One Year

Today it has been one year. 

One year since I flew home in a panic, fighting back the tears but not the nerves, ripping at my cuticles and picking off my nail polish. A year since I stood at my mother's windows seeing and yet not seeing the beautiful sun set over my home town.

It's been a year since we said "love you" as she began to get sleepy. Since we memorized her assigned number, 763, a number I will never forget. Since we sat in that waiting room staring endlessly at the board. Watched the words by 763 go from "in pre-op" to "surgery started" to "surgery ended" and finally to "in recovery" and knew we could almost breathe again. Almost.

It's been a year since we waited to be allowed into the recovery room, then were caught sneaking in, then waited some more and tried to sneak in yet again. Since the nurse had pity on us and allowed us to just see her for a second, then told us emphatically to go get something to eat, we could meet her in her room in an hour.

Since the cocktails that followed. 

 

It's been a year since we looked on in shock as she got out of the transport bed and walked to her hospital bed. Walked. And no, it wasn't those cocktails. Since we sat with her and witnessed her complete comeback from the drowsiness of the anesthesia. Since we asked the doctor and the nurse endless questions, and since at the end of visiting hours we turned her TV on and asked if she needed anything.

"How am I supposed to know what's on? I need a TV guide." 

Quickly exiting her room then, we looked at each other, not a word was said, we were both thinking the same thing: "she's baaaaack."

On our way out, without pausing or missing a step, my sister threw the ball into the nurse's court "she needs a TV guide." And with that we pushed our way through the double doors and giggled.

Yes, it's even been one year since that first post-surgical laugh.

It's been a year since we brought her home. Since my heart broke as I endlessly emptied the drain and changed bandages and heard over and over "it's so ugly, how can you stand to look at it?" Since I answered that all I saw was strength.

It's been a year since I fielded phone calls, went to follow up appointments, critiqued endless clothing options, served meals and afternoon tea to more friends and family than I can count.

A year has also passed since that bittersweet day came when she declared herself self-sufficient, even made me her famous lobster salad, and sent me back home.

A year since I cried on those flights, knowing that the next assault would be chemo. That she was not allowing me to come back for it.

I have never lost a body part. Still have my tonsils and appendix even. But I watched it happen, a year ago, so I know that celebrating that loss, even knowing it meant life, would feel just so . . . insensitive. 

So as there tends to be with most anniversaries there will be no balloons, no gifts, no "surprise" yelled into a room full of friends and family. 

And yet, that horrible wonderful day was about early detection. It was about health and about hope. It was about strength and determination and the will to overcome. It does need to be marked, acknowledged in some way. 

I'll spend the day today more relieved. Way way more relieved than the way I spent this day in 2016. I'll have a quiet dinner with my family. And after much thought I've decided that there will be cake.

Berry Blue Angel Poke Cake

Because there is, in fact, something that I am celebrating.

One year.

Berry Blue Angel Poke Cake         
                                    ©www.BakingInATornado.com

Printable Recipe

Ingredients:

1 box (3 oz) Berry Blue jello

OPT: 1/4 cup raspberry liqueur

1 10 oz (8 X 4) Angel Food Loaf, cooled

1/3 cup fresh blueberries, rinsed and dried

1 cup whipping cream

OPT: additional blueberries for garnish

Directions:

*Dissolve the jello granules completely in 1 cup boiling water. Mix in 1/4 cup cold water and 1/4 cup raspberry liqueur (or you can use cold water if desired). Place half of the liquid jello in the fridge while preparing the rest of the cake.

*Cut the Angel Food loaf in half lengthwise about halfway up from the bottom. Place the bottom half onto a serving plate. With a chopstick, dot this cake loaf half with holes. Do not go  through the bottom of the cake. 

*Gently press half of the blueberries into the holes. Carefully pour 1/2 of jello not refrigerated over the cake. 

*Dot the second half of the cake loaf and insert the remaining blueberries. Place onto the bottom half on the serving plate and pour the remaining unrefrigerated jello over the top.

*Carefully, using a paper towel, remove the excess jello from the plate around the cake. Refrigerate.

*After about 1/2 hour (you want the jello in the fridge to just start to thicken but not completely gel), beat the whipping cream until stiff peaks hold. Remove the jello from the fridge and beat into the whipped cream. NOTE: if the jello has thickened too much, whisk in a little hot water. 

*Remove the cake from the refrigerator. Carefully remove the top layer and spread a very small amount of frosting onto the bottom layer. Replace the top and frost the entire cake with whipped cream. Decorate with additional blueberries. Place unused whipped cream into a sealed bag in the refrigerator to dollop onto slices when serving.

*Store cake in refrigerator.

Know Your Balls

Know your balls? Bet you think I mean these:

Fruited BBQ Meatballs, Crockpot or Stovetop 

Nope, not those balls.

Oh, baseball. After all, it's April and everyone knows how much I do love those Red Sox. 

Not those balls either.

Let me give you a hint: In many parts of the country, bulls need to run and hide or theirs could end up on someone's plate renamed Rocky Mountain Oysters. 

Yeah, those balls.

