Oy, vey!

omg. . . did someone get the license plate of that truck? (making a slow comeback.)

Update

Ok, so whatever was kicking my ass appears to have let up in a BIG way. I woke up this morning feeling 250% better.The only problem is, my dumb ass forgot that diarrhea dehydrates you and you need to replenish electrolytes and such. Must make an emergency run for Gatoraid this afternoon. . .

OMGZ!!!!

Diarrhea for three days = ASS ON FYAH!!!!!!

MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!!!

Last night. . .

during one of my many attempts to go to sleep, I closed my eyes and found myself in a Build-a-Bear shop. About 20 goth kids came marching in and sat themselves at desks arranged around the center of the store. Before I could really start thinking about the significance of this, they break out in this juggling routine.

While I try to process this, these two little girls (about 6 years old) appear out of nowhere, one wearing a pink with white polka dot tutu and the other wearing a blue with white polka dot tutu.

Meanwhile, the gothers have adjusted their routine to make it more complex. They're doing passes and circles and all the cool stuff you like to see jugglers do. All while sitting at these desks. And the balls aren't hitting the desks AT ALL.

Bizarre.

Now, I know they gave me drugs for stuff like this at the hospital, but why ruin such fun mini-movies?

My Bucket List

(At least) One more taste of fried shrimp from Ocean's Bounty in the Gallery

Never had lobster before. . .

One more cupcake from Tiffany's in the Gallery

Gotta make a video of me feeding the seagulls in Atlantic City for Jen to see so she can see how cool it is and take her wee ones to do it at least once (Her Pumpkin sounds like she would LOVE IT).

Rita's water ice until I'm sick of it

To be continued. . .

PS: For those that want it, my mailing address is 32 Oakmont Drive, New Castle, DE 19720.

Today. . .

I took the Bestie and Le Beastie to the Build-a-Bear and we got bears made. (When the Bestie heard about the Beastie's bear, she said she wanted one, too. My mom wants one, too. My bears are popular!)

The Bestie had never been to Build-a-Bear before, so we spent like the first hour showing her all the cool stuff they have. She was tickled at the bear underwear and platform shoes, wigs and mp3 players.

The easiest part of the day was picking out bears. Le Beastie got her bear skinny jeans, a wig, sunglasses, some Chucks (that's what they looked like to me, at least), a shirt that I can't think of what it looks like and some socks. That took about two hours to put together.

The Bestie got her bear a cute pink dress, a pink handbag and was gonna get her bear a pair of pink heels until I showed her some cute flats with sequins all over them. She like how they would break up the whole "pink" theme. That took the same two hours.

I snuck off to a corner to record my messages, we got the bears stuffed, named them got our certificates and were done.

I think I did very good, lasting as long as I did. We even went to go get food, but we couldn't stay in the mall to eat it, because I was shivering too bad (stupid me went out without a jacket). So we sat in the car and ate for a bit, but I started getting tired, and since I was the navigator to get us home, we had to leave.

The Beastie wants to come down again and actually get to explore the mall and I don't have a problem with that, as long as we get a wheelchair and I bring a coat.

Terminal. . .

I always thought when you were terminal, the doctor came into the room with the serious, stern face, sat you down and said something like, "I'm sorry Mrs. Ruffin, we've exhausted all of our resources. You should start making your final arrangements." **cue the dramatic crying and sappy shit**

In reality, it wasn't like that at all.

The doctor DID come into the room with the serious face, but he said that wanted to discuss treatment options. And my options were thus:

Since I'd already had a round of radiation, I could not longer receive any benefit from radiation.

Since I'd already had two major surgeries, any surgeries that I had had a great chance of doing more harm than good, so they were shying away from those.

This left chemotherapy. I found out that every round of chemotherapy that I took not only took out of my future options the drug used (drug A), but also like 3 or 4 other drugs that could have been used (drugs B, C, D and E). This is not really cause for concern, because there are zillions (it seems) of chemo drugs out there, and my doctor had no problem trying every one of them at his disposal, if that was my wish.

BUT (You knew it was coming)

Any drugs that I took from this point on have a 10-15% chance of actually doing something against the cancer.

I thought about that for a bit. 10-15% chance of working versus 100% chance of side effects. I've had my share of chemo side effects (my hair fell out, my nerves on the undersides of my feet felt like they were on fire, tiredness and of course everyone's favorite, nausea.) and really don't want to see what's out there on a 10-15% chance.

Plus, what about Le Beastie? Do I want her to see me that miserable in my last days? We were luck and got a hospice that is willing to take me on as a client even though I can't pay them, so I shouldn't be in TOO much pain at the end.

I've come to the conclusion that those that fight this, even with the odds stacked so high against them, are either gamblers who do good at the casinos pretty often, or people afraid of death.

Me, I'm afraid of pain. No shame in my game.

I am. . .

thoroughly convinced there is a Mommy Hell.

And in the middle of that Mommy Hell there is a pit, where the worst Mommies ever are thrown.

Today, I believe I earned my place in that pit when I sat my 12 year old, unsuspecting daughter down and told her that I was going to be dying. The moment when comprehension of what I was saying sunk in, and the look that she got on her face will haunt me for a bit.

I patted her on her shoulder and comforted her, all the stuff you're supposed to do, but I had hurt her, and I had to make it better. So I told her that we would go down to Build-a-Bear and build her any Bear she wanted, outfit, accessories, the works. And for this special bear, I was gonna record my voice, so she would know I was gonna be with her all the time.

That brought my baby's smile back. Yes, I'm still gonna die. But I'm gonna keep her has happy as I can until then.

Cuz that's what Mommies do.

Maybe I'm not in that pit any more. Maybe I'm just at the edge. . .

It's official. . .

I'm terminal.