my jaundiced eye

family reunion

Last week MJE and the OB&C made a foray requiring two full days’ drive up to the NC mountains for the sole purpose of hosting the OB&C’s family reunion. Apparently the people in the OB&C’s tribe feel compelled to gather together every other year and bore each other with the same stories they told the last go round. Once they arrive at the destination they tend to settle in clumps at the nearest watering hole and aggressively avoid experiencing any of the points of interest that the locale might offer. They are also Dutch which means they will make a waitress write 14 different checks for their party just so cousin Albert doesn’t pay for one dime of cousin Ruth’s chicken fried steak.

The OB&C spent weeks looking up yelp reviews on the various bargain basement eateries in town as well as cheap saloons and anything that might be offered free to tourists. He also made copious notes about what to do in and around the area: gardens, nature centers, short hikes, waterfalls, etc.. Of course, not a single member of the clan actually did any of the suggested outings and none even went to the trouble to say thanks. Now, MJE saw that heartbreak coming a mile away, and I did try to warn him that he was totally wasting his time, but he just said I didn’t know anything because all of my family members hate each other. Well, that’s partially true but it’s beside the point.

MJE, as you might have surmised, was not keen on the whole idea, but as a dutiful wife and helpmate to the OB&C, I took up the challenge with gusto. First order of business was to make damn sure that my party was a whole lot better in every way than brother Jock’s. Opening the competition with an eco-friendly salvo, we wouldn’t have crappy flowered paper and plastic ware, mine were going to be biodegradable and look it. The cups were going to be made from some supremely sustainable organic crapola, with a green stripe to prove it and the forks were going to be made from an invasive south american plant everyone wants to get rid of. The food was sort of a wash since neither of us was going to cook, but I made sure I ordered better stuff. I was scotched on the venue because their party was on a prefab lake in a prefab gazebo near their subdivision so no one would see their house which is modeled upon the lobby and breakfast area of a Holiday Inn Express. Therefore my charming all wood, hand-crafted mountain house full of shabby chic furniture and faded oriental rugs wasn’t going to get the benefit of a comparison

But as fate would have it, the hand of the god of crappy breaks reached down and struck me with two different infections and I ended up in the ER in Asheville and our party got moved to Jock’s house where he got the kudos for all the eco-friendly utensils and the great food.

talk of the town

MJE decided she was not going to be at the mercy of her failing hair follicles during this chemo bidness. She was going to do what any right minded woman would do, find the absolute best professional to serve her purposes, that being having her head shaved and move on it. And who better to take on that task than a black barber?

Next was to find the proper venue. The OB&C had wandered into Talk of the Town Barber/Salon in Hardeeville SC one time thinking it was just a regular old middle aged white guy’s joint. His first tip off that this was not Mr. Cleever’s barber shop was the 150lb pit bull stationed at the door. However, he was afraid to back out of the door for fear the pit bull might not take rejection well and proceeded to get his hair cut without incident.

So, I says to myself says I, if it’s been pre-qualified by the OB&C then TOTT it is! Next task was to find a game crew to act as cheerleaders and documentarians. I rounded up a stellar team of pals plus Bandoliera-Saturnalia and a bottle of bubbly and off we went. When we opened the door into TOTT it was like stepping into another dimension of time and space of which I was not aware. Or, more aptly like the bar scene in the original Star Wars. A totally strange environment populated by alien beings. I have every reason to believe that the indigenous folk of TOTT felt exactly the same way about us.

Nevertheless, I was on a mission. I asked for “Edward” the proprietor to whom I had spoken twice to ask if 2pm might be a convenient time for me to drop by. A man of very few words, I got the impression that his answer had been “whatever.” TOTT is a place where time is immaterial. Edward was trimming some gentleman’s beard one whisker one at a time so we all sat down on the black vinyl banquette like crows on a wire and waited. When he finally finished, another guy walked in and sat down. When Edward was finished with him one of his employees, an extremely imposing and pugnacious looking amazon, glowered at us and sat her fanny down, as if to say “take that you white bitches, this is my hood.” TOTT is an excellent environment in which to learn patience and humility. Those Buddhist monks ought to head over there sometime.

Finally Edward gave me the high sign and I settled into his chair. I said I’d like the full monty with a few brief forays enroute. Maybe try a wave maker, a polished fade, or maybe a faux-hawk until I ended up with something between a modified buzz and a flat out clean shave. Not a problem said Edward. Each cut got a panel review and some snaps for posterity. In the end I got just what I wanted, with a little something extra because an artist like Edward cannot leave a canvas blank. I have an M worthy of an illuminated manuscript trimmed into the right side of my fuzzy cranium, which by the way feels just like my sweet Bellita’s muzzle.

the nuclear option

MJE is a forward-looking malcontent and really doesn’t like to rehash old dustups, but this one deserves a mention.

