"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.