Football With Mom

If you are a fan of the San Francisco 49ers, it's hard to not be aware of the famous moment in Niner lore, The Catch. With seconds left and the game on the line, the Joe Montana pass to Dwight Clark was caught in the end zone and catapulted the 49ers over the Bears to win a big game.

I don't remember it; I was only three or four when it happened, but Mom did remember seeing it on TV, watching the game with her parents. It's very likely that my brother and I were in the room, too, so I like to tell people that of all the famous "catches" in the last forty years of the franchise, I've seen most of them.

When I tell people I've been a fan since I was a tiny girl, I'm not exaggerating. My grandparents were fans, Mom was a fan (Dad never much cared but humored us by letting us take over the living room TV on Sundays), and Aaron and I were fans. We have watched many a playoff game, our share of Super Bowls. We cheered, we laughed, we made memories.

The Niners haven't been great these last few years, but I've stayed interested. I'm part of The Faithful. I love my team, no matter what.

This year wasn't supposed to be all that exciting. One football know-it-all predicted the Niners would end the season with a 3-13 record. This incited not a little humor among fans when they started off the season 3-0. Then 4-0. Then 5-0. Then...wait, just what is happening here?

Now we are approaching the end of the season, and the Niners have a 10-1 record (bet ole Know-It-All is feeling rather silly right now). Various players are making waves in Pro Bowl voting. Richard Sherman. Nick Bosa. George Kittle. Jimmy Garrapolo, the one and only Jimmy G (Jimmy GQ, I've also seen, which is apt, considering he has a jaw line that could cut glass). Fresh off the tutelage of the Patriots' Tom Brady, Jimmy G. is 13-3 as the starting quarterback for the 49ers. He shows incredible calm on the field and leadership capabilities.

Suddenly, we're having this amazing season--and I'm loving every minute of it. But in the back of my mind is this thought of, "Oh, Mom should've seen that play!"

Life moves forward. I'm staring down my second holiday season without her, and this year is far less awful than last year. There is, however, something comforting in the Niners doing so well. As I watch games, I see the huge linemen taking the field and blurt out Mom's classic signature line: "How big a boy are ya?" I imagine us seeing a close-up of Jimmy G. on the TV screen and giving each other A Look as we acknowledge silently that he is one very good-looking dude. I can hear her cheering with me, both of us getting loud enough to bring Dad out of his bedroom, bemused at the whole spectacle of his wife and daughter getting so caught up in...just a game.

This past weekend, Dad invited me over to watch the game at his house. It was an Important Game against A Good Team...and my Niners trounced them, 37-8. Green Bay hardly knew what hit them. The home crowd roared. Dad paid half-attention and I sat on the couch, making cards for my Etsy shop and stopping often to hoot at the TV, and giving Dad rapid-fire updates:

"That's George Kittle--he is a huge goofball off the field but his team loves his spirit and made him a team captain. It doesn't hurt that he's also a helluva player."

"Richard Sherman...I hated him when he was a Seahawk, but he's really a great defensive player. Really inspires the other guys. Plus, he has a charitable organization that recently gave a ton of food to a couple of food banks in Washington."

"Deebo!!! I love that name. Look at him go!"

Dad humored me, and even seemed to enjoy parts of the game, and we passed a pleasant evening, eating pizza and chatting.

Oh, it's just a game. Of course it is. But there's something about this season, this team, that makes me feel like maybe Mom is cheering along with me, wherever she is.

All the Things I Want to Tell You

I had a dream last night, where we were talking on the phone. I told you, "Remember Grandma's chair? You know, Grandma Bean's old chair, that you loved so much. Well, I have it now. I had it re-upholstered, in grey. I had Uncle Matt's stool done to match, and the wood of both stained to match each other. They look beautiful. You'd love it."

And then I woke up and remembered that I can not tell you about the chair, or the stool. I can't text you pictures of the new outfit I bought (and you wouldn't believe the price on sale!). I can't tell you how my day was at work, or show you pictures from my trip to Vienna. I can't talk to you, or hear your voice, or see your responses to me on Facebook, complete with emojis.

And damn, Mom. I miss you so much.

I promise I don't dwell on my sadness (too much). I promise I'm living my life and being the woman you were so proud of. But I can't help it Mom, I think about you all the time and I just hate that I can't have what we had for all those years. That closeness, that bond. I talk to you--all the time--but it's not the same.

I want your gardening advice, and the hearts-and-smilies reactions you put on my Facebook posts. I want to hear your voice outside of my head and I want to hug you. Yesterday marked the tenth month I've had to live without you, and I promise, I'm mostly okay.

But I'm never going to stop missing you.

The chair looks great. I bought a pretty fleece blanket and decorative pillow with colorful birds on them. The colors liven up the grey upholstery, and give it some "pop." The cat pillow you gave me--the one you thought looks like Millie--is on the stool.

You'd approve.

I wish I could show you.

One Year

A few weeks after Mom died, I found myself reading Us Against You by Fredrick Backman. If you haven't read his works, start with A Man Called Ove and work your way through from there. Mom and I read that one, as well as Britt-Marie Was Here, My Grandmother Told Me to Tell You She's Sorry, and Beartown, which Us Against You is a sequel to.

