Do You Even Cancer? The Chaos Chronicles: You Say It's Your Birthday

"You can be damn sure I'm not dying at a prime number."

She had been saying that since her initial diagnosis. "70 or 72. No way I'm dying at 71."

Sometimes I wonder where my neurosis came from. Sometimes it's obvious.

Happy birthday, MOTHER

I'm going to make this post short, as there are hugs to (gently) dispense and wine to be consumed ("I'm not even going to ask my surgeon if I can have a sip of wine on my birthday, in case he says 'No'."), and thoughtful, quiet moments of another year, a hopefully benign 365 where we're not going to have to wait for another crisis.

I'd like to hope our 20-year tragedy plan is all paid up, and it's smooth sailing for awhile.

I was going to plan a big "Paris Party" for her birthday; telling all her dearest friends and family to come down, eat baguettes, and decorate the house in black and white stripes with hints of pink. That plan, of course, was when we assumed she'd be so close to the end that it would be a true send-off, and thinking that she'd never get to see Paris, so this was a close second. She'd be jaundiced and wheelchair bound, weak beyond measure, but would smile effusively, wearing a silly beret and slipping away the night after her party.

F that noise now.

I didn't plan a party. Daughter Of The Year, right here. Not like I've been distracted, or anything.

Instead of a long-winded post about how much I loooooooooovvvveeee my mother, I've compiled my favorite action shots of her. I've inherited my sense of adventure from her, and I'd love to have you join in on the celebration.

Happy birthday, Mommles!