Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

You know – in the penal system… Oh – and I warn you – do not EVEN laugh when I attempt serious commentary about the legal system; most of us are NOT fourteen-years-old, and to laugh at “penal” is just infantile*.

I’m just saying that the courts wouldn’t have to go through any extra rigmarole to charge Sarah as an adult, as they might have had she bludgeoned five thousand kittens PRIOR to November 4th (please tell me that crime would entail myriad SEVERE felony charges – I should probably pay a fine just for writing it).

But never fear, Citizens of the World; though she turned eighteen just last week, she has already honoured her civic responsibilities and registered and VOTED. So much the prospect of a lucrative criminal way-of-life. I could have been her get-a-away driver and taken a substantial cut, but NO. Oh – and she not only voted, but she did some RESEARCH beforehand, which is much more than I can say for ninety-two percent of the population (and that’s the VOTING populace). That, incidentally, was a very scientific poll that I conducted by pulling random numbers out of my butt.

Now that I have said something crass (could have been WORSE), I will, for the VERY FIRST TIME, utilize the “extended entry” option. If you want to read my somewhat (‘kay – perchance VERY) political confession, it will follow the rest of this entry (at least I think that’s how it works).

Okay. So Sarah is EIGHTEEN. I will now OFFICIALLY wish you your cyber Happy Birthday, my Dear!!! And I’d add some of that complimentary flashy-twinkly birthday clip-art, but it really does make me motion sick. How about some ART instead?:

Portrait of The Birthday Girl as The Birthday Girl

Oh – in my spare time I also did a watercolour:

Portrait of The Birthday Girl as The Birthday Girl
But THIS TIME in Watercolour…

Sarah, still being a teenager, and in spite of her advanced civic proclivity (say that five times fast), made the celebration of her birthday rather difficult. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, what she wanted to eat – you name it – even though her Mother and my Mom asked her EVERY DAY for I don’t know how long. Finally, she told my Mother that what she wanted for Sunday dinner. She and Shirleen went shopping, I think. And she ultimately concluded that she wanted my Mother to buy her “hooker” boots (this is her designation – the girl who dressed as Hayley Mills for Halloween). Put more simply, she wants tall, black leather boots – trÚs chic, really. And, as she STILL IS a teenager (have I said that two or three or fifty times now?), none of the five thousand three hundred and fifty-two pairs that she tried on in all seven hundred stores through which she dragged my Mom were “right.”

I eventually marked three billion possibilities on Zappos so we could order some online. She scoffed at most of them, though she had no explanation as to what she ACTUALLY wanted and what, exactly, she found HIDEOUS and objectionable about ninety-eight percent of the possibilities I’d marked. Who KNOWS what was wrong with pair number seven hundred thousand three hundred and thirty-one (I don’t think she did). She mostly indicated her displeasure of my suggestions by a strident “NEH!” and a dismissive sweep of her royal hand (she WAS wearing a tiara). I hope the ones we ordered FIT.

Otherwise, it was Birthday business pretty much as usual. There was chocolate cake with candles (I honestly had to ask if there were ONLY eighteen), our traditional rendition of Happy Birthday with loads of improvised off-key operatic harmonies, extraneous coloratura and Tuvan throat singing (okay, one of those is not true), “lite” ice cream – which probably doesn’t make any sense considering the chocolate cake weighed (by ITSELF) approximately three hundred pounds, and jollity and high spirits all about (which is REQUIRED by law, I believe). Sarah received two dozen beautiful purple-ish roses (I think purple roses always have the loveliest fragrance):

Sarah also received an assortment of small gifts. I thought mine was very thoughtful and generous. I gave her a tape recorder with an incorporated microphone (so she can make gushy tapes to send to her boyfriend); I even let her choose between two that I purchased and didn’t tell her which one was more expensive (so naturally, as a young woman of discerning taste, she chose that the more costly one). I’m munificent like that. Oh wait – I got it for her so she wouldn’t use my recording equipment all the time. Perhaps I’m an narcissistic shrew (well, it is all about ME, isn’t it?).