Backman is wonderful. Of course, I'm reading his works translated into English, but there is still so much charm and wittiness in his writing. It reads quickly, and there are moments of humor followed by moments that tear your heart open. Beartown and Us Against You are a bit less quirky and humor-filled than his other works, but still very, very readable and easy to get lost in.

But I digress. The point of this post is that Mom never got to read Us Against You. I mentioned having ordered a copy to her before she died, thinking she would eventually have her turn to read it--when she was feeling better. But she didn't feel better. And so it goes.

So I found myself reading it, a few weeks after, and one evening, I read the passage pictured below and it took my breath away.

It was like Backman had preemptively read my mind and written that line just for me.

What wouldn't I give for one more year? I miss my mom so terribly sometimes, and three months out, it still feels unreal that she's gone. How in the world is she gone?

She loved Fall, and I always have, too. I miss idly discussing how glad we are to see cooler temps and turning leaves.

One more year with her is what I got, from diagnosis/surgery to her death. And yet still, I wanted more. Another year. Another. I'm still reeling that I didn't get that. When I read this, it was like a gut-punch. What would a daughter give to have one more year with her mom?

"You're a tough little broad," she told me, two days before she died. Her way of reminding me that I could survive losing her. But I'd still give anything for one more year.

The Hole

This last month without Mom has been a series of ups and downs. I'm learning a lot about grief and how absolutely strange it is.

I guess the best way to describe it is that it's like having a hole in me. A gaping hole that once was filled--with love, friendship, a mother-daughter bond. The hole was carved out when Mom died, and that part of me is missing now. It won't come back.

Having a hole carved out like that is shocking, and painful. It took my breath away and left me desperately trying to refill it...only to find that you can't refill that hole. It's there now. Like a broken vase, you can glue it back together, but it will never be the same as it was before.

I will never be the same.

That's not to say that I won't be alright. I will be--I am--alright. I'm even finding laughter and joy and beauty, even while that hole aches. The edges are still raw, taking their time to heal. This isn't a wound that just goes away. The edges will scab over, and new skin will grow over it. But the hole will remain. You can't replace a Mom, your biggest cheerleader, your life-long best friend.

So I'm learning to live with the new me. The me with a hole. Never entirely the same as I was before Mom died. It's not that I'm more sad, or angrier, or more serious. I'm just...different. I'm missing a piece. It takes some getting used to.

So I take it one day, one step at a time. The pain lessens, the shock dissipates.

The hole, however, is permanent.

Pennies From Heaven

There are some who believe that finding small coins, especially pennies, on the ground is a message from someone who has passed.

My own religious and spiritual beliefs are a muddled mix of hope and "I don't know." But Mom always believed that when she found a penny, it might just be a message from her own mother. "Penny from heaven!" she'd exclaim, picking it up.

I pick up change when I find it--even pennies. Is that strange? Who cares? Anyway, I pick them up. I stick them in my little coin sorter and save up all that loose change in paper rolls to put in my savings account. Trust me, it adds up.

A few days after Mom's death, I returned home to my condo after another busy day helping Dad, and decided to walk to a nearby gas station for some M&Ms. It was hot out, and I was in a hurry to return to my air conditioning, a soothing shower, and the quiet of my home. I walked along in my customary way--booking it.

Then I saw it: on the ground, a penny, heads up. Images of Mom filled my head and I could hear her in my mind, saying, "A penny from heaven!"

The tears came fast and hard as I bent down to pick that penny up off the ground. Was it a message from Mom? A sign that she's okay?

I don't know.

Nonetheless, that penny is tucked in a little box where I keep her rings when I'm not wearing them.

Cooper Loops

On Wednesday night, Dad and I made the long drive home from the hospital in my car. We talked the whole way, sometimes sniffling and crying, and sometimes laughing. Dad pointed out how lucky we are to have so many wonderful memories.

Somehow, Cooper Loops came up.

A Cooper Loop is a very basic, very silly maneuver. It started when I was a child in Folsom. Our cul-de-sac, and our home's placement on it, were perfect for driving a loop around, and then sort of swinging into our long driveway. Dad started it, making the rest of us laugh hysterically.

Over the years, Aaron grew more embarrassed by it, but Mom, Dad, and I thought it hysterical.

We left that house in 1998, and Cooper Loops became quite rare.

But on Wednesday, as I pulled into Dad's cul-de-sac, I said, "I'm going to do something..."

"A Cooper Loop?"

"Yeah."

This particular cul-de-sac doesn't give quite so perfect loops as that long-ago one in Folsom did...but we managed.

And we smiled.

...

Yesterday, I spent much of the day at Mom and Dad's (it's still hers, too, you know) and had my car parked on the street. As I left, Dad said, "Do a Cooper Loop!!"

So I did, kissing my fingers mid-loop and raising my hand to the sky. I laughed as I passed Dad on the driveway, giving me a thumbs-up sign.

I laughed, and I cried a little, and then my tears dried up and I drove home.

Mama

Susan Mae (Bean) Cooper
July 4, 1946-June 27, 2018
Picture: Mother's Day 2018

I lost my beautiful mama last night.