Besides the chemo business, things have been pretty quiet since Albatross threw Krylon on the back of her broomstick and flew back west. However, Albatross would never, ever go gently into the night. She’d make sure that before she left she would, through sheer grit and determination, find whatever happy family activity that might possibly survive her dark aura, and detonate one of her signature emotional nuclear warheads. Her greatest wish would be to leave every member of the tribe feeling like Nagasaki had been amateur night. Such was the case with the last evening of her visit.

Our family unit was watching that pornographic blood bath known as Game of Thrones, which Albatross found suitable viewing material for six year Krylon. Things were gurgling along smartly from beheading to dismemberment to rape and torture when the catapult ran off the rails. Admittedly the OB&C is the last person on earth anyone would want to watch television or a movie with. He comments on every line, scene, set, you name it, if Siskel and Ebert mated with Gollum they’d have the OB&C.

So, the commentary was non-stop from the OB&C peanut gallery, “That woman couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag.“ “Are we supposed to believe that ‘s real, what do they take us for, idiots?” “Who wrote this dialogue, some third grader?” One by one the members of the unit took their leave, until it was just Albatross, Krylon and the OB&C. The scene had the unsteady look of a wobbly vial of nitroglycerin primed to blow everything to smithereens. It wasn’t a matter of if, was a matter of how soon.

There wasn’t much of wait I’ll give it that. Albatross stood up, put her face within inches of OB&C’s and screamed at the top of her substantial lungs “Shut the f***k up! The OB&C folded like a cheap suitcase and slunk out of the room with Albatross on his heels bellowing epithets.

Krylon never blinked an eye. The epic battles of the seven kingdoms of Westeros are apparently a whole lot more soothing than life back home.

hit me with your best shot

You know when MJE said that after a few days with Albatross that I’d be looking forward to my chemo with a song in my heart. Well little did I know that it’d be a bit more Stravinsky’s “Rite Of Spring” than Sondheim’s “Bring in the Clowns.” Man oh man. The “infusion” (“lemonade with lavender anyone?”) was not too bad, it was the Neulasta shot to boost white blood cells the next day that through me for a loop. I went from up and at em, walking Bellarina in the am to dialing 911 to the CDC informing them that Ebola was back and to come medevac me out STAT.

Now MJE is made of pretty stern stuff, mainly rebar and rip rap, but even I was not prepared for this nasty piece of work. Poor sweet OB&C kept coming in and asking if there was anything he could do, rubbing his 3 day beard against my cheek. Why yes there is, love of my life, “SHUT UP AND GET OUT.” Yet despite what seemed a pretty clear directive, he felt compelled to sit beside me and brief me in excruciating detail not once but four times on every step of the recipe for baby back ribs that he was cooking up. Back off Bobby Flay. Way off.

But I seem to be past the worst of it, learning to juggle meds just below the overdose thresh hold and sleeping like a drooler in an assisted living facility.

Should be right as acid rain by tomorrow.

how a routine chemo port insertion devolved into a chemo port cluster ferk

The OB&C, upon MJE’s insistence, consulted a neurologist regarding whether he might be headed for Halzeimer town. I swear one minute he’s reciting avogadro’s number and the next minute he can’t tell the difference between an egg beater and a 12 volt battery. Anywho, he was supposed to drive me to my chemo port surgery the same day as his appointment but minutes before I was to be there he called on some whisper-my-phone in the doc’s office telling me he can’t do it, they’re still plumbing the depths of his freakishly massive cranium. He was calling from their land line because he had forgotten his cellphone at home. Clue?

One of the beauties of living in an “active senior” community, Bandoliera-Saturnalia’s pithy description of our island paradise, is the fact that most of us (present company excluded) are pretty damned mobile and I was able to rustle up my pal Crissscrossali who hopped into her car pronto and got me to the surge on time. So MJE is in the waiting room leaving messages for the OB&C, but of course his phone is at home and his mailbox is full anyway. So I cool my heels an hour or so, finally get summoned in and prepped another hour or so. Still no word from MIAOB&C. Eventually called his doc and asked if he was still there, nah he’d left at noon. I foolishly assumed he’d gone home to grab a quick lunch and his phone and drive like a bat out of hell to be by my bedside.

But NOOOO, why do that when there’s a great BBQ joint right between your doctor’s office and the cancer center. So after a leisurely lunch he saunters over and plants himself in the waiting room for about an hour. Never occurred to him to ask the receptionist if I was there. But then his last functioning synapse finally kicked in and he realized that I was at the surgery center a mile away. He raced over, with a stop to pick up some farmer’s eggs, I mean who wouldn’t? Even then, it didn’t occur to him to ask the receptionist if I was there or where I might be: pre-op, surgery, recovery, morgue?

