My two cents worth

"A penny for your thoughts, a quarter call, and all of your mama's love" is a line from the famous "26 Cents" song by the Wilkinsons (an awesome country family that sang and recorded together).

Well, feelin' awfully frustrated and not at all insightful, I figure that I get 2 cents worth. After all, I make the rules on this blog, right? While this is my grandmother... I didn't have a picture of me that looked somewhat insightful... sorry.
(I do have the Willis ears though... so it could be me... I guess)

While journalling some thoughts this evening, I couldn't help but bring to mind the last two weeks and how long they have truly felt (MJ, if you are reading this, the length of these weeks has had nothing to do with you or the upper (or lower) room siblings - but a long two weeks, full stop.)

It was two weeks ago today that my mom (biological - just for clarification because there are other motherly types out there, not wanting to confuse them with anyone) met me at the Cross Cancer for the first time. It was the first time they stole vials of blood from me, without so much as my permission, (I think I defaulted all decision making when I agreed to the treatment) and the first time that I passed out while getting the permanent line put into my chest. While it has been a source of bragging rights to my pals, I am going to be thrilled to see it go.

It was the first time that I heard my mom utter the words that I know have been on her heart and lips since last July, and the first time I chose to ignore what she had to say, or pretend to ignore it. And just for my own sake, let me restate the obvious here (with thanks to MJ for helping to articulate it)... this "Albert" disease was something that I had no control over or signed up for. And, most importantly, my mother was horribly mistaken in her view of God - this has NOTHING to do with what happened last July at Christ Church on the 16th, in the presence of "family" and friends, and kneeling before the Holy-Mitred One and being presented by Chocolate-addicted and Priestly-Mountainly type. Leukemia is not a form of punishment, penance, or in response to a mortal sin. If these were true, I would of had to commit a mortal sin... I assure you, I am saving those for when I am ordained in 20 years time...

Within the last week, I have had to admit (not to her, but to myself - which may be harder than you think) that Priestly-Motherly type was right. All the hair has gone. PEANUTBUTTER-SHMAKLE! Why couldn't she have been wrong? FUDGE!!!!! I hate this! Every part of it. And acknowledging that someone else was right all along... when we sat on the couch and she said, "It's all going to go Angela. It's all going to fall out" while I sobbed hysterically beside her. "No. You're wrong ---------. And whatever falls out will be glued back in. But you're wrong."

Well, if you are reading this, priestly-motherly type... accept my apology. You were right and I would have done better to have believed you then. It may have saved the endless nights since as I cry into my pillow that there is no hair to play in, to twist, to smell. Instead, it is wrapped tightly in layers of kleenex for the moment that MJ agrees to tape it, glue it, poke it, spray it, or hold it back on my head where it belongs.

It has been 10 days at the Cross with Charlie, my cabbage patch or Booker, my bear - clutched so tightly in my hand that if I forget to straighten my arm every now and again, it begins to hurt.

It has been in the last two weeks that food has gone from having absolutely no appeal whatsoever to... SWEET! It's time to eat!! And, then back to...meh!

In two weeks I have argued more with certain people about piddly little things like starting my day, drives that result in left turns rather than right, and drinks of choice (or breakfast or lunch or supper), than I am sure they have ever argued before.

Platelets, infectionette's, hand sanitizer, lysol wipes, juice until I just want to throw the cup into the air and take bets on how it will land, and Christmasy paper chains that are longer than I care to describe here and now.

Am I supposed to like this? Is this what I am supposed to be grateful for to God everyday, each morning - asking only for the grace to go through the day with my head held high? Each night, thanking God for the strength to run, not walk? HA! Over my dead donkey.

I am done. This is frustrating me more. Two days left... joy! I guess what I need to be thankful for is that I will be done for Christmas. I can celebrate the true miracle and invite him into my life once again this Christmas time without sacrificing fine motor skills for the shakes, feeling cold 24/7, or taking horse pills every six hours.

God help anyone who even THINKS about bringing this up for another round. I will have their head. I am ready to have my life back, and I am ready for it now. Forget this three month crap. Two more days. That's it. Just TWO MORE...