Cancer Faux Real

I've decided. This phase of chemotherapy shall here-forth be referred to as: Alice-in-Wonderlanding.  Is it early morning? Mid afternoon? Am I late for a very important date? Take the small pill for this, big purple pill for that.  Patterns, colors, lights go out... and I'm fast asleep. Or am I? Doctors warned me that chemo rounds 5 and 6 would hit me demonstrably harder than the four just prior. I was ready, and they were right. And it's a good thing I don't mind mentally strolling through fantastical self-made fairytales given this is what extreme exhaustion can induce.  In between my foggy images of real and imagined, I find it funny to look back at my own memoir. I can see the blueprint so clearly. I gear up, go to battle, feel roughly 2 days' worth of invincible thanks to steroids and adrenaline, then... I'm reminded of my own mortality. Sunday night was no different, but perhaps with just a bit more weighty nudge. I’ll begin with an explanation, Let me gue

Life now seems like some surreal combination of recognizable scenes mashed with bursts of Wes Anderson style interludes. It's as if my brain is filling the blanks with creative interceptions just to help me cope. I don't mind it. In fact, I'm grateful for it. Pure reality is such a bore. Oh, and scary. It's another 3rd week Wednesday and although I'd convinced myself I was free, chemotherapy beckons me back against my will. Devon, like always, has cleared his schedule and readies himself for a day playing the role he's selected - superhero sidekick, master sous chef, husband extraordinaire.  The girls have spent the night with loving grandparents sleeping in a bedroom filled with fairytales, fresh sheets trimmed in lace, and the bouncing baby dolls of my youth. A nest for our little tweety birds, cozy and safely distanced from my fight. They're protected and it starts my day with a calming breath. I wake up naturally to the thought that although today is ano

There are a number of things people say that I may never comprehend in full. Topping the list: the seemingly obligatory descriptive gauge of just how Italian a person is. It seems no one is ever just someone of Italian heritage or not. They are either "oh,  VERY  Italian" or "yeah, a little  Italian, I guess". It simply evades my understanding.  My best theory is that it's really just people quantifying the degree in which someone fits a pre-programmed model of an "expected" Italian-American, as defined by television and movie stereotypes. Do they have dark hair, dark eyes, and a big nose? Do they speak loudly, laugh loudly, and gesture almost just as much? Do they fist bump at dance clubs, eat big pasta dinners with family, and make offers people can't refuse? "Oh, they're VERY Italian ."  For me, this is so far off I barely know where to begin. See, the thing everyone seems to be missing is that the essence of being  Italian is pure

In defense of optimism, I'll take the heartbreak of now knowing I have more to endure for the smiles we've all been able to enjoy. What a ride, this life. At least I'm not alone in it.  

It's 6am and Devon's alarm buzzes. Ugh, seriously? After the festival of lights storm to the eyeballs all night...? Fine. I'm up.  It's 6:30am and Devon nudges me awake. "Honey, today's the day." I sit straight, climb out of bed, and head for the shower.  I methodically peel off each wrinkled article of clothing and kick it gently to the corner avoiding the medicine cabinet mirror at all costs. At this hour it's for my sanity. I have to protect her, too.   Without a drop of makeup or hair accoutrements to help fein a picture of health, it's all just too... real. The shower feels like baptism. The hot water rains against my peach-fuzz-at-best and I want to call it therapy. But the word is now tainted. Overused. Ready to be shelved. I begin mourning the loss of endlessly long hot showers. The list of things to do has simply evaporated -- Conditioner? Irrelevant. Shaving? Irrelevant. Shampoo? Optional. So I invent replacements... triple washing my fac

Since walking away from corporate life nine months ago, I’ve given up a toxic habit: the alarm clock. My mornings have since been defined by my eyes butterfly-flitting open, my mind sparkler-lighting on, a cat dough-kneading my belly, then letting my lanky limbs perform a stretch-Armstrong X formation across our king-size bed.   But wait! No alarm?! Then WHAT time do you get up?! You ask like a programmed anal-retentive American…My answer? Calm down. Just the same as always. See, my internal clock just KNOWS. Just like my intuition. Never fails me. I’m up every day around 6:30 or 7 - like always. The difference is, now I’m starting with a deep through-the-nose breath, a nuzzle hug from my velveteen pup, and I just take a moment. [ ...long pause... ] Instead of turning directly to my calendar to sum up the back-to-back hours of hooked-into-the-matrix virtual meetings, I stop to THINK about the watercolor picture of a day I'd like to paint. One scene I know for sure will make its mar