"You're So Money And You Don't Even Know It."

Think about your age for a moment. Don't get depressed about it, just think about it.

Then, think about your circle of friends. How long have you known them? How important are they to you? Forgive the trite expression, but do you have someone who is your "person"?

My mom does.

I have these five "guys". I was involved in a horrendous breakup in 2000, and the best thing I took away from that train wreck was my friends. These five gentlemen know more about me than anyone, and have seen some of the worst parts of my personality and not run in the other direction. To the contrary, these five guys (the members of the "Gang-sta Summit", as we call our annual visits) are the only people in the world to accept all my quirks as charming (and sometimes annoying) personality traits that make me the full-bodied character typing today.

Still, they're not Rita.

Sharon and Rita, 1963ish. Nurse Ratched has nothing on these two.

When I was a kid, I distinctly remember hearing a story about how Rita and my mother loathed each other until they bonded over clinicals, when a patient turned south and they had to work together against a Kenny Loggins soundtrack.

In retrospect, I think that was the premise of a 1980s buddy-cop film.

Rita has always been a part of my life. She's not only my mother's best friend of over 50 years, she's my family. In a clan full of ball-busting feminists, she fits like no other. 

She's actually thinking, "Stop busting my chops, you pain in the ass" in this pic.

We stayed at Rita's for my mother's pre-birthday soiree in Brooklyn.

Which I already wrote about, but had forgotten. Thanks, Blogger! And vodka!

Drunk coeds in 1964: Nursing School Pre-Graduates.

We enjoyed our brief visit to Brooklyn, but the cracks in Sharon's faux energy were showing, and we started the trek back to Virginia. I sometimes forget that although her cancer has not spread (apparently, we're calling it Intrahepatic Cholangiocarcinoma, Stage II, due to the inclusion of local blood vessels), it is still significant and overwhelming. This kind of cancer doesn't often present itself until surgery is no longer an option, and generally is diagnosed with painless jaundice.

My mother is a pain, sure, but her pain was potentially a lifesaver.

As we drove to Virginia, and she rested as best she could, I chugged Red Bull (gross, I know) and thought about how fortunate I am to have all these people who have touched my life, both friends and family, and how despite my sometimes-complicated personality traits, I'm still managed to be loved. I am so fortunate for all of you. Thank you for loving me, in spite of me (or because of me?).

But now, let me tell you about the casino in Delaware.

On our drive home, we drove past a casino and raceway. "Want to stop and gamble?" I asked her.

"Sure, screw it. I have $20, and we still haven't found my cell phone." Her phone had been missing in the van since New Jersey.

We stepped out into the near-empty parking lot, she found her cell phone in her front pocket (to my hysterical laughter), and we wandered into the sad casino, filled with septuagenarians with oxygen tanks and bleached hairdos, lonely-looking elderly bachelors, and bored cashiers. It was heaven.

No whammies! Push It! Who's the big winner?

As I am the Worst Gambler Ever, I lost my $5 within a few minutes. 

No. I'm kidding. Did that happen? I wasn't there.

Somebody had a good cashout, though.

 At the top: my big winnings. At the bottom: Mom's.

"This was SUCH a good idea," she squealed as she collected her cash. "I don't feel any pain at all!"

"Yeah..." I looked into my empty wallet. "So, drinks on you, then?"

"I'm thinking margaritas."

One of my favorite things about my relationship with my mom is that we never have to censor ourselves. We respect each other's personality, moment by moment, day by day. I'm terrified of losing our closeness when she dies; it's something I'll never have with another person. But, with this discovery of no carcinomatosis and an appointment which will hopefully culminate in a surgical date, I may not have to bemoan the potential loss of my best friend any time soon.

Meanwhile, I'll organize the hell out of her med schedule.

I am going to be the most diligent nurse EVAR.

"We Are Not Lost."

"It's a detour."

"What do you mean, a detour?"

"A detour. As in, can't go around it, gotta go through it," I sing-song in my best "Going On A Bear Hunt" exuberance. I don't really know where the hell we are.

We're somewhere in Delaware and SR 13 has shut down, along with its parallel routes. I swerve through apartment complexes, driving as sexily as I can in a handicap minivan.

Remind me to tell you about my "thing" for minivans.