For a year, we had such hope that we would beat her cancer enough--we knew it wasn't curable, that "remission" was not the goal. But we believed, we hoped, that we would beat it enough into submission that Mom could live an enjoyable life.

For a while, it worked. Then it didn't.

The last several weeks have been a roller coaster of worry and emotion. Mom went into the hospital on June 1st with severe jaundice. Over the next three weeks she would be prodded and poked in several procedures, given a bile drain, and given a feeding tube. She suffered the indignities that come with needing a nurse's help to use the restroom.

She fought so hard...and it weakened her so much.

She came home a week ago today. We all thought, Finally! She'll have a real chance to be comfortable, to get strong again. We're going to fix her up and get her on immunotherapy. Show this stupid cancer that Team Cooper is tough!

Friends, she tried.

She did her physical therapy exercises in her chair. She had no appetite, but gamely tried to eat and drink. Dad changed her feeding tube, cleaned her bile drain. Helped her stay clean.

On Monday, we had to get her to an appointment with her oncologist, who is based in Sacramento. When we got there, Mom was feeling rough, and she declined quickly. The blood pressure reading in the oncologist's office was 40-something over 30-something. She was clearly dehydrated.

The doctor sent her to the nearby chemo infusion center for hydration, but when they saw her blood pressure, they told us, "We can't take her, she needs the ER." So they helped us wheel her down to the ER and she was immediately taken in.

As they started pumping two bags of fluids into her, Mom started to perk up. I caught her watching me--sitting in a chair nearby, crying--and I mouthed, "I love you" to her. She mouthed it back, from behind a surgical mask, and her eyes crinkled up with her smile. That night, she was admitted to the hospital.

On Tuesday, we met the hospital doctor, Dr. J., and for the first time in a month, we had a medical professional lay it all out on the table for all of us.

"Thing is, you're dying," he told Mom, holding her hand and looking her directly in the eye. "I mean, all of us in here are, but you are doing it faster than I am." Mom nodded and smiled at him. She knew. Dad suspected. I had been mostly in denial, but coming around to the truth.

He gave her all of her options. We could continue with aggressive palliative care, and try to get her strong enough to go on immunotherapy. Or we could focus on comfort. Mom opted to continue with semi-aggressive care, but held the comfort option as a close alternative. Dr. J. smiled at her and said, "You get to decide. If I say I want a procedure, and you don't want it...I don't do it."

Yesterday (Wednesday), Dad and I set out to see Mom. Because she was in Sacramento, Dad had been coming by to pick me up when we would go there. As we drove, his phone rang, and he answered. It was Dr. J.  Mom had worsened a tiny bit the evening before. "She wants to have a meeting--is Megan with you? Oh, good--so have Antony page me when you get here." (Antony being her morning shift nurse, and the sweetest, kindest man.)

Dad asked me, "Are you ready for this?"

I replied, "I could never be ready for this. But I can do it."

Dad sighed. "Yeah."

Mom had decided to stop trying to get better. She knew, in her heart, that her time was limited, and she wanted to be at home, and as comfortable as possible. There were tears, of course. But we all agreed that her quality of life had diminished drastically in the last month, and we only wanted peace for her.

I held her hand. She told us what to do with her most precious things. We talked to an RN connected to the hospice program and got the ball rolling to bring her home today (Thursday).

When we left, at about noon, Mom was tired. Dad gave her a kiss, looked her in the eye, and said, "I love you." She said, "I love you, too" with a beautiful smile.

I stepped in and gave her a kiss. "I love you to the moon and back." She smiled at me, and said, "I love you to the moon..."

...

I had dinner at Sarah's house. Sarah fed me homemade lasagna and wine, and we talked about my mom, alternating between laughter and tears. A little before 9:00, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but I answered.

It was Mom's night nurse. "I think you need to get down here with your Dad," he told me. "Your Mom is starting to fail."

Sarah was already handing me my keys and ushering me out the door as I called Dad to tell him. Then I raced to his house, and we made the seemingly endless drive to Sacramento.

...

She was gone when we arrived...having passed just a few minutes before we came in. As her nurse (I believe his name is Gerard; forgive me for having lost it in the grief of the night), turned off the various machines, Dad and I touched her--without gloves for the first time in days--and cried. We told her we love her so very much. And then Dad looked at me and said, "She did this on her terms. She's at peace."

And she was friends. She was so peaceful.

I held her hand, and I brushed my hands over her hair. I found her favorite red hat, the one I bought her when her hair started thinning, next to her hand. She wore it often in the hospital to keep warm.

We stayed for about an hour. Her nurse closed the door after telling us we could stay as long as we needed. An orderly came in with a tray of cookies and coffee. In the next hour, three more nurses quietly, respectfully came in. One was a family liaison, who hugged us and told us in a beautiful Jamaican accent how sorry she was for our loss. Another came to take some of the various medical accouterments off of Mom, like a blood pressure cuff. And finally, the head RN came to make the pronouncement. She gently checked for a heartbeat, and gently checked Mom's eyes. Every single person who came in that room showed utmost respect and care for my mom, and for Dad and I.

