, mommy! Bite-a," as you lifted my head off my pillow (that's "get up!" in Quinn-speak)--until the moment you fall asleep at night, you are an energizer bunny, climbing anything that's got elevation, rearranging furniture, building forts out of couch cushions, and lately, trying to help me in the kitchen.

Tonight while I was cooking dinner, you pulled a chair over to stand on so you could see into the utensil drawer, which was fine while you were playing with measuring spoons. But in the time it took me to turn around and stir the marinara, you found the scissors. You were so excited about your discovery--something shiny and sharp? Awesome! Luckily, I caught you before you had the chance to sprint around the house with them. Like a responsible parent, I picked you up and sat you on the counter where you could watch the spaghetti water boiling instead.

I love your curiosity. I hope you never lose that. "What's that?" is the soundtrack of our lives the last few months. But more and more, our answers are sinking in and taking hold. So sometimes we'll say, "You know that one. What is it, Quinn?" And you can usually give us the answer with a proud grin. "It's a wall!" "Yellow!" When we were reading your alphabet book the other night and I said, "U is for..." your dad's eyeballs just about popped out of his head when you shouted, "UNDERWATER!"

Suddenly, in the last couple of weeks, you're speaking in full sentences. You and I were counting in the car the other day--with an emphasis on the number nine that for some reason was cracking you up--and when we got to number ten you clapped, then said, clear as daylight, "One more time please, mama?"

You examine everything, want to see how it works, how it fits together, turn it upside down to consider it from a different angle. You have your dad's patience for solving problems.

And you seem to have inherited both our bullheadedness; we'll do our best to channel that in a positive direction.

For now, you demonstrate it with your aversion to pants. A couple of weeks ago, we did not leave the house until 2:30 p.m. because it just wasn't worth the meltdown that forcing you to wear them was causing. On days when we have to be out the door in time for me to make it to work, you and I have occasionally ended up in a wrestling match on your bedroom floor, me amazed by your strength and determination to stay bare-legged, you pissed that I would even attempt to clothe you. For the record, I have only resorted to taking you to daycare in your pajamas once.

You challenge me in ways I never could have anticipated, and somehow, I love you more every single day--in large part because you force me to build forts out of couch cushions and stay in my pajamas until the middle of the afternoon, which turns out to be exactly what I needed so many times over this past year. I'm certain I couldn't have gotten this healthy this quickly without you. And I can't wait to see what the next year (and so many more after that) have in store.

Happy SECOND birthday, Bug. Your Mama loves you.

Delay Tactics

So. It turns out I haven't even had time in the last month to post the photos I promised. Between my broken arm and Chris' 3.5-week absence and buying a home and our tornado-of-a-toddler and my regular job, I barely have time to shower before 3 p.m. most days. Please tell me I'm not the only one who stays in her pajamas when she works from home.

But Chris is back now so I have an extra few minutes a day.

We are trying to break Q of the habit of sleeping in our bed, but it's not going all that well. It takes about two hours to put him to bed every night, me contorted into nearly impossible positions in his crib toddler bed next to him, using one of his approximately forty-five stuffed animals as my pillow and trying to ignore the cramping in my right foot. He thinks this is tickle time, so we giggle for a bit. Then we have to find every. single. thing. he sleeps with: both stuffed doggies, the music giraffe and the other giraffe, his blankie, his water cup, and--for good measure--the miniature tractor my sister-in-law got him for our trip to Idaho last month. If he rolls over or changes position, the "where's doggie? where's tractor?" game starts all over again while we round up the cast of characters.

Once everything is in place, he starts the list of people he loves. "I ruv you, Sha-shoo (Charlotte). Ruv you, Nee-nee (Sydney). Ruv you, Owee (Owen). Ruv you, Nannan (Xander)." And my favorite: "Ruv you, Mama." It's adorable. He is the master of delay tactics. And I am terrible at discipline, because I'm also not-so-secretly soaking this up, loving every minute of these cuddles, amazed at Quinn's capacity to instantly improve my mood after a rough day.

At some point, I have to leave the room house, which Quinn doesn't love. Chris calms him down, and eventually, Q falls asleep. I get a text telling me it's okay to come back inside. This has gone on every night since Chris has been home, except the night we got a babysitter, who of course had no problem getting Quinn to fall asleep right at 7:00.

As for me, I'm just about to give up and let Q sleep in our bed again, even if it does mean getting kicked in the head all night. And hair that looks like this in the morning:

Scapegoat

Somebody in this household is a sleep rebel, and it's neither me nor lazy cat #1 or #2. Even wearing a professionally tailored sleep-sack (so that it's narrower at the feet) (and, yes, really), Quinn can still hoist himself up and over his crib railings. Kid is strong. You should just go ahead and buy your tickets for the 2028 Summer Olympics now. We'll keep you posted on which event, but my guess is high jump. Or pommel horse. 