We have to hurry to New York. My mother has only a window of time between eating and traveling before her pain threshold has passed.  We'd just absorbed some mozzarella sticks at a Friendly's in Dover (don't you judge us), and it's only a matter of time before she becomes seized with pain. Although all her meds are in a sturdy CD shoulder bag (helllooooo 1990s), I am anxious to get her to a place where she can lay out and relax.

My mother has repeatedly expressed her apprehension for driving and potentially getting pulled over with a treasure trove of narcotic painkillers in this cute bag, held by this relatively harmless lady (she will mess you up over a veggie burger, though).

So all this grease in our bellies, and I'm terrified we're not going to make it to Brooklyn before Grease Lightning happens. (I warned you about the potential gross matters of the blog days ago. Don't hate. Shit happens. Literally.)

"I've never been big into food, " she says as she grimaces on the New Jersey Turnpike, "But this is ridiculous."

Personally, I usually grimace on the NJT, but not because my food intake exacerbates my cancer. Her pain is digestion-related, which seems hardly fair. Either you hate the player, or the game. Not both.

Really? Poop jokes, at this hour? Horrifying.

After many hours and conversations about tumors, advance directives, obituaries, sexual history (sorry, Mom, there have been lady-partners), and what exactly a "Body Farm" is and why she'd rather not be sent there, we arrived in the sweet traffic of the Belt Parkway, in Brooklyn.

I'm very protective of my mother. Not in the, "jump in front of traffic, Daredevil style" way (although, blinding myself with chemicals after saving her life, and become a superhero in the meantime sounds badass), but I walk into a room, assessing what she needs and implementing ways to get them met.

I really don't mean to fall into the caretaker role, but it's easier for me to be someone upon whom people can depend on, rather than someone who has to depend upon others. And it's easy to be there when someone needs you, if they're not a jerkface.

Do you even know what a Wawa is - girl?

After zero hours in Brooklyn, I collapsed into the double bed in Rita's (my mom's best friend and a surrogate aunt) bedroom. head buried against the pillow, too tired to bother with bedding or tooth-brushing or bedtime prayers. Keep in mind, I had been traveling for about 18 out of 30 hours at this point.

Don't attack me for whining, I was happy to do it. Have you SEEN my mother drive?

We woke up early, and I happily took Cujo - mean, Piper - for a run. It was great to get out to Marine Park and breathe that beautiful Brooklyn air, thick with onion bagels and catcher's mitts from the many softball games. I was born in Brooklyn, but left at a young age, and wondered what I missed out on as I tried to get Piper to run faster.

What Does The Fox Say? OW OW OW OW OWWWWWW

The original plan for this afternoon was for her close Brooklyn family to get together for a "living wake". My macabre, old, beautifully curmudgeonly uncle Billy insisted that he get a "Bon Voyage" banner for my mother's pre-birthday party, although we're fairly sure she won't be leaving us in the next four weeks. "Don't be a prick," we all seemed to reply in unison. "I can't help it, it's my nature", Billy effortlessly replied.

Billy's garage. Spot the grenade. Really.

Before her party, we made a detour to different homes in the neighborhood. If you've seen the movie "St Vincent" starring Melissa McCarthy, you've seen the actual street in Marine Park where my mother grew up. If you haven't, you probably don't care. But there were some sweet neighborhood kickbacks from the production company.

 Their childhood home. Also, the tenants got $1,000 from the production budget. Thanks, Bill Murray!

Come close, I have another secret. Don't tell anyone - just between us.

At a house party, do you know where you're most likely to find me?

Not with the socializing couples, or the adorable children.

I'm most likely in the kitchen washing dishes. Do you know why? (This is a protip, in case you don't want to fraternize).

Nobody talks to the person at the sink. They may get roped into drying dishes.

My Rationale: If I'm washing dishes, nobody is going to ask me how my mother is feeling. Nobody is going to ask me how I'm holding up, how although her cancer hasn't metastasized, how I'm "handling" her fatigue, pain and nausea. Because clearly I'm the one "handling" it, not her. 

I've become a Tongue-Holding Superhero, in the face of well-meaning-but-unintentionally-harmful passers-by.

 Irony: this super-healthy Vegeterian Yogini still developed a rare, fatal cancer. So: eat meat.

