The Truth About Angels

Dave had his check-up with the gall bladder surgeon today and it was all good. The surgeon said that there had been one stone and that it was about the size of a dime. Ka-ching. Definitely good that we got it out before inflation turned it into a quarter. Dave, for reasons I do not understand, really wanted to keep his dime-sized gall stone but I think the surgeon must've pocketed it (you know how people nickel and dime these days) and thankfully, there was no show-and-tell tonight at the dinner table. I'm just going to warn everyone that Dave will probably go around telling war stories about being nearly literally dimed to death, but let's all just be glad he wasn't nickeled, too. And we all have to bear with one another on things. This will be one of those things. I have been bearing with a joke he cracked himself up with when we were first married, for 21 years now: "Can you hand me the SHAM poo, since we don't have any REAL poo?" Another one, is, "You're stuffed? And all this time I thought you were real." Twenty-one years, and he still thinks they are funny.

Anyway, Dave seems to be recovering from his surgery pretty well; although he is a little sore when he coughs or laughs, so we have trying to not be very funny around our house out of consideration for him. He is back to work, and already pushing the limits on his Jack Sprat diet. He practically begged me for a cookie the other day while we were out with some friends so I thought I was being gracious to cut one in half for him. While I was blinking, he scarfed the other half down as well. And then he bragged about it tonight to the redheads. They kind of got on him about it, and I kind of thought it was funny. But I did not laugh out loud since I didn't want to start anything and bust open the fresh steri-strips the doc put on the four holes in his belly. Speaking of which, he is pretty pshyched that he has lost about 10-15 pounds since his gall bladder attacked over Thanksgiving, giving him a jump-start on his New Year's Resolution for us to regain our health and fitness in 2009.

The timing of the surgery ended up being an extra boost in that direction, since once I bounce back from my next chemo cocktail on the 21st, we can both begin regaining our health and fitness. That will be the last shot of the T-word in my chemo cocktail, which I still don't know (or want to know) how to spell, but have decided to spell TaxALL from here on out. It has been taxing my coping skills to the max. And, unfortunately, the SECOND this "angel" walked in the door from bringing Dave home from the hospital I sat down and had a meltdown at our kitchen table. I have not really had a "crying in my beer" moment before, but I do apparently cry in wine. (And I do try to not wine ;)) I knew at the hospital while we were getting Dave discharged that I was spent and needed to "not pass go, not collect $200" but go directly to bed. But I was starving so I thought I would sit down with the fam and grab a quick bite. Instead it was a quick cry that didn't turn out to be so quick. I kind of melted down and went splat. It was a quiet and lazy, but cozy, few days around our house, with the convalescing Jack Sprat and Mrs. Splat.

So, thank God it's not an emergency gall bladder surgery week NOR a chemo week (TGINAEGBSWNACW) is what I've been going around singing today. Actually, it's kind of hard to sing, so you have to just hum this one, if we want to get all technical about it. But let's not, because that can sometimes rain on a parade.

Speaking of parades, I hit a real live tennis ball today. I went over to the club to watch my team practice, and took my racket with me because I had had enough of the sad looks it kept shooting me from the sweet perch I had arranged for it, next to my brand new tennis shoes I got for Christmas, (orange ADIDAS barricades that happen to match my orange Head racket, which one would think would make said racket happy) and near my bed, where it's practically the first thing I see when I wake up and stumble out of bed. Anyway, so after the practice, I was talking to our tennis pro, and next thing we knew she had fed me a whole basket of tennis balls. Now, I'm not saying it was pretty, but I hit 'em. My racket was so happy it could barely stand it. I do feel a bit bad, though, because I didn't bring my new shoes. I don't wear my tennis shoes except on the court, and I didn't take them with me to change into because my feet are having some issues with the TaxALL (It makes my fingers, face and especially my feet, numb. Like when you get a Novacaine shot at the dentist and it makes your lip feel fat. My feet feel fat like that 24/7. It sort of drives me crazy sometimes. They fit in my shoes but they don't feel like it. I haven't been wearing shoes, as much as possible, let alone change shoes once I put them on.) Still, I'm sure I'm going to deal with some attitude from my tennis shoes, since I KNOW my racket will not be able to contain itself.

Cheers, and thanks for keeping us in your prayers. We know we have a great debt of love out there, and so we thank God, we thank you, and we thank God for you.

Joules

P.S. to my Daddy-O...Happy Birthday! This is the year of good crap shoots of birthdays: You are now 66, which is a hard twelve; Dave and I will be 44, which is two hard eights. Not to mention, it was our 21 anniversary, which makes it our 22 year, which is a hard four. I think Vegas is calling. Destiny. Love ya.