The culmination of the party was when we tried to simultaneously shoot small incendiary devices at the dining room chandelier so that it was bedecked in festive, multi-coloured streamers. And it didn’t even start on fire.

Now, as is my LEGAL right as an Aunt, who saw Sarah come into this very World (via C-section – that was COOL), I get to be mawkish and overly-sentimental. After all, she was my very first niephew (niece or nephew). And if you mock me, Sarah, you will be visited by the mauldin Karma fairy who will bonk you on the head with her cosmic wand so that the older you get the more sappy you’ll become. You think I’m kidding? I am firmly convinced that I am as slushy-mushy as I am because I used to mock my Mom when SHE was moved and teary-eyed at things.

To the point: Sarah impresses me more each day. Yes, it boggles my mind and alarms me to no small extent that she is, in essence, AN ADULT. But, again, as it’s ALL ABOUT ME, I think that it’s most agitating because it makes me VERY OLD, indeed. But despite my advanced age and the possible onset of dementia, I can still see with what ever-increasing poise and kindness Sarah goes through life (sometimes it is extremely LOUD poise, but it’s poise and grace, nonetheless). She’s been through so much, and she NEVER (for more than a few paltry minutes here and there) loses her humour, her hopefulness and an astonishing eagerness for life. May I borrow a cup of that, please?

And what I find most astounding nowadays – what leaves me more and more and MORE dumbfounded each time I see her – is her FREAKIN’ HAIR. It grows like…Hmmm. It grows like Morning Glories, but as fast and all-encompassing as when you realize that you that you are old enough to see past the fact that they are “pretty” and notice, instead, that they are killing your shrubs with their insidious tentacles – causing a slow, painful, choking death to your plants. Yes, Sarah’s hair fits th
at analogy, but in a good way, not the suffocating death option. And it’s so CURLY. Untamed waves and tendrils and ringlets wantonly flowing this way and that and then the other direction; it’s amazing. I don’t know if the curl an after-effect of the chemo, or if it’s because her hair is short now…

Whatever the case may be, her tresses evolve constantly, and not just because they grow at miraculous rate, but she experiments with different coiffures (and well she should). At her Birthday party she looked like a Greek Goddess. I didn’t get a picture that did her justice.

Okay, so her HAIR isn’t the critical subject of the day. But somehow, it’s as though one can admire the wonderment of healing and nature through something that most people take for granted – the seemingly mundane – the tresses of a young lady. And a wonderful young lady she is.

I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH, SARAH! You inspire me.

*penal – heh heh

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For my Anniversary (I must say “mine” – things haven’t been “ours” in a long time, you must agree), for my Fifth and my Twelfth, like I’ve said, “Depending on how you look at it,” I am getting a “No More Tears” phone. The phone I’ve had for more than two years now – well, the phone I did have and its Evil Twin, The Refurbished Warranty Replacement Phone – have been topless for a LONG time. I always get my mobile phones little leather outfits, not in the S & M spirit one might suspect, but rather in the protective motorcycle “leathers” sense. Yes, I drop the poor things, and I think that the their wee leather coats protect them to some extent. But this phone witnessed a lot of…the “End,” by means of myriad text messages and oh so many conversations full of things that I’m sorry I said or I’m sorry I heard; I’m sorry about many things. And my easily incited tears always got caught under the plastic screen protector and trapped damaging moisture under the top part of the little “outfit.” After wiping that damn thing off the umpteenth time, I finally just took it top off. And somehow, in one of many moves, I misplaced it (probably, PERHAPS, subconsciously on purpose because I was not brave enough to put the thing back on again lest it somehow brought on upsetting conversations). Come on – I’ve never denied that I’m crazy and selectively superstitious.