I hesitated writing a blog, because I am full of many (MANY) Bloody Marys, but I hope that I have maintained coherence. And if not, well, tough luck, it's my blog.

I tried to absorb myself in the social structure of a party, catching up on family (then realizing just how many cousins and first cousins I have, and trying not to overwhelm myself) and filling drinks as needed. Rita was a brilliant host, providing more food than a circus could consume. and keeping the afternoon moving as a celebration, not a "living wake".

Still, I would have gotten a kick out of the "Bon Voyage" banner.

I think the importance of the fete changed once we learned Sharon's disease wasn't carcinomatosis. She is still potentially fatal, but it seemed the urgency to get close to her diminished once we knew she wouldn't be dead in a month.

I, of course, stayed at her hip and filled her wine glass as much as possible. Apparently sometimes 1.5 glasses of wine > 5 mg hydrocodone.

You can keep that kernel of knowledge; no charge.

We are in bed. You should be, too.

Fuck 'Em In The Ear.

I was going to refer today's post to my original post about my sister "The Notorious AMM", but since that was a memory of her accident, I want to share what I can remember about Alison the person, 20 years to the day after her death.

All I have left are sense memories. I remember her eyes, clear blue like Ed's, with endless facets that flared when she was excited. Such gorgeous eyes. After her death, she was only able to donate her cornea, so I like to think that two people are now looking through the world with her eyes.

Alison was obsessed with Cyndi Lauper (and rightfully so). She'd tease her hair, wear all the neon jewelry that the 1980s would allow, and would fling herself around our shared bedroom, dancing happily to songs I would only discover in high school.

And then, there is the "F 'em in the ear" parable.

Which I just tried to write out, but it is an in-person joke.

Next time you see me, ask me about the jizz in the ear.

So, the ear canal can stretch this far, and you stick it in...

Alison was all about the extremes. Highs, lows, I remember them all as vibrant explosions of music, color and light. She was mercurial in the best way. And, sometimes the worst.

We'd have slap fights in our first apartment in south Florida, after my mother had left my bio-dad and Alison had come to live with us from Brooklyn. Having gone from what was essentially a life as an only child to live with a teenager used to older boys was a shock at first. She'd hit me, and I'd hit her back, and she'd threaten to call Child Protective Services on me. It sounds vindictive, but it was our game, and we'd always end up happy and laughing.

She was protective of me as much as possible. I was so muted in those years, and sometimes Alison would be my necessary voice. It's like she had a sixth sense as to when I needed to explode, and she'd detonate on the world on my behalf. I didn't have the skills to tell people what I needed, but I could feel her shelter me with her own vitriol.

The night before the crash, we had a ridiculous evening full of spaghetti and hand-me-down clothes. Ten hours later, she died instantly making a left hand turn out of her apartment.

There are so many moments I wish Alison could be part of, from my wedding day to the day of Ed's accident. I can almost smell her head on my shoulder, the fruity, pungent smell of her Aussie mousse against my face. I hear her pet names for me. Sometimes, I feel her metaphorically in my corner, egging me on, pushing me to be better, stronger.

But mostly, I miss the slap fights.

The Road Trip Is Nigh

I don't think I've ever squeezed someone as tight as I did on that sunny railroad platform this afternoon. It's like I wanted to condense every word and agonizing thought out of both of our bodies.

Of course, I had to be careful, as she does still have that one nasty adenoma buried deep within the left lobe of her liver.

The face of "Suck the big one, you carcinogenic fucker."

"Quick, listen," she said, urging me into the van. "StoryCorps has a story that's SO us."

A police officer was preparing for his lieutenant exam, following in his father's footsteps. His father was dying of cancer, but grabbed his son.by his collar and said, "You're going to take your test, and you're going to kick the ass out of it, and maybe THEN I'll die."

(I'm paraphrasing; I got into the van around the storyteller's last sentence.)

The son agonized over test preparations as his father lay in bed, under the watchful, reverential eyes of both his wife and Hospice nurses. The son's test was scheduled for a Saturday, and his father agreed he'd let go on Sunday, once he heard about his son's achievements.

Ultimately, the son lied to his father about the days of the week, and he died peacefully after being told that he aced the test (which he did, albeit a few days later). 

