On Celebrations.

I am a celebrator.

What does that mean?  It means I find an excuse for a party for anything.

Made a big sale at the shop? CHAMPAGNE!

Daughter moving on to kindergarten? CAKE!

Clear CT scan with no signs of cancer anywhere? CHAMPAGNE AND CAKE!

(I think I may have an affinity for sugar and booze.)

Without beating a dead horse (OMG who beats a dead horse) or playing a violin, the experiences of sadness in my life have led me to further glorify the joys. I feel the shit out of all of my feelings, but charge my soul with the good ones. It distracts me from negativity, like giving a toddler a lollipop before a vaccine.

There should be more lollipops at doctor's offices.

There have been a lot of exclamatory posts about unnecessary graduation ceremonies, and how they only set children up to expect celebration and affirmation for everything. I can think of nothing better than celebration and affirmation. I will always throw confetti into the air, and if my daughter expects a life of parties, I trust her to fill her life with them herself, as I have.

Belize is my spirit animal.

However, today, we rode the Good News Party Van and puked rainbows on our chauffeur.

"There are surgical changes, of course, but looking at this newest scan, I have no reason to suspect that you're not cured."

I was in a heated game of chutes and ladders, smack-talking a five year-old ("I'm gonna spank you! But, you know, not literally, it's a figure of speech, I'm not going to spank you-spank you," I babbled as she looked at me like I'm a crazy person), unaware of my mother's phone conversation with her oncologist. This is the man who held her hand a matter of weeks ago, telling her that she had maybe two or three months.

When I think about the fact that she was supposed to be dead by now, I can't even. 

Today Me so desperately wished she could hug January Me and say, shh, it's OK, just cool your shit, I promise it's under control.

"Man, we need a new angle," I said as I crammed my mouth with the emotional equivalent of German chocolate cake.

Mmm. Cake.

She's been blowing the roof off of her surgical recovery. Not one to settle for mere three-mile walks, she returned to her yoga studio for brutal 90 minute heated classes. 

"I couldn't really do the Camel pose. But then again, I couldn't do it before I had cancer."

She paused. "It feels really good to say 'HAD'."

Which one is the Joy Pose?

So on top of the daily moments, the loud gratitudes made out of small achievements, today I drink this wine and eat this cake* in honor of my mother, who has apparently defied the odds of this traditionally unbeatable cancer, and in her typical style, made me cry by saying, "Now, I definitely get to pin you when you graduate."

"Can I, umm, get to the nursing school application process before you throw that emotional napalm at me?"

"No, no you can't."

"But I can certainly throw water balloons."

"....What?"

We planned a sneak attack. Happy Summer.

"What the shit is this, a post-yoga sneak attack?"

Someone was easily dominated.

*There was no wine and cake. Not yet, anyway.

It's a huge day.

This post is not about my mother.

(I know, you're all like, "WTF? I thought this was all, 'Cancer cancer cancer, TBIs, margins and cells and embos and stuff'?"

And I'd say, "It was really hard remembering where to put the single quote and the double quote, so give me a break, OK?")

This post is about my daughter.

Four hours old, and mugging for the camera. March 2010.

Today, the best version of myself graduates from preschool. Those of you who are not parents can skim over the majority of the blog, but those who have a kid understand the gravity of this moment.

She's hardly a baby. She's a full-fledged being, with thoughts and desires and a personality of which Phil and I had only a small amount of input. The Tot has always been her own person, but when I send her off into kindergarten, there will be a new transition, one that will culminate in her flying from the nest. It's only a small tumble to college. The cliche of "it goes by in an instant" is an idiom for a reason: it is so fucking true.

The day she discovered Photo Booth and makeup, 2012.

I've discussed how we can only prepare our children to better this world by starting off small. Create a better nucleus to create a better cell. Be the kind of person you'd want to have as a best friend. I find myself continuously striving to practice what I tell her, because she is my greatest role model. She is kind, generous, loving, intelligent, and unafraid of the world. And for pete's sake, the world needs more kids like her.

She's leaning against the E. 2013.

When she was about seven months old, my grandmother Eleanor had her unveiling (totes a Jewish thing; basically, they cover the tombstone in cheesecloth and then make a big production out of showing it). She was in a Bjorn, and I was (idiotically) traversing this Long Island cemetery in high heels. While wearing an infant. Because fashion.

Anyway, I slipped on a rock and tumbled forward, and without a moment's hesitation, caught Norah's head about three inches from the ground. I remember kissing the thin black hairs on her scalp, whispering, "Nailed it," and refusing anyone's help while standing up.

Clearly, she and I were destined to be relatives. She recently fell off my silks, tumbled forward, and before I could check on her, exclaimed, "NAILED IT!"

Athlete. Artist. Academic.

So, my sweet graduate, moving bravely forward into the wilds of the public school system: I will always be here; for algebra, composition, broken hearts, sore feelings, or for the times you just need your back scratched by Mom.

