You Just Messed With The Wrong Mamma

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This morning I woke up a near perfect 24 hours after being told I was being booked on an irreversible 2-week train trip headed straight toward chemo station (p.s. don't bother with the Google reviews, the place SUCKS). I did all the usual things you might imagine... a few seconds of realization that it wasn't all just a bad dream, a short processing of the pulsing pain from yesterday's unexpected lymph node biopsy, a micro moment of gratitude that this could all be so much worse...  when I was interrupted by the sound of my 8 year-old blondie Gisele entering the room. 

I heard her footsteps and peeled open my eyes. This was when I was greeted by that little goofball gyrating around and kicking like an over-served combination of Miley Cyrus at an awards show and Elaine Benes "bad dancing" on Seinfeld. 

I smiled and, per usual, asked her what the heck she was up to anticipating imminent silliness she would most definitely lob back my way. 

"I'm a ninja, mamma! I'm chopping up all the bad germs in your boobies." Ah, yes. I could see that. 

Of course I giggled, grabbed a quick pic of our sweet moment, then autonomically began reflecting. 

My takeaways:
1) Children are paying attention. They are listening and watching more closely than you care to admit. I know this because the night before I broke the news to my girls that YAY, I won't have to get a surgery for five more months! But BOO, I will have to take super strong medicine that will make me tired and lose all my hair. I focused on the fun that it would enable with trying hairstyles I otherwise never would have been brave enough to try, but it would be totally worth it because the drugs were like little ninjas that would karate-chop up all the bad stuff inside me before it could do me any real harm. Hi-yah.  

2) Now I fully get the cancer "fight" metaphor. And for today, I'm kinda into it. Warriors, the silent enemy, gearing up for a battle, yadda-yadda. But today's perspective is that, at least for me, this won't be a physical fight. Listen, I've got at least 35 years and 140 pounds against this puny little bastard and don't get me STARTED on the strategic chops. So he's going down. I do, however, expect this to be qualifiable psychological warfare. I'm seeing high school bully meets internet troll meets Mission Impossible villain on OVERDRIVE. 

Let me be honest. Lately, I've been loathing the thought of myself as the lead character in this melodrama... but maybe I'm kinda down with being a superhero in an action flick? It's semantics, I KNOW, but I have always wanted to dress up as Wonder Woman for Halloween (*Alexa, please add this to my bucket list*) and Gal Gadot is basically my alterego.  

So, to this uninvited guest who's so inconveniently set up shop inside my babies' favorite pillow, you're days are numbered, hombre. Congratulations on sneaking your way in, but now you're about to regret it. 

[I exit dressed in a black leather bodysuit, hair flapping in the wind, tap a device in my hand with a wry smile and walk slow motion as the warehouse behind me explodes and bursts into flames.]  End scene.

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