My parents' illnesses has made me decide to go back to school for nursing, to follow in my mother's footsteps and create a better tomorrow for my family. At the end of school, there is a deeply moving pinning ceremony, and it thrills us to think that she may be there to put the RN pin on my lapel.

"Dear Eddie, All My Love, Sharon" Like "From Justin To Kelly", but actually good.

In the meantime, she's going to put me through the ringer, starting with our early morning road trip, I'm sure. It's like Thelma and Louise, only sans Brad Pitt, and, you know, the whole flying off a cliff. 

But first...Jim made a special OCD-palooza, just for her. I'm waiting to see how quickly she catches on.

I had no input into this impending meltdown. I just took the photo.

The One Where The Mom Wasn't Terminal

So, remember the "Weeks In Cancer"?

I texted my mother, asking how her meeting with Hospice went this afternoon. Nanoseconds later, my phone rings.

"Where are you?"

"Sitting at the piano. How are you?"

"Well..I asked my Hospice nurse how my biopsies looked and she said..'Negative.'"

"Negative? Like she wouldn't tell you? Negative what?"

"Negative for metastasis."

I'm as silent as when she told me she had two months to live.

"Wait, so what you're saying is - "

"It was irritation from the radioembolization getting into an errant blood vessel, not carcinomatosis."

"Wait, so what you're saying is - "

"Surgery is most likely back on the table."

I feel like a parrot. "Wait, so what you're saying is....you're not dying next week."

"No. But we're still going to Brooklyn."

WELCOME TO A YEAR (or more?) IN CANCER.

Surprise, bitches! Time to LIVE!

A Life Well Lived

The reason why I wanted to call this blog "The Year of Zero Cares" (only to edit it to "The Weeks of Zero Cares") is because Sharon will do whatever she wants, whenever she wants to.

Screw you, Gravity! I do what I want.

When she left her latest oncologist's appointment, he told her that she's going to start feeling constipated as her bowels begin to shut down. He suggested she eat as she used to, with small meals of fruit and vegetables, avoiding processed foods like bread and pasta, and keeping dairy at a minimum.

She sent me this text last night:

There was a glass of wine in one of her good crystal glasses, as well.

To say my mother lives unapologetically implies that a woman must apologize for being a single mother, raising a child in love and comfort while maintaining a fulfilling career, making mistakes as a twenty-something but recovering and reconciling with her children, and doing what makes you goddamn happy in the moment.

My mother doesn't live unapologetically. She's lived the life most of us want, mostly fulfilled in her work life, home life (up until 2013, but even with Ed's illness, there's a sense of uncompromising love and fulfillment), and family life.

When Sharon dies, the devastation of her death will be a testament to how much love she had (has) around her. To quote her best friend, "I never saw this happening to her. She's too good."

Zero fucks: eating a banana in bed with her granddaughter. 

Ed is having more trouble walking. I mean, he's got maybe two percent bodyfat (pay attention, Karl Lagerfeld), so disengaged muscles aren't a shock. I often say that my parents are "racing to the end". My mother will win the race, but Ed will run a close second.

The more I discuss my family with people, less often I find my throat catching and that itchy tingle of tears forming. It becomes less of a reality, and more of a monologue, where I can choose to burn myself with the feelings or disengage, depending on with whom I'm speaking. The only sentence that destroys me, no matter how hard I try to dissociate, is "I just thought we'd have more time."



I have to stop. My mom just called me and said, "How about a road trip?"

Timeline Exaggeration

When I started this blog, I was drunk.

I had great ambitions in my early 20s about writing a memoir (like Lena Dunham, but wayyyy more likeable), and I followed this famous quote:

"Write drunk; edit sober."
-Ernest Hemingway

Could be worse. Could be Flakka.

I find that when I drink and write, my verbiage tends to become more flowery, highbrow, and exaggerated.

So when I wrote in my first post, "Welcome to a year in cancer", I didn't realize that what I should have said was, "Welcome to two months in cancer."

It's spread. Little seeds of cancer, growing into something ugly throughout her peritoneum.

She doesn't have long, so I have to write fast, drunk or sober, high or clean; because when she dies, I imagine this blog won't be far behind.

My mother has told people that I'm her "lifeline", but really, she has been mine. There's always the umbilical connection if you want to get literal, but there's the reality that she has saved my life, countless times.

