Okay, so I'm not exactly shaken, and I don't really know if I'm stirred or not, because it really doesn't make any sense except when James Bond orders a drink. That is just me and my lead foot with my poetic license, which has not, to my knowledge, been suspended - like other people and their literal lead foot/suspension, who will remain unnamed, but may live under this same roof. Or may not. I'm not saying any more. And I blame it all on the chemo if that will get me out of trouble with any, say Celtic-blooded, not to mention, red-headed, little girl with size 5 leaded feet, who might find some uncanny connection to any details of my blog, written of course, under the influence of chemo and all the accompanying anti-nausea drugs I am on.
So it's Tuesday and I'm writing my own blog because Dave is out practicing driving with Matt, who may have very large feet, but we checked, and so far, no lead, but is hoping to secure his license in the near future. He has recently bought his first car, and he just turned sweet 16 a couple of weeks ago, so the license is the last obstacle to his freedom. Not to mention our freedom from errands he can't wait to run for us just to drive his car.Speaking of cars, my mini broke down again. In Clifton, at 11p.m. Dave and I were going to watch a movie at this artsy theatre we love. (They use real butter on their popcorn, which I think warrants mentioning.) A few posts ago, I wrote that the clutch had gone out on Dave, who likes to blame it on the mini, but in all honesty turns into a completely different person when behind the wheel of such a fun car to drive, and so, since I wasn't there, I really can't be sure. But my money is on the driver. As Dave always says, it's usually an operating error, and usually he's pretty wise. So we took the mini to the mini doctor, who put in a new clutch, but methinks he didn't tighten something, because on the way to the movie (and I must preface this story with the fact that DAVE was driving, again) we lost 5th gear, then 3rd, then 1st, but somehow Dave managed to get us there, toggling from 2nd to 4th. Malpractice and operating errors aside, here's what I think really happened. On the way, Dave was talking about how it was probably time to sell the mini because I had already been struggling with shifting gears, due to tennis elbow and rotater cuff issues for awhile, and then you throw in recovering from the surgeries and especially getting used to the port sitting on top of my chest muscle, let's just say it wasn't a pretty picture. Although I'm sure it looked pretty funny if you were watching me be stubborn and try and drive my car. Which, if you don't know, I call Rocinante, after Don Quixote's horse. So what I think really happened, is that Rocinante got his feelings hurt, and just lost his will to go, as in his clutch just went caput from a broken heart. In Dave's defense, I don't think this was his intention because he's not really that mean, even though he thinks he looks mean with his new haircut. Still, I think an apology might be in order, to Rocinante. And maybe a car wash and a Starbucks card. Unfortunately the story doesn't stop there, even though we did. We quickly lost reverse, then 2nd, then we can only assume, 4th, because there we were in the middle lane of a 5 lane busy street in Clifton, going uphill, just past Good Samaritan Hospital, which is worthwhile information just because of the lovely irony that nobody came out and helped us. Although, there was a nice guy or angel, driving the other way, who did pull up next to us and ask us if we needed any help, but we just weren't sure what to ask for, sitting in the middle of a busy street heading uphill. In the end we called a tow truck, and my tennis partner, Lisa Dupps, who missed the end of a movie she had had overdue for like four months, but who came in her pjs nonetheless to save us. Plus, it was past her bedtime, so she was slap happy and entertained us quite a lot, which is always appreciated in such circumstances.
I have not really cried yet, throughout this whole cancer thing, which I'm not sure is weird or what. I almost did when my kids broke down when we got the initial news. But there's something about your kids breaking down when they hear their mum has cancer, and something kicks in that all you want to do is hold them and try to find some hope to wrap them up in. My eyes did water after the mastectomy when I woke up couldn't get an ice chip (or a friendly face) when my throat was so dry and I was just wanting to get into my room where my people could come be with me. And I did shed a couple of tears while watching Living Proof last weekend, which is a movie about the amazing breast cancer drug, Herceptin, which I will be going on during round 2 and 3 of my chemo, for a year total, and the doctor who invented it. Harry Connick, Jr. (I have to be careful here because David gets a little bit jealous) starred as the doctor, but that's not really why I shed a couple of tears. The women who paved this hopeful road before me, did touch me though. But for some silly reason, I broke down, most likely an empathetic response to my mini's break down. Or something like that. But the comic relief on the ride home was relieving; the mini is back at the mini doctor; and I will most likely be driving a not as cool car very shortly. It's not that I think I'm so cool that I have to drive a cool car. But...one of my students did say I looked hard core with my bald head, newsboy hat and Amanda's bomber jacket the other day. Which I know Dave is dying for somebody to say to him.
All that to say, chemo cocktail #3 has been significantly better than #1 was, and even slightly better than #2. So hopefully we are on an upward trend here. And there is only one more treatment in this round. Which leads me to another point I'd like to address. Since I can't play tennis right now, I'd like to redefine this round and treatment number business, using tennis lingo. Let's call this first round, which we're up 3 games, and at 40-love, GAME. The next one, will be SET. And the final one will be MATCH. I really think this will be more fun. And it will be way less confusing for some of my tennis buds. ;) Boy, am I cracking myself up tonight. Must be the chemo.
So while I was having my chemo cocktail on Monday, followed by a flu shot, which thankfully has not made me sick like the last time I got one, I took the list of port name entries, which were all very fun and brilliant, and Dave, my friend Wendy, and my cocktail nurse (all of whom did not have entries in said port naming contest) and I all shook them up, then stirred, and I decided to name my port Rapha, chiefly because Jehovah Rapha is the God who heals, and that is where all my hope is. And I don't think He minds, that Rapha Nadal is one of my favorite tennis players, not to mention number one in the world. Vamos Rapha! May I fight like you. Not to mention, win. Although I don't have to be number one in the world. I just want to be my kids's mum. And play a little tennis. Ok, a lot of tennis. Until I'm in 100 or so. And on a clay court in Spain would be fine with me. And better on my knees. Pictures of port naming prize winner and their fabulous prize will appear in a post post, if you will, as soon as I go buy the prize and then take a picture of said lucky winner.
And a very close runner up, was Hey Jude, because if you read the lyrics, it's spot on clever. Therefore, I have decided that it will be the official theme song, and will consequently also get a fabulous prize. Which hopefully gets me out of the doghouse for the first paragraph.
And, Lady MacBeth gets to star as me, in the movie, which will, of course take place somewhere around the Port of Good Hope. Honorable mentions.
P.S. On Friday night, Dave duct taped my head, since I previously mentioned my stubble head, and he was only trying to help, at least that's what he said in between cracking himself up, and most likely feeling a little hard core with his duct tape. But I was wondering, if anybody else has had quite an interesting date before? And no, it didn't really work. But he did shave my head again Monday night and now methinks my head is ready to rub and make wishes on. Plus, my hats go on a lot smoother now, and my head doesn't get stuck in one position on my pillow, which Dave at first remarked that he thought it might help me grip so as not to slip off the bed, but all I can say is that it didn't go over well. No, I didn't laugh; you have to be careful about encouraging some of Dave's humor (ask the kids); but I didn't hit him on the head with my pillow either.