...

I took her hat home, but what we forgot were her two rings. One was her own, one was Dad's original wedding band, which she had been wearing. The hospital called Dad, and agreed to mail them to him.

But this morning, Dad called me. "You'll never guess who knocked on the door a few minutes ago..."

Turns out Antony, that morning shift nurse, was at the door. He held out a bag with Mom's rings in it.

"This is above and beyond," Dad said to him, with tears in his eyes.

Antony smiled. "It's part of the job."

No. No, it isn't. That young man drove all the way from Sacramento to Lincoln (about forty minutes) to personally deliver Mom's rings to Dad. It is above and beyond, and you can't tell me differently.

Dr. J. called Dad to check in. He wasn't on shift last night, but saw in his notes this morning that she had passed, and took time to call. You could say that's all part of the job, too, but Mom was one of but many patients on his list. He took the time to get an immediate call to my Dad.

...

We talked all the way home, Dad and I. There were tears and sniffles, but also some smiles and laughter. We are blessed, you see, with so many years of wonderful memories. From the big moments and fun vacations right down to the everyday little moments that made us laugh, or smile.

So many memories.

We also have the peace in our hearts that comes with knowing that Mom got to meet death on her own terms. Of course she wanted more time, but when she realized the cancer was not going to allow that, she accepted it with grace and friends, the fact she had that choice means the world to me.

And forever, I will carry with me that my last words to her were words of love, with smiles, and affection. I hope my voice, and Dad's voice, were echoing in her head at the very end.

She will be with me forever.

Christmas, and Other C Words

Christmas is one of my favorite holidays, and we've had years of wonderful family Christmases. Though in more recent years, it's just been Mom, Dad and I here, we always have a lovely time. After the hectic weeks of performances and preparation, of hyperactive students and crowded grocery stores, the quiet lazy Christmas is welcome.

This year, as usual, it's just the three of us (and three cats). I came over a little before noon, with an overnight bag, my favorite pillow, and two cats in tow. Mom planned a nice dinner--a lovely roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and ambrosia.

There are other C Words in our holiday, of course. Mom has chemo this week for her cancer--only four more treatments, as things stand right now!--so that is definitely something we are always aware of. It doesn't take over our lives, though. We're just so happy to have a peaceful Christmas together, enjoying good food and the antics of Da Boyz as they explore every inch of the house, and Bella, as she pouts under the bed at this home invasion.

I did the bulk of today's food prep. Mom tires so easily, and apologizes every once in a while for needing to rest. I remind her that I really don't mind, and happily take on the work so we can have a nice dinner. I think of all of the things Mom and Dad have happily, selflessly done for me--paying my airfare so I could teach in England, letting me move in when I was unemployed, all the times they helped me keep my head above water, and supported me in my career choice. Truly, making Christmas dinner (and Mom did the meat, for the record) is not a hardship.

Later this week, Mom will have another PET scan so the doctors can see what is going on with the cancer cells. We're all a little anxious, and very, very hopeful. I wouldn't say it hangs over our heads--truly, we manage to just be in the moment around here--but we don't hide from it, either. It's reality. We still have our fightin' pants on, and part of my present to Mom this year (in addition to a show she loves on DVD and a book) was yet another pair of fun socks to wear when she goes to the infusion center.

I know that Mom wishes she had more energy, and didn't feel so tired from the effects of the chemo...but I also know that all of us are simply grateful this season to be together, to have a lovely Christmas together. The other C Words don't matter so much.

39

Thirty-nine is the sum of consecutive primes (3 + 5 + 7 + 11 + 13).

It is the atomic number of yttrium.

There are three songs called "39," by The Cure, Tenacious D, and Queen.

There were thirty-nine signers to the United States Constitution.

Pier 39 is a famous tourist attraction in San Francisco. 

As of yesterday, I am 39 years old. Pushing forty, I suppose, but that doesn't really bother me. Age is a number, not a diagnosis. Besides, I've got a fantastic trip to The Netherlands planned as my 40th birthday present...though I'll be going closer to my "half birthday" than to my actual birthday!

I had a great birthday. I woke up to a text from my parents--a video of them singing Happy Birthday to me from their recliners over their morning coffee. I had a bit of a lie-in with Da Boyz (which was lovely after the fun-but-hectic first week back at school). Sarah texted me asking if she could take me to lunch, so we agreed on the Cheesecake Factory, where we ate...a lot. I had the salted caramel cheesecake, which was heavenly. And Sarah, of course, had notified the wait staff before I got there that it was her friend's birthday. 

Archie, bird-watching.

Popcorn, on my shoulder, makes me happy...

All that gooey salted caramel. YUM.

This is 39.

Sarah had a hot fudge sundae.

Thank you, Sarah!!

After lunch, I did a bit of shopping in the Galleria. I needed a few work items and found some slacks, a darling plaid skirt, and some great blouses. I also found the t-shirt below, so of course I bought it, and yes, I will wear it to work (on Casual Fridays).

After that, I went to Mom and Dad's, and they took me out for Thai food at a place I like in Lincoln. Though I wasn't overly hungry, I had some room by then, though I had plenty of leftovers for today and didn't eat another bite of anything once I got home!