As a teenager, I struggled with depression and bipolar disorder (I still do, but my symptoms are well-managed and I've learned appropriate language for when I need help), and was repeatedly hospitalized. As a mother now, I can only begin to imagine the horror of your child repeatedly wanting to (and trying to) end their life. It's an emotion I hope to never have to experience, but my mother managed my illness with calm and grace, like she handles most things.

She's told me that when she'd come home from the hospital, she'd pause before turning her key in the lock, mentally steadying herself in case I was dead. I told her that the only thing that kept me alive for years was that I knew she wouldn't be able to survive losing another child.

It's like "The Gift Of The Magi", only reverse and with no hair cuts.

I have a shot of Depressed Me, but I don't feel like posting it.

She called me yesterday and, in her most charming, sardonically positive voice, said, "Well, now Ed and I have matching DNRs for our bedroom walls."

"My oncologist said 2-3 months is the median for cancer like this. Could be 4-5 weeks. I walked in in tears, because I knew the conversation we were going to have. I asked him if it was 'carcinomatosis', and he said yes."

SCIENCE DEFINITION TIME! Carcinomatosis: A condition in which multiple carcinomas develop simultaneously, usually after dissemination from a primary source.

I know I love my mom's guts, but not these guts. These guts can fuck off.

"Is there anything I can say that will give you some comfort, honey?"

I shook my head, forgetting for a second that I'm on the phone with her and clearly she can't hear a head shake, you stupid idiot. I choked out a quiet "No."

"You know I love you more than I can express, don't you?"

It takes me forever to answer. "Of course. I love you, too."

When It All Hits The Fan.

When people are stressed, they diffuse with exercise, or wine, or quiet little blowjobs.

My mother's reaction to chaos is to stay up until 4am, scrubbing the kitchen on her hands and knees. I'm talking "running a paper clip through the grout" obsessive-compulsive. It's a trait I have sadly not inherited, as my reaction to turmoil leaves my kitchen looking like the morning after a bachelor party.

Mess is a sign of genius. Or, messiness.

But let me back up.

This all started with black stool.

(Think that's gross? Wait a few weeks.)

Being Ed's primary caregiver is a difficult job, but my mother managed it with the help of a phenomenal neighbor, and a few hours of CNA assistance per day.

One evening in October 2014, she couldn't move off the couch. This powerhouse yogini badass was curled up in agonizing abdominal pain. She finally managed to contact a neighbor to help put Ed to bed, and took some Pepto-Bismol.

Science Fun Fact: Pepto-Bismol's main ingredient is bismuth subsalicyate ( (Bi{C₆H₄(OH)CO₂}_{3 , for the chem-dorks). A side effect from that chalky pink liquid? Black poop.}

Because my mother is as obsessive about her health as she is about her towel folding, she made an appointment with her doctor, concerned with the potential of an ulcer.

Because, you know, an ulcer would be the worst thing ever in hindsight.

It's amazing we have the same genes. My towels never make it off the floor.

I knew she was having a serious phone call with her doctor when she said, "Is four days going to make a difference?" I imagined myself saying the same thing after having a skin cancer biopsy a few days before visiting my parents. I'd throw myself on a chaise, white chiffon gown flowing behind me, and say in my most dramatic tone, "But...is a few extra days going to change anything?"

(I did have my moment a week later, when my biopsy came back positive, but it didn't feel as dramatic as my mother's.)

I'm sorry, can we talk about MY cancer for a minute? Basal Cell For Life.

"They found a mass. In my liver. Five centimeters."

We began a course of PETs, MRIs, biopsies, CTs, an arteriogram..all things telling us that yes, there was something, and yes, it was clearly malignant, but oh, we don't really know what it is.

Can you imagine the horror and frustration of knowing that there's something growing inside of you, but not knowing where it started or how long it had been there?

I immersed myself in studying intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma, a very rare adenocarcinoma affecting the bile ducts inside the liver (bile ducts! Who thinks about bile ducts?). The five year survival rate for unresectable ICC (meaning, they can't cut out the affected part of the liver) is zero. With surgery? 50%.

We hoped for resection, and my mom was still flabbergasted. "I haven't lost an ounce! I thought cancer patients lost weight."