I think I told you this: Over a year ago I was sitting at a Friend’s funeral. And I was feeling JEALOUS. He’d been remarried right before he’d been re-diagnosed with cancer, and his new wife saw him through that horrific time. And I had the narcissistic GALL to sit and be jealous that I’d felt all alone during my worst times. But that was a wake-up call. I was so DISGUSTED that I could sit there and think THAT and wallow in SELF-PITY when we were mourning my friend and his lovely, still essentially NEW bride, had to figure out how to say goodbye to him after three years of wondrous hell. That’s when I thought ENOUGH ENOUGH ENOUGH! I still was/am trying to figure out how to forgive myself and to forgive you, but I finally was able to acknowledge that we had a lot of beautiful, intimate years – time that some people never are privileged to find or to know – and that even if I was still hurt or angry or CRAZY AS HELL (working on that one) I really needed to move on in my thinking. I had moved on in many respects, obviously, but to decide that I didn’t have to live an absolute and that I could acknowledge what I was so grateful for what I once had, I could choose to remember it, and even though sometimes it might make me feel a little lonelier (in comparison) I had the opportunity not to denigrate or erase it. And it doesn’t mean dwelling in anything – I was dwelling in my feelings of abandonment and I will always have to be careful of that bugger. It just means that I can feel lucky for something in my life that had so many moments of inexplicable beauty and humour and love. And, YES, it means that I will get a little melancholy on MY Anniversary. I was always the more nostalgic one, anyway, so give me a break. Don’t worry – I’m not going to give you any wood* (that’s for the Fifth) or silk/linen (for number Twelve) – or the “Nontraditional” gifts of silverware (Fifth) or Pearls (Twelfth). Besides, I already have the pearls, thank you very much (you never timed anything “traditionally,” did you) and though now the idea of sending you an anonymous “spork” and a napkin strikes me as rather droll at the moment, it’s a little too late. Let’s just go with the idea that it’s the thought that counts.

So tomorrow, I’m getting THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOUSE and getting that phone. It will be SUPER-COOL and NOT half naked. I’ve also made a decision. I found a bunch of rolls of film, and I know that our actual “Wedding” pictures are among them. I was debating about developing them, but I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to do it. We had an BIZZARE and BRILLIANT Wedding, damn it, and I’d like to remember it. I will make you copies of the pictures. I sincerely hope you’d like to have them. Signed, A Bear Bean (OKAY – a Bear Bean BUBBIN)

*Who thought up this stuff anyway? WOOD????

I hope everyone lived strong on LIVESTRONG Day! I, myself, completed the day by seeing Mission: Impossible III, in which everyone lives VERY strong with weapons or without them, with bombs in their heads or without them, using Easy Cheese to dissolve the side of a van (or not). AND sometimes they even compute the fulcrum. That’s why, when I was young, all science seemed interesting to me EXCEPT physics – it was because of the fulcrum. When they gave you the picture with the teeter-totter with the supporting triangle in different places and said, “Where is the fulcrum?” or “What is the right fulcrum if the wee tiny kid and the really LARGE kid want to teeter-totter together?” I was always thinking “WHAT IN THE HELL IS A FULCRUM?”

Where was I? Ah yes, Blog against Cancer. In case you’ve forgotten (because of the FULCRUM), that’s number four on the list of suggestions from the Lance Armstrong Foundation.

I said a lot of what I might say now (had I not written it already) in “I Have Learned What it Means to Wear Yellow.” But, as things change for the better and for the worse, I have things to add. So let me talk about why I STILL Wear Yellow and probably always will.

I Wear Yellow in continuing memory of Laurie Walker, Helen Pawlowski, Joan Koralewski, Simon Craig Vodosek, and, yes, Mister Rogers. I Wear Yellow in honour of their families and loved ones who miss them, and to pay homage to their amazing legacies.

I wish you’d met this incredible child, Laurie.
Your daughter is such a beautiful Mother.

I Wear Yellow now, too, in memory of Glen Orrin Richardson and Grettir‘s Aunt Marge (who by all accounts was the embodiment of “salt of the Earth”).

I Wear Yellow in abiding optimism for Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright. I Wear Yellow because of her personal fight with cancer, and in admiration and respect for the work that she and her colleagues do every day so that perhaps some day the losses and battles caused by cancer will be diminished – vanquished!

I Wear Yellow, too, in support and hope for Glen H., Barbara K., Ann E. and in their ongoing battles with cancer. My thoughts are with you and with your families.

I Wear Yellow in celebration for my beautiful niece, Sarah, who has had a “complete response” to her Hodgkin’s Lymphoma treatment.