Throughout the day, I followed the news from Charlottesville, Virginia, with a heavy heart. It's horrifying to me that in the year 2017, we still have people who believe that the white race is genetically superior (though looking at some of the pictures of people who believe this, carrying their Polynesian-origin tiki torches, one wonders just what their definition of "superior" is...). 

All in all, my birthday was quite satisfying on the home front, however, and I am blessed to have so many lovely friends who called and texted throughout the day. 

Ramblings of a Grateful Daughter

I will start with the most important part...

The Day After

Mom had her surgery last night. Dad and I saw her as far as the pre-op prep area, and we got to meet the anesthesiologist, two RNs, and the surgeon. Everyone was calm, matter-of-fact, and really awesome. One of the RNs was asking Mom a question while looking at his computer screen and I said, "Just FYI, Mom is hard of hearing."

"Oh! Thank you!" he replied. "Then I'll just move to make it easier!" He sat down on a chair right next to Mom's head and spoke clearly so she could get everything. She didn't have her hearing aids in by that time.

She was calm, but Dad and I were a coordinating pair of hot messes. Dad was twitchy and quiet. I was twitchy and--ugh--teary. I tried not to let tears come, but they couldn't be stopped. In between visits from the doctors and the RNs, I let them go, feeling foolish. That's anxiety for you. Mine manifests itself in tears.

The last person we met was Dr. P., the surgeon. When he was assigned as Mom's surgeon, she was told by her GI doctor, "I've worked with him many times. He's excellent." Later, her oncologist said the same thing. A friend of mine from work knows him because he operated on her mother, and she told me he's amazing. By the time I found myself shaking his hand, I was about six seconds away from bursting into fresh tears, throwing my arms around his neck, and yelling, "THIS IS MY MOMMY!! TAKE CARE OF HER!!!" I managed to contain myself.

Mom insisted that Dad and I not wait at the hospital. The surgery was to start at about 5:30, and would take about three hours. "You'll be more comfortable at home, and I don't want you driving later tonight." We respected those wishes and set off to our respective homes. I stopped to buy cat food (I needed a bag, and so did Mom for her cat, so I bought both), and then at OSH for some plants. I spent the next three hours not relaxing. When the phone rang at 8:30, I was scrubbing my shower.

The surgery went very well. The doctor was very positive about Mom's prognosis. The tumor was the size of a grapefruit (!!!). Mom would spend the night in the ICU for close monitoring and attention to her every need.

Well, of course I started crying again.

Dirty Hands

When I stopped at PetCo for cat food, I got the brilliant idea to run into the OSH next door to get some more petunias to plant. I had a couple of plants not survive being in pots in the harsh heat we've been having, but my petunias are thriving--apparently they love pots, love heat, and just need a good daily watering to be happy. I also bought a jasmine plant that smells heavenly.

I wandered up and down the aisles for a few minutes, stopping to admire the flowers and breathe in the smells.

It was nice to step outside and dig my hands in the dirt for a bit. I gave the new plants some water and breathed in the smell of soil and leaves (and jasmine!). When I finished, I plugged in the new outdoor lights I bought and sat for a few minutes--not really relaxing, but at least being still.

It may not be a huge garden, but it's beautiful, and it's mine.

(P.S. I had seen this a while back but found it again--turns out that digging in the soil can have anti-depressant effects.)

Snoopy

When I was a tiny girl, my Grandma Bean used to play a game with me, pretending that my Snoopy doll could talk to her. He'd whisper in her ear and she'd talk back to him, making him nod or shake his head to answer her questions. I ate it up, and Snoopy always went to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Grandma died when I was 15, and I remember sitting in my bedroom, hugging that old doll and crying. I've never been able to pack him away, or leave him behind. He went to England with me. He's too dear, too precious, to go in a box and be forgotten.

So on Wednesday, when I knew Dad was taking a few things to the hospital for Mom, I had a thought of my own as I got ready to go. I grabbed a picture of her cat, Bella, and I grabbed Snoopy from the trunk at the foot of my bed.

"He has a lot of magic in him, you know," I told her as I handed him over. She laughed and hugged him, and we reminisced about Grandma. I left Snoopy with her that night, and took him home yesterday. He'll go back when she's put in a room tomorrow, and stay out her hospital time with her. When she goes home, he'll come back to his spot at the foot of my bed.

Amsterdam

In the middle of all of the anxiety and uncertainty of having my mom in the hospital, incubating an internally-bleeding grapefruit-sized tumor, I still managed to think about the adventure I want to have for my 40th birthday in 2018.

So for my February break, I will be spending six nights in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. Round-trip airfare, hotel, and travel insurance added up to a very reasonable $960 on Expedia. I've never been to The Netherlands and understand that it's very easy and very quick to get anywhere by rail--like Harleem, Delft, and other cities for a couple of day trips.

And in Amsterdam itself is the Anne Frank House (a must-see), the van Gogh museum, the canal system, and many other museums.

When I told Mom a few days ago I was thinking about a trip she smiled and said, "You're going back?"

Oh, London is always tempting. But there's so many places I haven't been yet! Including The Netherlands.