With perfect labs, no jaundice, and pain as the only presentation, she met with doctor after doctor, planning a radioembolization to shrink down whatever that big thing was inside her. Scans couldn't find anything else, so we hoped that if this is the primary malignancy, that it would be easy to shrink and cut out.

But, like I said, my family has a penchant for doing things the hard way.

One of us is showing healthy methods of stress relief. It's the guy in the chair.

Tedious Exposition.

Come close. I have a secret to tell you.

It's something I'm not proud of.

Sometimes....I don't pick up the phone when my mom calls.

DON'T YOU JUDGE ME.

Don't get me wrong, I'll call her within the hour, but sometimes I'm just too tired or busy or stressed or somethingorother to speak with her.

So when she called me on May 20, 2013 and I was binge-watching YouTube, I let it go to voicemail.

However, you can bet when the text "Ed was hit by a car in midtown. I'm on my way to Bellevue Hospital" came through, I dialed her number faster than that time I tried to win an iPad from an NPR radio contest.

The marriage so nice they did it twice.  August 2001.

My parents were in New York preparing for my brother's wedding on May 26. Since Ed had been the toast of Manhattan in his day, owning a locksmith shop at Grand Central for decades and working with everyone, he hit the town on his own, despite Sharon's concern (he had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's, although it was completely mild and manageable).

It all started when a cab made a speeding right hand turn, careening into this big Irish guy in the crosswalk. The left side of his body was slammed onto the hood, and all he could do was continuously say his first and last name. I don't have much more information about the accident than that, because I purposely avoided reading the police report. A girl's got to sleep, after all.

One of the most surprising things about Ed was (is) his incredible strength. He hulked out on the ER staff, pinning a hapless resident to the bed like he was swatting a bee. "He's...so...strong..." the traumatized doctor squeaked as Sharon carefully pried Ed's hands away from the back of his neck.

As my mother tried to console her husband (and the resident ran off to cry in a closet), it became obvious that the emerging bruises along the left side of his body, ear to hip, weren't the biggest issue. Ed had endured two deep cerebral bleeds, and wasn't able to communicate effectively.

And then he puked.

Because my family doesn't do anything the easy way, Ed started choking on his vomit before the doctors could clear his airway. Science nerds, here's a question for you: when bacteria presents in the lungs, what do you get?

Give up?

A really gross pneumonia.

This is your lung with aspiration pneumonia. Some hipster will make it into a tattoo.

By now you may be thinking, "Dude. The name of this blog is 'Do you even cancer', and we're talking about green secretions and beating up doctors and summers in ICU. There's, like, no cancer."

And I'd say, "Shhhhh, I'm getting there."

I think our little girl has anger management issues. New York, 2013.

Eleven weeks between the ICU, traumatic brain injury unit, and med unit (thanks, secondary pneumonia!), followed by a sweet private plane ride back home to Virginia, and Ed was settled in a rehab facility to see how much of himself we could recover in 100 days.

We learned traumatic brain injury isn't linear. This isn't Grey's Anatomy, and when someone suffers such a devastating injury, they're not up dancing after the next commercial break. There were days when my mother would leave rehab hysterical, because something as simple as Ed lifting a spoon to his mouth were monumental tasks.

And then, there were his outbursts. Jeez.

 Medicare Part D did not let us keep the dog. Thanks, Obama!

For people who didn't know my dad before the accident, his intermittent sexual tone and requests for amorous favors came as a shock. We had to frequently remind staff and visitors that his asking for a "quiet little blowjob" or desire to "shove it up your ass" were part of his injury, not how he generally behaved. The first couple of times he solicited me for a handjob were jarring; afterwards, it just became par for the course. I began to come up with clever quips.

"Sorry blue eyes, I don't go for old men."

"You're lucky I like you Pops, I've screamed at street harassers for less."

"I don't do that for less than a thousand dollars."

Forget McKayla. Ed is not impressed with my witty comebacks.

It was clear before the 100 days were over that Ed was not responding well to rehab. He couldn't clothe, feed, or bathe himself. He could hardly walk. His Parkinson's had accelerated, and his doctors raced after his symptoms, compensating with a new antipsychotic here, a trial run of antiseizure meds there. We learned the difference between tremors and myoclonic jerks (pro tip: myoclonic jerks are terrifying), could maneuver his wheelchair like nothing, and became skilled conversational circumventers.

