"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.