We had two snow days in a row last week. Our town is (in)famous for never canceling school, but there’s a new superintendent on the job and he hasn’t caught on quite yet. Snow days can be exciting. They can make a person recall fond memories of sledding and cocoa and homemade snow cones with Maraschino cherry juice or maple syrup. Or in my case, they can cause of irritation and rage by mid-morning.
In our house, the same little people who need to be dragged from their beds in order to make it to the bus on time have likely woken up at 5am to squeal at the sight of new-fallen snow. Those same people have probably been in and out of the house, trailing clothing and puddles each way, at least three times. There’s probably cocoa powder smeared on the countertop and sprinkled on the floor. The dogs have already chewed two pom-poms off of the girls’ hats. The crackling fire has gone out. And I’ve tried to call in to three conference calls with barking and screams of “MOMMMMMMM!” in the background. All by 10:30AM.
When explaining difficult circumstances to children, we were told by the experts at the MGH Cancer Center that the important thing was to remain calm, and be honest, and to adapt your message to their ages. By 10:30AM on the first day, I had completely disregarded all of this advice was screaming “I am going to lose my mind in like FIVE MINUTES IF YOU DON’T GO OUTSIDE and NO, WE AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE, THERE’S A SNOWSTORM OUTSIDE!”
The difficult circumstance of being trapped at home for two days wasn’t exactly like my cancer fight. But it was hard. Like moving the Elf on the Shelf for 28 days straight. Or Christmas shopping. Or Christmas wrapping. Or Christmas cards. Or post-Christmas vacation, when we had arctic temperatures for a week straight and everyone was so BORED with NOTHING to do.
In spite of chemo becoming part of our routine, the routine for the last month or so managed to be wonderfully and mundanely hard. And looking back, I’m so glad for it, because it means I was feeling well enough to be (attempting to) managing it all. And the kids, who are very kind and sensitive to the fact that I have been going through a lot with surgery and recovery and chemotherapy, weren’t treating me like a patient. They weren’t handling me with kid (pun intended) gloves, because I didn’t need them to.
My last Taxol infusion was on January 3. My superstar nurse and friends brought champagne. I cried through the whole thing, and toasted to being done, and to the next step.
I didn't have time for this. 