Prom, April 22, 2006

I Wear Yellow in profound gratitude to Primary Children’s Medical Center and all the wonderful doctors there, especially Dr. Zeinab Afify, LDS Hospital and the wonderful Radiology Oncologist whose name escapes me, Cottonwood Hospital, all the home health nurses and workers, and the remarkable physicians at Johns Hopkins who worked so hard to figure out was wrong in the first place.

I Wear Yellow in thankfulness for all the Monkey Cats who provide an INSANE but diverting respite for Sarah from the unending (though natural) concern of her family. You have all been just FANTASTIC (and, as we all know, it takes VERY special people to be Sarah’s friends, as she is VERY special). And Rob – what can I say – you really are one in a million. You take such good care of our girl and treat her with respect, tenderness and patience beyond your years. Sarah didn’t tell us, but your Mom spilled the beans to MY Mom that you even offered to shave your head in support of our G.I. Jane. And in characteristic Sarah fashion she said, “No, SOMEONE should have hair!” Nevertheless, the mere fact that you offered is a testament to your character. Thank you for helping let Sarah live a full and very teenage life despite her chemo and radiation and whatnot. Thank you for wearing a mask and using anti-bacterial gel when she was immunocompromised (without anyone even having to ask) and for helping remind HER to be careful when it was necessary. Bless you.

I Wear Yellow because Sarah has shown me what an incredible young women she’s grown into. She has faced adversity, uncertainty and pain with a truly unique approach. And through it all, she has shown with VERY few exceptions, only patience and optimism. I am so proud of you, Sarah!

I Wear Yellow for Shirleen and for my Mother who take care of everyone else first. They work so hard and take essentially NO credit for all that they do. I am in awe of both of them.

I Wear Yellow to remind myself to have faith that a day will come when “cancer-free” will mean “cancer-free.” Glen Richardson and my Father showed me we are not there yet. My heartfelt desire is that Sarah (and everyone who is living or has lived through cancer treatment) will someday know truly what it is to be “cancer free.” I Wear Yellow because I believe there are cures for cancer in the future. And if now or in the future a cure is not enough, I Wear Yellow because I trust that some day end-of-life care and palliative care will be what they should be. And I thank, sincerely, The Division of Medical Ethics for the knowledge they gave me about such important issues.

And lastly, or perhaps foremost, I Wear Yellow for my Dad. Please know that despite whatever ridiculously stubborn guff I throw your way, I love you so much! I know you are hurting, and you still work so hard. And yes, I think most of us wish you knew how NOT to work so hard, but I’m still very proud of you.

I think this is what you do the very best. You were born to be “Grandpa.”

First, please attend the second annual Simon’s Birthday Lemonade Stand. Here’s the information, provided by his lovely Mother, Mary:

Classmates, friends and family of Simon Vodosek (who died of cancer in 2004 at the age of 7) will celebrate his life with the second annual Simon’s Birthday Lemonade Stand for Pediatric Cancer Research on what would have been Simon’s 9th birthday. The lemonade stand was inspired by Alex Scott, another child diagnosed with neuroblastoma, who took matters into her own hands and decided to fight the disease one glass at a time.
10% of all purchases at Liberty Heights Fresh on May 17 go directly to the Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation, along with all proceeds from the freshly squeezed organic lemonade, donated by Liberty Heights Fresh. Store hours are 8:30 am to 8:00 pm.
Simon’s favorite clown, Marcus, Funny Man Who Does Tricks, and of course, birthday cake will add to the fun:
4:00 pm

I have mentioned the life and death of Simon Craig Vodosek numerous times on this site (take a look at my In Memory Category). I just received word that Brighton Ski Resort is going to name a ski run, the “easiest,” after Simon. Let me quote Simon’s Mother, Mary:

We are thrilled about this meaningful tribute to Simon. In 2004, Simon skied on this same hill during his brief one-season career as a skier. The little run, rated “Easiest,” will be accessible to all levels of skiers–a fitting tribute to our son, who was six when he first skied and seven when he died of neuroblastoma, an aggressive childhood cancer.