Consequently, he's been sleeping with me every night while Chris is out of town, which means Quinn is going to bed much later than he should and I don't have any time in the evenings to catch up on Top Chef write. That's my excuse anyway. Easy out: blame the kid.

Not to mention getting-kicked-in-the-face-all-night. What is it about sleeping horizontally across the head of the bed that's so appealing to them? I want to be all "Don't you know better, dude?" but then I remember that he doesn't, in fact, know better. He's not even two yet.

Short of handcuffing him to the crib rails (seriously, it's been suggested), I'm at a loss as to how to get him to stay in his room safely at night. Crib tents have been banned and his door isn't lockable. I'd retrofit it if we hadn't already sold our house. It's bad to resort to Benadryl every night, right?

It's a good thing he's so cute: 

But, Buddy, those bags under your eyes are hereditary and they're only going to get worse if you don't sleep. Just look at me if you have doubts. Don't say I didn't warn you when you're on your worldwide pommel horse media tour.

Parenting 101

I mentioned this post before, then thought of scrapping it because Quinn seemed to be back on track, sleep-wise. But I underestimated the depth and fortitude of toddler sleep regression. And the holidays happened. Then Chris left for a field project for nine days and I learned that being a single parent is pretty much the type of torture they outlaw at the U.N.  how I imagine it must be to tame a wild mustang, so ... not very easy at all.

But - hey! - at least I haven't had any time or energy to think about cancer. You guys were tired of hearing about that anyway, right?

We were pretty lucky for about a year. Other than a teething/double ear infection incident last summer that resulted in a sleepless night and a visit to a clinic in Canada, Quinn was a pretty solid 12-hour-a-night sleeper. He didn't always nap during the day, but we were willing to take that trade.

About a month three months ago, maybe two four, Quinn learned how to (very skillfully, actually) climb out of his crib. Chris and I were sitting at our computers catching up on work one afternoon when we heard the telltale "THUMP" and Quinn came running down the hallway going "woah, woah, woah," a huge proud grin on his face. With that skill acquired, he refused to nap because climbing is so much fun, mom!, so weekend naps disappeared. Somehow, they could still get him to nap at daycare most days. By the end of the day, though, he would be so wiped out that he made no effort to escape his crib at night. We figured we were safe for another few months before we'd have to make the transition to a toddler bed.

We might have been wrong.

Something switched for Quinn a couple of weeks months ago. It started with a 5:30 a.m. wake-up on a Friday morning and a refusal to go to sleep that night until after 10 p.m., three hours later than his usual bedtime. Saturday, he was up again at 5:45. WEEKENDS, KID - they're for sleeping in. We had a babysitter that night, and she texted me just after 7 to let me know how easy it had been to put him down for bed. I told her only half-jokingly that she was hired for bedtime forever.

This proved to us what we had suspected for awhile: I'm the problem in this sleep equation. Quinn is so utterly attached to me that he refuses to let me leave the room. And I suppose I'm a sucker because I'm not ready to lock him in his room and see if he'll chew his way out. I don't need those therapy bills.

Sunday night rolled around, and we thought we'd outsmarted him. I would do bathtime and read a few stories, but then I said my goodnights and left the house for Chris to put Quinn to sleep. Chris texted me 20 minutes later to let me know he was down and it was safe to come back in. We thought we were so smart.

We might have been wrong.

I had a hard time falling asleep that night, since I'd started my steroids for chemo on Monday morning. It was probably after midnight by the time I was out. Approximately an hour later, I heard the familiar thud and cry: Quinn was out of his crib and upset that his door was closed. We tried to put him back in bed, to no avail. The little escape artist would be up and over the railing before we'd even gotten out of the room.

We tried bringing him into our bed, and I think these people who cosleep with their toddlers must have beds twice the size of ours because I kept getting kicked in the face. We also tried me sleeping on the floor next to Quinn's crib, holding his hand through the slats to let him know I hadn't gone anywhere. My hand fell asleep as all the blood drained out and my neck cramped from the odd angle of my pillow on the hard floor. I was definitely not getting any sleep, and Quinn thought I was there to play. Every 10 minutes or so, he'd raise his little head and say sweetly to me, "Hi!"

We tried bringing his crib mattress into the floor in our room, thinking that would let him be close but not within striking distance of my head. He wailed to get back in bed with us, standing at the edge repeating, "Up, up, up..." like the world's cutest broken record. By 4 a.m., we were at our wit's end. By 4:30 or so, Quinn finally fell asleep between us and we were able to nod off for another 2 hours before Monday morning's alarm went off.

Not the best prep for a chemo session.

And this scenario has pretty much been on repeat since the 1st of the year, only this time Quinn threw bronchitis into the mix, I caught his cold, and Chris was gone for eight days. If I had any hair, I would have been pulling it out.

So, parents out there - any suggestions? I looked into crib tents, but they've been outlawed for suffocating kids, so I don't think we want to go that route. Have any of you had any luck switching to a toddler bed at 22 months? Do they make night nurses for almost 2-year-olds??? Where's Samuel L. Jackson when you need him?