"Just take a breath, and do it."

I'm a bit of an adventurer.

Is that a word? It is now.

I don't remember an age where I wasn't a "Jump Two Feet In" sort of person, since that time in the sixth grade where I did a one-woman interpretive dance routine to Elton John's "Whispers" (yes, sellout Elton), decked out in white biker shorts with lace trim, really feeling that whispering whisper.

There is, mercifully, no photographic evidence.

The Little and I drove to Virginia to celebrate the last days of summer, before we're both absorbed in the minutiae of school ("Can we please switch? You take anatomy, and I'll take coloring." "No, Mommy. That's not the way the world works."). We scream-sang "Shake It Off" and "Roar", ate fast food, and arrived at my parents' house in time to drink wine and be merry (Norah was merry, I just drank wine).

Every so often, over those few days of vacation, I'd catch my mother in my periphery, and it would seem (if only for an instant) like the terror of these past several months was just a nightmare I had. These two years have been unfathomable, but the last several months were too much. I hate the phrase "I can't even", but when I think about it all, I. Can't. Even.

Regardless, she scurried about, putting Ed to bed, waking up at 6am, discussing yoga and vacation plans with Rita and things that seem oh-so-normal. The things I didn't realize I took for granted. The only visible memory of her saga is an epic thoracoabdominal scar, which is fading nicely. 

After childbirth, you forget all about the pain of labor. Three months post-op, and the terror of watching her breath rise and fall in the ICU is slowly evaporating. 

I smiled as I watched her finish her crossword puzzle.

"I'm really, really glad you're not dying."

"Me too, but get your shorts on, it's time for the Adventure Park."

Adventure Park Time; come on, grab your friends!

In an effort to slay her remission, my mother has decided to fill it with as much adventure as possible. So when she suggested the three of us traverse a ropes course, my response was, "Obvi."

This harkens back to my opening statement. I love me some adventure.

I'm also a huge showboater.

While thinking about this blog, I asked Norah, "What scared you most about the Adventure Park?" She said, "Nothing. Except Firefly and Cricket (both courses). And going across the wobbly bits."

"But you did it anyway."

"Sort of. I just took a breath and did it."

I had to get her on the way back, but I was so, so proud.

We can learn a lot from the honesty of kids.

And adults, when they want to be honest and free.

"Suuuuuuuck iiiiiitttttttttt", was her exact quote as she went down the zip line.*

*That was not her exact quote

I felt like I was continuously touching my mom, confirming her physicality. We're a hugging family, but I was definitely a love-smotherer. A Smoverer. 

No, that looks like Ass Mover. We can come up with a better term.

Anyway, this Ass Mover decided to take Ed and Norah to the park, so Sharon could get a couple of hours of uninterrupted rest. Always a showboater, I dragged Ed's wheelchair into the wood chips for a photo op.

Grandpa Ed gets next swing!

We may have packed more adventure into these few days than you had over your entire summer. We have to enjoy these gleeful, bold moments when they come, because uncertainty still abounds.

Still, I will enjoy the fuck out of this gleeful moment.

A little side of sass with an entree of adventure never hurt, either.

Out Of The Frying Pan.

"I haven't blogged in forever."

"I know, your life is so boring now that I don't have cancer."

"Yeah, remember that time you kicked the shit out of cancer?"

"Sure, but why don't you remind me."

"I can't, I have to study."


My mother's recovery has allowed me time to start my prerequisites for nursing school, and what a month it was. However, jumping from having music theory as my most scientific class to delving straight into chemistry and biology didn't feel like the cluster fuck I had expected.

All this has happened before. Terrible stethoscope position, BTW.

I seemed to set the bar early as a tattooed, sassy overachiever, hellbent on perfect scores and probing questions, but not without the practical sense to not answer every question asked (even if I knew the answer and OH GOD THE TENSION OF NOT ANSWERING, COME ON, IT'S A FUCKING ENZYME). I walked to school every day, screamo blasting in my ears (don't judge, I reverted to my college playlists and I'm not proud), then settling in the quiet of the library to absorb myself in studying.

And holy christ did I study.

I got 99 problems but a B ain't one

Some things came naturally, like reading a new edition of your favorite book. I found myself at the Sexy Nerd Table, with the women who were probably mocked in high school for their brains, only to blossom into total badasses who competed in biology for top quiz grades. We threw out lines like, "If you get a 100 on this test, I'm going to punch you in the face," and begged our professor to let us each dissect a frog, so we could have the "experience". We gleefully sliced and examined while other students gagged.

I knew I was going to do well, but I had no idea how happy I was going to feel. Moving from something as subjective as studying music, having to deal with moody professors judging you by your phonation on any given day, to thinking critically and scientifically, was worth every early morning and late night. And it's only going to get more challenging, and equally as rewarding, I imagine.

I'm ready for my OR rotation, Mr. DeMille.

My mother's healing has been brilliant, and we're heading down for a few days before I start anatomy and physiology. Naturally, I'm already balls deep in the textbook.

Studying and parenting FTW

So we're going to have to come up with another title. Maybe: "Do You Even Nursing School, Bro?" Of course, that's conditional upon my acceptance, so, maybe: "Do You Even Prerequisite, Bro?"

How about, "Do You Even Love Your Life, Bro?"

Yeah, I'll go with that.