So after hours of pre-op waiting and prep, surgery and post op recovery with just me and Nurses Barb#1, Barb#2 the anaesthesiologist and his assistant Barb#3 and Dr. Boom Boom Burrus, the surgeon for intermittent company, the OB&C finally arrives all afluster about 5:30.

Well of course, as you have probably figured out by now, it turned out it was all the eggs fault. So I asked where the culprits were and he said in the truck, to which the entire surgical department greek chorus replied in concert “throw them out, she’ll be immune compromised and can’t eat them anyway!”

tatt’s all folks

Big doings this past weekend for MJE & Co. Bandeliera-Saturnalia graduated from college! The world is now her oyster, but she’ll need to get her own oyster knife because ours is still in use…

At B-S’s request, we flew her mother Albatross, and her younger brother Krylon in from the west coast for the momentous event. Krylon was born one day shy of B-S’s 17^th birthday. Albatross realized that upon the occasion of her daughter’s 18^th she faced an existential threat: financial self-reliance. That her parental enablers, having long been extorted to pay expenses for housing, education, orthodontia, travel, assorted camps, extracurricular activities, etc. up to and including raising B-S for a number of years, might pare down or downright eliminate future monetary pounds of flesh. Well, Albatross didn’t fall off the rotten tomato truck yesterday. She did what any shrewd deadbeat would do, brought forth into this world another golden ticket. In the high stakes poker game of a familial freeloader’s life, a grandchild is the ultimate trump card.

MJE and the OB&C have long debated the potential depths of depravity of her lifestyle, but like any good parents have elected to table that discussion until we have more time in the hereafter. However just before Albatross and Krylon arrived, a friend emailed me some pix that Albatross had posted on her face book page. And what do you know! A Gangstress Extraordinaire! Sideways baseball capped, skank tank topped, short, short shorted, and literally inked to the hilt: both shoulders, foot, ankle, wrist and certainly untold areas blessedly, albeit scantily obscured. I’m not sure, but I bet it’s pretty goddam expensive to look that goddam cheap.

The one bright spot in the Albatross tattuation is that in the blistering heat of a South Carolina summer, at the extremely long graduation ceremony of her wonderful daughter from a conservative, tradition-bound college, she was compelled to wear the equivalent of widows’ weeds to cover them all up. I hope sweet jesus answered my prayer and made them polyester.

But Albatross and Krylon are back on the other side of the continent by now and truth be told, it did MJE a world of good. The last four days have made me look forward to my first three hours of chemo tomorrow with a song in my heart.

game of gowns

MJE is between doc gigs at the moment but wants to keep in touch so as not to lose your interest and have you defect to some other (inferior) blog on which to waste your time. So today’s topic is examination room “gowns.” First off whoever gave them that euphemistic moniker has obviously never seen any of the Disney princess movies. But by now, having spent a fair amount of time of late wearing said “gowns” I’ve developed a keen eye for quality. I can look at the gown laying on the examination table, and like Martha Stewart nailing a sheet’s thread count across a basketball court, gauge the quality before my six shooters get through the door.

The Cadillac of gowns are old school, 100% cotton, and washed to the softness of a baby blanket. They’re festooned with bunny rabbits, kittens or some other imagery completely at odds with its function as a patient’s fig leaf. From there it’s a brisk plunge into the Filene’s basement of gowns: paper ware (or paper wear). But even in this decidedly down market area there are distinct differences in type and quality. Obviously, the heavier the paper the better, but size and fit are also important. And the range of both, as I have found, is vast. I am sure there is some medical office bean counter somewhere telling doctors that if they just reduce the dimensions and heft of their exam gowns their profit margins will explode, perhaps even offsetting the bank breaking burdens of Obamacare.

The top tier of this genre are akin to paper towels, soft, pliable and provide the illusion of comfort. They are long enough to cover even the areas of the body that the doctor doesn’t need to examine. They afford the patient a certain false sense of modesty from the prying eyes and probing digits of whoever happens to be walking by at the moment. From there it is a downward spiral to ever lighter weight paper and shorter hemlines. The absolute bottom of the barrel is what I call the Bolero, thin as toilet paper and so small that it wouldn’t cover an anorexic. It has the added disadvantage of a certain self-cling factor which requires incredible dexterity on the part of the patient to pry it apart without tearing it to shreds.