On this Friday, April 14, 2006, Simon’s Way will be dedicated at 2:00 p.m. Here’s a prototype of the sign:

Please visit Simon’s Place to see pictures of Simon sking. More importantly, on this page you can find out how to purchase an all-day pass from Simon’s Family that will benefit the Children’s Neuroblastoma Cancer Foundation.

One last word from Mary:

If you can’t join us, please think of us as we make this happy step in our mourning of Simon’s death and our celebration his life. For years to come, we will all be able to ski past the sign and know that we are traveling “Simon’s Way,” remembering a little boy who lived a joyous life.

No offense to my Kitten Children (I’d probably fall prey to that urge to cover their tiny eyes again if they were in the room), but I had thought that I’d name a human infant or two (MY children, not random youngsters off the street) in my life. Coming to the sober realization in the past couple of years that I may not have that opportunity, I gave my second Kitten Child one of my favorite baby names (Fiona) and I hope my someday erstwhile and beloved Mother-in-law either hasn’t noticed or isn’t offended that I stole her name for one of my CATS (Fiona MAURA MacArthur). Oh – and MacArthur is an ancestral family name I like (and I thought it went so nicely with those Celtic names). Besides, I have saddled NEITHER of my Kitten Children with MY last name. BeBe got the whole Italian thing (her human Mom was Italian – I stole her name, too – Beatrice ALLESSANDRA Gatto – the MIDDLE part, not the “Gatto” part that means “cat” if you didn’t know already). But none of that’s the point, really. (SURPRISE!!!).

On Friday I got to see a couple of dear friends who suggested ONCE that they might actually move HERE, but instead have crossed me RIGHT OVER from Colorado to California and then to a different area in California. FIE ON YOU, I SAY!!! ISN’T IT ALL ABOUT ME???? Sorry – no good medication for narcissism yet. Anyhoooooo, Morgan and Amber were here visiting her Parents and her Sister and Sister’s family (who DID have the good sense to move close to me – I really should visit THEM more often). There are some potentially serious medical problems being investigated, so everyone send good thoughts or prayers (whichever are your prerogative) to Amber’s Parents, who are damn fine people.

Despite the worrisome circumstances bringing them here at the moment, I was thrilled to get a chance to see Kendyl (who is turning FOUR – I’m old, I’m OLD) and have birthday fun, and best of all, I finally met the delightful child who I shall presumptuously refer to as “my namesake.” AND SHE DIDN’T CRY WHEN I HELD HER!!! I’m telling you, when you meet a child less than a year old, WEAR FLEECE. Then you are not frightening, you are just a big teddy-bear-blanket surrogate – except that you are even warmer (and in my case, more squishy). Yes, Morgan and Amber have BEAUTEOUS children. I didn’t have anything but a camera phone with me, so I’ll use pictures that they sent to me – taken a month or so ago:

Kendyl, Almost Four

Emmry Kate

I realize I neglected to explain how I helped name a human child. If you haven’t guessed WHICH child I helped name, I’ll give you a big FAT hint: Her middle name is VERY, VERY close to my name. Oh wait – it IS my name! When I heard Amber and Morgan were using Kate I was secretly or openly VERY delighted (I don’t remember which). BUT, as it turns out, I ALSO inadvertently provided the inspiration for her first name. I had mentioned to Morgan and Amber, prior to Emmry Kate’s birth, that I had a new favorite family name: Emerett. Emerett was one of my second great-grandmothers. Not only do I like the name “Emerett,” but I get a kick out of the fact that her maiden name was “Funk.” Yes, I come from a line of “Funks,” and other such festive relations. Anyhoooooo (I usually limit myself to ONE “anyhoo” per entry, but it’s officially Spring, and I should celebrate somehow), Amber and Morgan remembered that conversation, liked the name, and came up with “Emmry.” And HUZZAH!!! Their youngest now has an absolutely BEAUTIFUL name (Kendyl is a lovely name, too – and she’s wonderful – but she can’t read yet so I can say that “Emmry Kate” is one of the BEST NAMES EVER). Thus, through completely unintentional means, I helped name a HUMAN CHILD.