Congratulations to a phenomenal human.

Today, we celebrate the good feels.

Settling Into Routines.

If you haven't noticed from my manic writing style, I have a tendency to keep my plate as full as possible at all times.

Aside from getting advanced degrees in music performance, I've been a gymnastics coach, roller girl, flying trapeze student, piano and voice teacher, actor, singer, and a bunch of other things. I am a person desperately in need of structure and activity - I tend to lose my mind if there's nothing going on, like an Australian Shepherd stuck in a studio apartment.

So, of course, I started booking gigs and scheduling shifts as soon as my feet landed home. I wanted to reabsorb myself in the odd balance of my frenetic nature, after the loose scheduling of being home. No TV. Small sips of the internet. Just beautiful human interaction.

A very tired, very happy showgirl blogger, back home.

Please, dear reader, don't take that as me saying "ERMAGERD, taking care of my parents is soooo le boring" - I would be back there in a heartbeat, but nobody understands my need for stabilizing adventure better than my mother.

Besides, she walked 3.2 miles on National Cancer Survivor's Day. She is not messing around with her recovery plan.

"I got lost. Also, I need to work on my selfie game", she texted me.

I did not have such an active Cancer Survivor's Day.

"My dentist told me I need a crown. I said, 'I KNOW, RIGHT??'"

Funny story:

My dentist had to take a phone call mid-post, and when he returned I said, "Is everything OK?"

"Yep."

"Good, because I want you happy when you're inside my mouth. Uh. I mean."

Game. I do not have it.

Every so often, mostly while laying in bed after a couple of glasses of wine, I get an anxiety-related tightness, gripping my heart and momentarily squeezing the air out of my lungs. What if there's more, I quietly panic, What if the tumor markers indicate it's elsewhere?

And if it is, what could you possibly do to stop it?, the rational side of my inner monologue lectures. 

Being the control freak that I am, I want her scanned and cleared yesterday. I want to be 100% certain that there is no need for panic. Of course, I also want Ed to make a stunning recovery and for unicorns to exist and for absolute equality.

But just for today, I'll settle for relaxing into a moment of normalcy. That's all anyone can do, right?

Celebrating my return by picking strawberries.

"Remember Those Six Months I Had Cancer?"

"Come in here quick, and be quiet about it," she said as she pulled me into the closet she and Ed used to share. She handed me a thingie, smirking like a prepubescent boy.

"What...what is this?"

With far more enthusiasm I'd ever imagine this sentence coming, she squealed, "It's REDACTED! Your audience will never know!"

And suddenly, I was an equally awkward blogger, changing an anecdote without a real plan.

"I thought you could sell it, or something."

"The anecdote?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You can come up with a different opener to your post, you know."

"Ugh, but clever is le difficult."

"I know, you're blogging from Trenton."

There was supposed to be something that was redacted, but I, uh..forgot. 

Things have slowly improved, now that we're almost four weeks out of surgery. Aside from a few horrendous days of narcotic-related nightmares ("I dreamed there was a jihadist on Batchelder Street!"), and typical pain and puffiness at her surgical site, I'd say she's recovering like a boss.

But, there is the belching. For such a high-class lady, the residual nausea and gas makes her both physically and psychically uncomfortable. It had reached the point where there was really no need for her to even say, "Excuse me."

According to cholangiocarcinoma.org (yes, there's a site for this cancer! It even has its own livestrong-esque rubber bracelet, which my mother forbade me from purchasing), this side effect is common in abdominal surgery, and is nothing to panic over ("Should we go to the ER?", I asked on evening, panicked over every grimace and the lack of color in her face, "What if you have cancer somewhere else?" "Could you..not..say that right now?")

 

"I'll take the burping over the pain; have you heard that I don't have cancer anymore?"

I felt like I was abandoning her by needing to get home, to my "normal" life for at least a couple of weeks ("It's a big family, hon, you don't have to do everything"). Between returning to the stage, preparing to start classes, and maintaining the general welfare of my vagina, I could also sense a growing sense of burnout. Plus, she had gone back to folding towels the "correct" way and doing small, insane tasks, like using a toothbrush on the toaster's drip pan.

I didn't set this shot up. I woke up, and this was in the kitchen.

Between her gleeful meeting with her general physician ("Thank you for saving my life," she exclaimed before he stepped entirely into the room, "If you hadn't sent me for that first ultrasound, I'd be a goner!"), a man who is clearly not a hugger but still gently wrapped his arms around his patient; and a follow-up with her surgeon, who didn't mind me documenting her staple removal ("It's for my blog, it's kind of a big deal," I said as I pretended to flip my hair over my right shoulder), it's been a process full of pain and tension, but with much support.

Let's be honest, this is not the grossest thing you've looked at today.

She thinks she'll calm down a little more once she has the results of her first "cancer-free-we-hope" CT scan at the end of the month. I told her she has clearance for anxiety for the first five years. After that, she's just milking it.