To date, Dr. Cha Cha Chahin’s gown is the absolute worst. Not only did it offer the smallest square footage but was so thin it made Charmin look like cashmere. When I did manage to disentangle it (which is always a frantic race against the clock from the moment you are left to disrobe to when the door flies open again) and figured out top from bottom, front from back and where my arms were to go I was so frazzled that I yanked it on a bit too vigorously and it split in half right down the back. Dr. Cha Cha returned to find MJE slumped on the table covered by nothing but two disconnected pink paper sleeves.

the waiting game

Sorry, loyal readers for keeping you hanging so long since my last post. MJE is stuck up the River Styx without a paddle just waiting to see which way the current takes her. Obviously it’s a one way journey for us all but I’m wondering whether I should pack heavy or light. Obviously spring cruise casual is suggested.

The OB&C continues to be plagued by his hysterical hernia. Persuaded his doc here to take blood samples and prescribe a CAT scan, both of which showed that his hernia is probably situated in his prefrontal cortex. But never one to relinquish an ailment he is flying back to NO for appointments with a urologist and his surgeon. FYI, if medicare goes broke you know who to blame.

Two doc appointments this week for MJE, one Monday with Dr. Mackie “the knife” and one Friday with the oncologist Dr. Cha Cha Chahin. Friday is the kicker, it’ll tell whether I’ll get the drip and zap or just the zap. I’ve banked on the latter and scheduled a hair appointment in ATL for Saturday (and a rez at the Ritz Carlton to soothe my weary soul) with my hairdresser Monsieur Pascal le Rascal. If it’s the former I’ll cancel it, ain’t no use spending good money on something that’s going to clog my shower drain in a month. Instead I’ll head over to the Talk of the Town barber on Hwy 170 armed with champagne and my posse and leave it all on their floor to clean up.

brunhilde

Well loyal readers MJE is back in the saddle, or on the barstool, after a brief roll through the operating room this morning. In less time than it takes to have your tires balanced and rotated I was relieved of one tumor and one lymph node. I was escorted into the surgery wing by Nurse No Nonsense who ordered the requisite strip down and issued me regulation socks and inflatable calf massagers.(!) Off with even my brand new fluorescent pink and turquoise underpants purchased just for the occasion. Then William the Irradiator arrived to pump me full of radioactive isotopes (felt like springtime in Nagasaki). Next up Dr. Nirvana the anesthesiologist. Out came the bad life style choice checklist, again. The hooch habit question was met with a resounding “Yes indeed, as much as possible.” I then relayed the fact that I hail from New Orleans and he nodded knowingly and said, “Got it, went to Tulane Med School” and moved right along. Then Dr. Mackie “the Knife” arrived and we were off to the races. Two minutes later I was headed for planet Percocet and beyond and woke up a couple of hours later to find myself half a six shooter short and bound up like a china doll in 1920’s Shanghai.

Made it home, Percocet in hand and headed for bed. The OB&C was wolfing down some BiLO sushi when I heard him bellow my name. Apparently a friend was at the door bearing gifts but the attack hernia had struck mid-California roll and he couldn’t move. Well neither could I so he had to waddle to the door, pants mid thigh. God help the person on the other side, that’s an image not easily erased, or explained. He then promptly took to the bed where’s he’s been ever since.

But several days ago, upon the advice of Dr. Susan Love in her opus magnum, The Big Breast Book, I learned that I would need a special post-surgery brassiere. After an exhaustive search I chanced upon the “Brunhilde.” at the Hanes foundations outlet store. Tipping the scales at about two pounds and larger than a fox terrier, it provides more support than an iron lung. Watch out kids, MJE is riding with the Valkyries now!

the annual physical

The OB&C is just back from his annual physical. I had preemptively emailed the doc to bring up the one thing I think might actually be lurking about :Alzheimer ‘s. His family is riddled with it (admittedly his mother had so little upstairs that it took a good long while to tell) and I think it might be a good thing to do what we can to put a plug in that brain drain before the tub runs dry. As my loyal readers know, the OB&C never met a personal medical problem he didn’t want to hold on to like a toddler to his pacifier. Sadly, his doc refuses to enable him and he always comes home feeling glum because he hasn’t been diagnosed with some terrible affliction. He was incredibly hopeful when he left for the appointment as he had so many possibilities for bad news: the improperly repaired (and still incredibly painful) hernia, leg cramps, free floating anxiety, dizzy spells, insomnia, tingling in his hands, skin carbuncles, toenail fungus and a tick embedded in his left buttock. Surely the probability that the doc might find something seriously wrong, given all of those maladies had to be a statistical slam dunk.

Instead he returned home, despondent. Dr. Lafeet once again told him that was in excellent health except that he is overweight, doesn’t exercise enough, takes way too many meds and drinks like a fish. The poor guy dragged himself through the house like a whipped dog, collapsed into his armchair, and directed me to open a bottle of red wine tout de suite and pour him a whomping glass just to get over the crushing disappointment. Good health to a hypochondriac is like sunlight to a vampire. Excruciatingly painful.

I offered to give him my breast cancer if it would make him feel any better.