Teenagers these days. A few weeks ago Sarah got FIVE TATTOOS on the same day. I kid you not, FIVE. And if she thinks she can keep them all hidden, she is mistaken. I will now supply artist’s renderings of EVERY SINGLE ONE:

Yes, these are ACTUAL SIZE

Okay, so the doctor gave Sarah the tattoos in order to prepare for the low-level radiation treatment she’s been having. Shirleen was explaining the process to William, as he, true to his fetal-man status, had completely missed that it was going to happen at all. After she had clarified the treatment for a bit, William asked:

Will she get super-powers?

Granted, he was being facetious (okay – he was being – oh, let’s say 85% facetious; he has seen Fantastic Four one too many times). Shirleen enlightened him further, telling him that the radiation was low-level, and that it would be directed to a very specific area of her “mantle” or chest region. He then surmised that perhaps she would just have a super-powered bust. True, that’s a very fifteen-year-old boy thing to say, but I admit to being rather amused at the myriad costume possibilities for a person with such super-powers. The most important part, obviously, would be the brassiere, of an exceedingly stalwart construction. The title options are fun to ponder as well. “LOOK – it’s a bird, it’s a plane – no – IT’S Phenoma-BOOBS!!!” Or, if you’d rather, “The Breast Avenger.” Maybe “Princess Super-Bust” with “Hooter-Powered DOMINANCE?”

Sarah had her Central Broviac® Catheter removed yesterday. I would imagine that she dreams of having a bath or a shower in which she can cover ALL her body parts with water SIMULTANEOUSLY. The post-surgical instruction sheet from Primary Children’s prohibits her from riding her scooter, swinging, and playing on the monkey bars for a few days – so I imagine a pogo stick is RIGHT OUT. They wrote in “driving,” as well, because of her age, but the irony is she doesn’t drive yet and she would probably be very tempted to utilize a pogo stick if given the chance.

Only one more week and you can lounge in a five-hour bath until you are a veritable prune, Sarah!!!! And in the meantime, you don’t have to heparinize every day and have dressing changes with a “sterile field.” Huzzah! The heparinizing is part of “flushing the line,” which explains why Sarah has been peppered daily for the last six months or so with the question, “Did you FLUSH?” She’ll still have to have a few blood draws as part of the radiation and check-ups, but the overwhelming desire to change BACK the expression “Boob-Tube” to its original meaning as a television synonym won over.

I, in sympathy of her procedure, did my best to create a battle-field surgical setting (I skipped the general anesthetic) in order to “touch up my roots.” This entailed an intricate system of clean kitchen garbage bags held in place with masking tape (sorry, Dad, didn’t seem like the occasion for duct tape – though for you, I appreciate that EVERY situation demands duct tape). Then I had a double-bagged “red bag” garbage system set-up for any disposables covered in dye (I didn’t use a real “red biohazard bag,” though I do have some – they make lovely gift wrapping for over-sized gifts) – oh – and none of this refuse will have to be incinerated at a biohazard plant. Athletic tape, latex gloves, yards of plastic wrap and one of those salon capes (under which I wore painting clothes, just in case) were also integral parts of the process. And NO, I didn’t go nutty overboard and use the Sarah’s sterile surgical gloves. I did double glove, but that’s just good planning. I had asked all the necessary (probably daft) questions at the beauty supply place, and I was ready to go. I, naturally, chose the middle of the night during which to endeavor this solo project. I have done it ONCE already (without entirely horrific results). And I learned my lesson the first time about what to watch on TV while processing the colour – no sex shows (despite their scientific demeanor and merit) on TLC or any other “educational” channel. I chose Olympic hockey (Russia versus Kazakhstan).

Since I was attempting to “touch-up” my roots, I was somehow supposed to put the squid ink solution JUST on the root sections first. This defies all laws of physics, especially the rule of Brownian Motion:

The continuous random motion of solid microscopic particles when suspended in a fluid medium due to the consequence of ongoing bombardment by atoms and molecules.

Wait – perhaps this ADHERES to some rules of physics (such as the aforementioned one) and “The Uncertainty Principle.” Whatever the case, trying to saturate ONLY YOUR ROOTS is an absurd pursuit.