(Yes, I know "circumventers" isn't a word. I just made it up. Don't hate.)

Ed finally came home, unresponsive and presumably at the end of his life, in November of 2013. However, my mother's words rang true: "He'll only improve if he's home with me." He's still not "with it", needs constant care and is essentially bed and wheelchair bound, but the old guy is still kicking. 

We poop on your dysfunctional family archetypes. January 2015.

OK. I think that's all the exposition. Are we all caught up? Because now we can get titular.

My mother is dying of cancer.

The Notorious AMM.

It was your typical high school Tuesday. Bio, lunch, etc. Discussing an upcoming rat dissection was interrupted by a call to the office, where I was greeted by Ben, one of my mother's friends. I wouldn't understand the blanched look on his face for years.

"Alison was in a car accident."

I eye-rolled (I was a teenager, don't judge). Alison was notorious for accidents. At 24 she had already had two major wrecks, walking away unscathed.

The face of a future crappy driver. So. Many. Men.

It wasn't until I opened the door to her apartment and was met by my mother, tearful, saying, "Do you know your sister is dead?" that my pubescent annoyance crumpled into utter devastation.

The charm. She couldn't resist. 

The next week became a blur of visitors, covered dishes of food crowding the fridge, casket decisions, picking up family at the airport. One of those people, Ed had hurried down to Florida for Alison's first wake. I distinctly remember the funeral, the colors, the pinkish light above the casket, the texture of the skin on Alison's hand. I remember snarking at someone for asking if they could keep some of the photos we set aside. 

My mother has said, "Surviving the death of a child puts everything in perspective. There is nothing worse than burying your own."

This was how people styled their hair in the late 80s.

In the midst of these wakes, something happened between Ed and Sharon. Something familiar and warm. They contacted each other frequently, and before you could say "reconciliation", Ed moved from Brooklyn to Florida to reunite with Sharon. They were married a second time, on their original wedding anniversary, in 2001.

L-R: Rachelle, Edward, Jim, Sharon, Ed, Edward (such name repetition), and me

From The Mouths Of Babes

LOOK AT THESE CUTE BEBES

Sweet glasses, NERD 

Pictured above are (L-R) Alison, Edward, and James. I take no credit for their style, as it is probably 1971 and I am nowhere near alive. 

Sharon worked, Ed worked, and there was a lot of chaos, which the universe will most likely dump into its chasm of crap. What's left is two people loved each other, and loved their three children, and couldn't make it work.

Sharon and Ed divorced, and Sharon married Martin (my "biodad").

1980s Florida, before bath salts became de rigueur

After many years of tumult, which requires another blog that isn't worth writing, Sharon and Martin divorced.

Then April 25, 1995 happened.

"It's Not Good News."

She's so calm. Her clear blue eyes don't give anything away. She's sitting at this horrendous oval dinner table (more on that later), ear against her phone against her shoulder, hands on either side of the place mat, and I'm suddenly five years old.

"Is four days going to make a difference?"

She stares at her hands. It is November, but as far as Virginia is concerned, it's the hottest day of the month. My ears ring as she says, "They found a mass."

But let me back up.

Prior to the first tumor, or the pain, there was a woman named Sharon, who was deeply in love with a man named Ed.

Their love story was....complicated.

Sharon and Ed first met while Sharon was still in high school (le scandal! But it was 1960s Brooklyn). Sharon was off to nursing school, and Ed ran a pet store. They met at a dance (presumably, she's asleep so clearly she can't refute), and in what I presume to be a "Back To The Future, Enchantment Under The Sea" moment, fell in love and eventually married in August of 1964.

Here's my mom at their wedding. So cute, I can't imagine what they looked like in real life:

Oh hey girl haaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy

So they married, and had three adorable blue-eyed children (Jim, Edward, and Alison). And thus began the drama, #RHOBH (is that it? I don't understand Bravo) doesn't hold a candle.

"We Need A Title."

"OK, so what can I say?"

"Whatever you want. Just don't call it anything you talked about."

"What, the zero fucks?"

"Right."

OK. It has to be something respectable - "

"Right, with no 'fuck' in it."

"But I can say 'fuck' in posts?"

"Yes, as long as it's in context."

"God, go to bed and stop editing me!"


Welcome to a year of cancer.