Hands

This morning, I was going to get some stuff done here at home and then go see Mom in the afternoon. But Dad texted me at about 9:30 that Mom was awake, smiling, and in good spirits (even with a respirator in), so I had a quick shower, made a smoothie to go, and dashed off to the hospital to see her.

She was still in the ICU, so I had to call on a little phone to get in, and when I walked inside, a cluster of doctors and RNs were talking. I had no idea where I was going and they could see my confusion.

"I'm looking for Susan Cooper...I'm her daughter."

"She's right here!" Turns out, they were the pulmonary team that was going to suction a bit of fluid out of one of her lungs (common side effect of anesthesia) and remove the respirator. But as they weren't quite ready yet, I was able to go in with Mom, who had Dad next to her.

Her face lit up when she saw me, and she smiled around the respirator. I almost burst into tears (the happy kind), and just walked over and grabbed her hand. She had a good, strong grip, and we communicated the best we could with me having use of my voice and her just her hands and small head movements.

I took this picture because I was just so happy to be holding my mom's hand. For all that I'm almost 39 years old and a homeowner, a full-time teacher who is left in charge of classrooms full of kids on a regular basis...inside there's still a tiny girl who looks at this woman and thinks, "Mommy." When the diagnosis came down a few weeks ago, the gut-punch almost brought me to my knees.

I'm not a big believer in a higher power, but I do sort of think the universe works in certain ways. And I told it, "Look, you're going to have her eventually...but not just yet, okay?"

Speaking of Teaching...

If my mom has to be in the hospital having major surgery, then I'm going to selfishly say that I'm so glad it happened on my summer break.

I had volunteered to teach summer school, but numbers weren't high and I wasn't needed. Now I'm glad. The extra money would have been nice but the freedom to be at Mom and Dad's house, or at the hospital, whenever, is very welcome.

After seeing Mom off with her anesthesiologist yesterday, Dad and I got a quick bite to eat at the hospital cafeteria. As we waited for the elevator, Dad said, "I'm glad you don't have to be at school right now."

"Oh my God, Dad, I am too. There's no way I could teach during all this. I'm a wreck!" I have a very understanding boss, and plenty of sick days I could use, but I'm so glad that I don't have to worry about sub plans and how my kids would act, and catching up on grading. My sleep has been erratic the last few nights and my anxiety super-high.

Love

Starting with my blog and continuing on Facebook, I've become, I suppose, the unofficial spokesperson for the Cooper family. When I realized how many of Mom's friends were commenting on information I had shared last week, I decided to give updates from time to time, and I've had a lot of people thank me for it. Meanwhile, I have received so many lovely expressions from family friends and my own friends towards Mom and even me, which has helped all of us immensely.

Before Mom went into surgery, I read her some of the messages people wrote on my "today's the day" update. She was so touched, and it made her smile. This morning, I read the comments people had left on my post letting them know the surgery was finished, and successful. She couldn't talk, but her smile said it all. She definitely feels all of the love pouring her way from all corners.

Tomorrow, when she's in a regular, non-ICU room, she'll have her phone again and be able to access Facebook when she feels up to it. I know she will read every single message and comment, and I know it only contributes to her healing.

So thank you for reaching out. We love you all.

The Fightin' Pants Saga Continues

Today, Mom met her oncologist, and with all due respect to Dr. D., I hate associating that word--oncologist--with my parent. But, there you have it.

Mom being mom and Meg being Meg, we both later admitted to some anxiety as the appointment approached. What would Dr. D. say? Would she say it's a lost cause? What would she recommend?

Mom and Dad called me on the way home from the appointment, both in excellent spirits. Turns out Dr. D. is, in their words, "very, very knowledgeable, and also personable." Obviously, the "knowledgeable" part is the most important to all of us, but I'm enough like Mom to know that the "personable" bit goes a long way, too, especially in terms of keeping us calm.

Dr. D. believes, as does Mom's GI doc, that surgery first is best. She wants Mom in immediately, to get the mass and some surrounding lymph nodes removed. Then they'll start six months of chemo. Mom meets her surgeon tomorrow, whose reputation precedes him--he's excellent. A friend of mine from work knows of him--he operated on her mom, also for colon cancer, a few years ago. They think he's awesome (though, apparently, he's a bit more awkward in the people skills department).

So the ball is rolling now. I hope they will get Mom on the surgery schedule within the next week or so. We are all anxious to get the bad stuff out of there!

As for the chemo, Dr. D. told Mom that it won't make her lose her hair. In the grand scheme of things, Mom was willing to bear that, but she is, of course, happy that she won't. And knowing how good it makes Mom feel to have her hair and makeup looking nice, I'm glad she'll have that still, as she goes through chemo, which will be taxing on her. Sometimes the little things help keep our spirits up.

As Mom was signing in this morning, another patient came through the waiting room, and saw Mom filling out the paperwork.

"Are you new?" she asked Mom.

"Yes..." Mom replied.

"It's going to be just fine," the lady replied, as she walked into the exam area.

And so it will be.