I had also decided that after my roots processed for half the time, I’d “comb it through” and then boost the rest of the colour.” My hockey strategy seemed to be working, and I did make it BEFORE the timer buzzed (leaving a minute or two to unwrap some of the strategically placed plastic wrap, add the rest of the dye, and STRUGGLE to comb it through. I sat down (on a protected service, naturally) to watch more hockey during the second processing stage. I was doing really well, but then one of the announcers said, “Ah, ‘stick between the legs’.” Then the other concurred, “Yes, ‘stick between the legs’; that’ll be a penalty” Followed by, I kid you not, “Let’s watch it in slow motion.” Next, during the slow-motion replay, “Ah – there it is – ‘STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS’ – it’s very clear.” This made me snort, guffaw and chortle like a junior-high-aged boy. They said, “STICK BETWEEN THE LEGS.” Snicker, ha ha HAAA! Please cut me a modicum of slack; it was the middle of the night, and what with the pungent chemicals and an excess of plastic wrap and athletic tape about the head and face…

ANYHOO, after I’d been diverted by the above-mentioned hockey penalty for a number of minutes, I had the good sense to go and CHECK the timer, and I caught it immediately after it buzzed. Here’s the dilemma; I’d attributed the exceedingly dark results I’d achieved with the original dye job to the excessive processing time. Alas, this was only part of the trouble. I now know that I am STUCK with a colour that was just too dark in the FIRST PLACE. It isn’t a midnight BLACK auburn, but it was not what I was trying to achieve. At least I am using a product “For the younger, hip, modern client.” I didn’t know. But, as a reminder to myself:

NOT 5.60 Intense Red Auburn

Today is Sarah’s LAST chemo infusion! I would warrant, judging from the picture of her first infusion compared to today’s photo, that she really has the system down now.

I am not sure of the source of the tiara, flowers and gifts (they may well be from Mom and Grandma), but I wouldn’t be surprised if Primary Children’s had something to do with it. They really are exceptional. Like Sarah stated previously:

When I go to Primary Children’s they make everything really fun. They have everything there. If you’re gonna get cancer, that’s the place to go.

Too bad we cannot all pass for eighteen years old and under.

Next, Sarah has some lower-dose radiation in the “mantle” region. Her PCMC doctor referred her to a physician who was the head of a Nation-wide study of subjects around Sarah’s age with the “bulky” version of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma (like she has). Because she has had what they define as a “complete response” to the chemotherapy, the radiation will make the chances of recurrence extremely low. At that appointment they should us some of the comparative scans from the beginning of her treatment to the present. I think my Mom and I were glad to have NOT seen the first scan until now; the biggest tumor – larger than I really had comprehended – actually had been pressing her trachea to one side. Now it is back in line. It is amazing.

Soon the Central Broviac® Catheter can go, along with its daily and weekly maintenance (and I imagine a REAL shower will be quite the treat), the prednisone-induced puffiness will go away, and she can, in earnest, grow back her hair. Mind you, the girl has such amazing follicles that she never lost her eyebrows and eyelashes, and in between every chemo round she grows – I swear – a quarter inch of fuzz on her head. No more Sinéad O’Connor references (which had to be explained to her because she’s too young) or G.I. Jane comparisons (though I think she got a kick out of that one). Onward and upward, Super Girl!

Here they are – all five of my beauteous nieces and nephews pictured together for the very first time! You’d be amazed how much coordination it took for their parents to get them together (and only Paisley lives out of state) at a time when no one was vomiting and everyone’s immunity was at an acceptable level and so on.

Leif, William, Sarah, Paisley and Anders

I especially love Leif’s four-year-old cheesy grin in contrast to William’s fourteen-year-old “I am Rico Suave” smirk. Sarah (seventeen – but I don’t want to talk about that because it makes me OLDER THAN DIRT) and Anders (who turned one a few weeks ago) managed the best natural smiles, I think, and Paisley (at a little over three months old) looks darling even though she was, understandably, pretty shell-shocked by the whole process by then.