Fightin' Pants

For a few months now, my mom has been having some health issues. I'll spare the many details, but it started with a dizzy/fainting spell that had Dad calling 911, and has ended up with two blood transfusions for extremely low hemoglobin levels, every possible test in the medical books, and the discovery of a mass in Mom's lower intestines and/or colon.

And yes, the mass is malignant.

It was a week-and-a-half ago we found out the mass was likely malignant. It was a Saturday, and Mom called from the hospital (she'd been admitted for a transfusion). She was crying. I started crying. She sent Dad home so he could process it in his own way and I visited her for a couple hours that afternoon. That was the gut-punch day.

But since then, no tears. The biopsy confirmed it a few days later and since then, we've been calm, collected, and ready to fight.

In a message to Mom on Facebook, I talked about putting our "fightin' pants" on--a sort of mix-up of "Put on your big girl panties and deal with it" and "fighting spirit," I guess. That Saturday was a very emotional day. Still, I've run with the term.

Yesterday was Mom's birthday.

Part of my gift to her was a banner I made. "These are your fightin' pants," I told her. Of course, she loves it. Even Dad loves it, and helped me put it up over the fireplace. "We'll keep it there," he said to me later. And they will take it to the hospital, too. Though Mom hasn't yet seen her oncologist (she will this coming Monday), we're fairly certain that surgery is in the near future.

She also got some Silly Putty (for times of anxiety) and Superwoman socks to keep her feet warm. When I visited her the last time, it was freezing in there. And I gave her a book by an author we both like. I bought another book by him, and when we each finish, we'll swap.

You might notice that I've avoided using the c-word. I have avoided it as much as possible since this whole saga began. Part of that is, perhaps, denial, and my own anxiety at play. But part of it is a stubborn refusal to let the c-word completely take over our lives. Of course, we are all going to be fighting this with Mom, and watching her battle it. But all of us refuse to let it be a 100% downer. We are choosing, instead, to face the challenge head-on, with dignity and our collective sense of humor intact. It's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be fun. But whatever Dad and I can do to lift Mom up when she's feeling her worst, we will do.

We still don't know what the exact course of treatment is going to be. We believe surgery, as soon as possible, because no one wants to leave a malignant mass in there to grow. We figure there might be some chemo, and we'll deal with that should it come. We are hopeful that it's as early as we think it is.

A few days ago, Mom was talking to one of her friends on the phone, and giving her the details of what is going on. Dad later told me, while laughing, that Mom said, "...and I'm pissed!" With that kind of attitude, we can pull up our fightin' pants and deal with what's ahead.

A Thank You

It was a Monday morning, June 13th, and I came home from seeing a condo with Kristen. I sat down in the living room and told my parents about the place--what I liked about it, what needed work. "It needs...a lot of work." They knew it wasn't their decision to make, but they offered some sage advice, coming from years of buying-selling-moving-wash-rinse-repeat, and left it for me to decide. A little while later, I emailed Kristen. "Let's do this."

So started the Wild and Absolutely True Adventure of Meg becoming a home owner. I might as well have told my parents I was buying a lemon, adding a ton of sugar, and making lemonade, because in the four weeks since the deal closed, that's pretty much what I have done...and I couldn't have done it without them.

For starters, they are on the front lines of what I refer to (in my head) as Anxiety Central, that foreboding territory in which a woman who ought to feel really excited instead feels completely overwhelmed and worried that she can't afford any of this, that this was the stupidest decision ever, and that maybe she should just get in a rowboat and paddle away, like, yesterday. I'm not particularly easy to live with when I'm anxious. The most benign suggestion can be met with a snappy reply and/or a really snotty eye roll, and I get really bloody moody.

Yet they have cleaned, installed, uninstalled, unstuck, and labored and sweated alongside me all so I can have a comfortable home. There has been some financial help, as well, with the flooring, and offers to help if I need it (I'm trying to do as much of it on my own dime as possible--it's a pride thing--but I'm not above taking some help to ensure I have clean floors instead of guinea pig poop-infested carpet to live on...plus, I had a birthday a couple weeks ago). They hired movers for me this weekend so I could get my furniture and boxes out of the storage unit in time to avoid paying another month's rent on it. I have borrowed their van to haul stuff, made them have to buy a new step-ladder because I dripped paint all over the one I'd borrowed from them (bonus, I have a great ladder now!), and probably helped Dad's power tools age about twenty years.

Mom scrubbed every kitchen and bathroom cabinet and drawer, inside and out, and rubbed Murphy's Oil on them until they gleamed. She sweated and toiled with me for days to get the grease and grime left by the former tenants, and has also been the first person who gets the worst of my snottiness when it shows up.

Four different times since I went back to work on August 17, my dad has taken his own personal time to be at my apartment at 8:00 to let someone in for painting or floor install. He has happily done this because he'd rather miss one of his twice-weekly coffee gatherings with his fellow veterans in Lincoln than have me take time off work, or have to be late for work.

Beyond the big things they've done, it's also the little things--like Dad going over while I met the movers at the storage unit this morning and putting every socket and switch cover back on before we stuck furniture in front of them (something I neglected to do after the place got painted last week because the new school year has me going ninety miles per hour and frankly, putting switch covers back on sounded like more than I could deal with).

Little by little, with each passing day, the Filthiest Condo in the World has turned around and become a clean, livable, and pretty place that I can be happy in--and will be, starting next weekend.

It's funny, because the closer I get to moving completely out of Mom and Dad's house, the more I think, "Damn, I'm going to miss them." I'll only be half an hour away, and it's likely they'll see me at least once a week and talk to me often via phone and Facebook--this is nothing like when I went to England. It will be an adjustment, living alone again, and that's why there will be two kittens joining me sometime in the next couple of months.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad will get one of the crisper drawers back in the fridge, and will no longer have to wade through my smoothie mixes in the freezer. My tea-making stuff won't be prominently displayed on the kitchen counter and I won't grump and pout when I need the washing machine and it is in use--I'll have my own washing machine. When home ownership overwhelms me, they won't be on the front lines of my bad moods...but they'll still be a phone call away, ready to offer whatever help they can.

That's just what they do.

A Whirlwind Weekend

Last week, I woke to a text on Wednesday morning from my brother, Aaron. "Are Mom and Dad going out of town this weekend?"

"I don't think so," I replied. "I don't know what they've got planned."

Aaron, it turned out, had a hankering to see Mom for her 70th birthday (today), and wanted to drive from Idaho to surprise her. I told him she'd love it, but to talk to Dad about logistics, and within a few hours, a plan was formed.

"Oh, and Erica is going to come with me," he later told me in a quick phone conversation.

Erica is my niece, adopted officially about two years ago. I had met her once, in passing, when in Idaho for Echo's funeral in 2013. I literally laid eyes on her for maybe five minutes, said, "Nice to meet you!" with a distracted smile (she was still fostered with a different family then, but she would visit Aaron and Susanne at their home because she is the biological sister to my nephew Tyson). We were only in Idaho for a couple of days, and obviously, our purpose in visiting wasn't a happy one.

Since Erica became part of the family, Mom and Dad have gone to visit, but I had to work. So I've been the Aunt-From-Afar, sending birthday and Christmas cards. So I was excited to get to spend some real time with Erica this weekend.

She turned out to be just awesome.

Aaron got off work at midnight on Friday, went home and roused Erica and her BFF Tara (who ended up coming with them), and they left Idaho at about 1:00 local time, because Aaron is crazy. Okay, I kid. But he's definitely a glutton for punishment or something.

By about 10:00, they were pulling into Lincoln, and Dad went to meet them to help them find their way to the house, where Mom was watering her garden and I was sitting on the patio furniture playing with my phone (but actually getting ready to take pictures).

Before long, we heard Aaron's baritone singing, "Happy Birthday to you..." and Mom jumped about three feet in the air before turning around to give him a bear hug.

We all sat on the patio for a bit catching up, then Aaron and the girls went to check in at the hotel and have a rest. Later on, Mom, Dad, and I picked them up and we went to Old Town Pizza in Lincoln.

Tara (left) and Erica (right). I promise we did not all spend the
whole meal on our phones.

Siblings.

Aaron was exhausted, but the girls were raring to go, wanting to have some fun. A little while after coming home from dinner, I got a call from Erica. "Aunt Meg...could you take us to the mall...???"

So I spent a couple hours with Erica and Tara at the mall, and while I made a silly post to Facebook about it, I was actually having fun. They're cute girls.

Nope, didn't buy it. I'm being Ms. Frugal these days.

Sorely tempted...but nope.

In the Disney Store. Erica had foot surgery recently, but that
scooter isn't slowing her down. Tara and I had to race to keep up!

On Sunday, Aaron wanted to go to Old Sac, so I offered to drive him and the girls. We took a quick detour by my school, and by our grandparents' old house for nostalgia's sake.

Aaron collects post cards. This was his sole reason for coming
to Old Sac. Even though I send him about three post cards
every week.

Star Wars knock-offs.

I so love old buildings. So many lovely details.

We made a new friend. 

Tara

Erica climbed up there, boot and all. 

At lunch (the nose rings are fake).

We walked on to the Delta King for a few minutes and I got
some fun shots.

Sunday evening, we had a long-planned dinner at the club here in the neighborhood. Dad had invited four couples they are friends with to have a birthday dinner for Mom, and of course I was invited as well. When Aaron announced his visit, Dad called to add a few more seats. We ended up having a party of 14, and a marvelous time.

Then it was back to the house for cake and ice cream. Mom had a great time.

After everyone else left, we took a few family pictures.

Meg and Mom <3 nbsp="" td="">

Aaron had to get back to Idaho today, so we said our goodbyes last night. It was a whirlwind of a weekend, and after attending the Lincoln July 4th Parade this morning, I came home and had a three-hour nap.

Llama!

Soldiers handing out candy.

Red, white, and...purple hair.

This was the creepiest thing I've ever seen in a parade. Yes,
that is supposed to be Jesus.

Llamas!!

A horse in a hat.

It's been a great weekend. Busy, full of family. I am glad Aaron was able to be here, and I was glad to get to know Erica better--she and her friend Tara are both really with-it and mature girls (both 16). Really smart and funny. We all had a great time, and Mom is left feeling very blessed, indeed.