Wait. Know my balls? THOSE balls? Last I checked I didn't have any. In fact, if I remember my High School Sex Ed correctly, women characteristically don't (except my friend Betsy, and you can buy hers here: Happylicious by Betsy).

But all the men I know do. Well, that may be presumptuous, but I'm willing to go out on a limb here. Quick side note to my male friends, please do not start sending me pictures. Really, no visual confirmation necessary, thank you very much.

Years ago I wrote an entire post about the blogging trend of writing about bodily functions and body parts. In Virginia is the New Furt, I declared my intention to give that particular trend a pass. I would not be discussing my "Virginia" on the interwebs.

So, of course, here I am talking about balls.

This is my story, and I'm sticking to it (you knew there was going to be a story, right?): I receive a ton of emails in relation to this blog. It's why it has its own email address. With more frequency than I'd like to admit, I'm asked to write for this or that company. I consider them all but rarely accept.

Last November when Shannon of Tommy John, a men's undergarment company, contacted me about including her brand in a post, I declined. But Shannon got sneaky creative. She contacted me again this month about participating in a campaign Tommy John is running in support of the Testicular Cancer Foundation. She said, in part, "In November, my company donated over $10,000 directly to the cause and in April we're looking to continue raising awareness of this disease - but we can't do it alone. We'd love your help by spreading the word to your readers! The more women that join the cause, the greater the impact will be."

Well played, Shannon, well played.

You see I'm not only married, and not only the mother of two boys, but I also have a friend whose husband had testicular cancer. I approached Elizabeth about this post and she generously agreed to share her story. From my friend Elizabeth:

I am the wife of a testicular cancer survivor. I'm lucky to be able to say that. My husband found a lump long before he did anything about it. I'm not sure why, but I can imagine. Maybe in our hectic young married lives he just forgot about it. Maybe he'd convinced himself it was nothing.

I was 6 months into a difficult pregnancy with our first child when he was diagnosed. From there it was a whirlwind of action and emotion. He went into treatment immediately. My pregnancy, his diagnosis, banking sperm, surgery, months of radiation before work, I'm not sure we really had a chance to process it, either of us. It all just seemed so surreal.

He recovered. Despite his delay in seeking a diagnosis, it was caught early enough. We went on to successfully have 2 more children through artificial insemination. All these years later I look across the table at my husband, I look at the beautiful family we created and I know it could have gone differently. I appreciate how very lucky I am to be able to say that I am the wife of a testicular cancer survivor.
 

Some general information as provided to me:
*One male is diagnosed with testicular cancer every hour. That's 24 men a day.
*Testicular cancer is the most easily detected form of cancer.
*The survival rate for testicular cancer is 99% when caught early.
*Testicular cancer is the most common cancer in males ages 15 - 34.
*Awareness is low about the risks for testicular cancer and the precautions that should be taken, jeopardizing the chances of early detection.

So, to all the women out there, here's your opportunity. In this Testicular Cancer Awareness Month, give your men a kick in the pants. We are advised to feel ourselves up, it's only fair that we ask our men to feel themselves down . . . so to speak.

Please. It's important.

 

 

PS: Be sure to visit the Testicular Cancer Foundation website where they provide awareness, education and support.

Because these people really care,

about, you know,

what ya got down there. 

Sorry, just couldn't help myself. And April is, after all, not only Testicular Cancer Awareness Month but also National Poetry Month.

A Virtual Stone

September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month.  I honestly hadn't planned to write a piece about cancer.  It’s been in me for a long time, but I never even considered letting it out until now.  Still hopelessly torn, I ultimately took the easy way out and put it in my Step-Mother’s hands.  I told her that I was thinking of writing a piece and if she agreed, would send it to her for approval before publishing.  If Joyce said that I could write it, I would.  If Joyce didn’t want me to, I would not.

I heard back from Joyce the same day:  “I think that is lovely.  I do not need to proofread it . . . I am sure it will be a wonderful tribute to him.”

When Jews go to the grave of a loved one, we leave a stone on their gravestone.  It’s our way of saying “I was here, you are not forgotten”.  I’m 1500 miles away from home so in this month dedicated to awareness of childhood cancers, this post will have to serve as a virtual stone on my (step)brother Peter’s gravestone.

Peter’s Mom married my Dad later in life, so I’m not going to tell you that he and I grew up together.  There was an age difference between us as well.  I was close to my Dad and Joyce, but got to know Peter best during his fight with cancer.

Peter grew up an only child.  I remember him as a fun, happy, athletic kid.  Ice Hockey was his game and he played it as often as he could.  It was an unusually large swollen area from a hit with a hockey puck that resulted in Peter’s diagnosis.  To this day I’m not really sure what kind of cancer he had, one of his Oncologists said it was most similar to a childhood cancer someone his age (17) wouldn’t have.  By the time it was found it had taken over his kidney and adrenal gland and was the size of a grapefruit.  He had surgery, but it had gone into his lymph nodes so it may have metastasized.  It was decided that the Oncologist at Dana Farber would remain in charge of his case, but the chemo would be administered at a local hospital so he could be near home.

I know that Peter’s Mom was with him before the first chemo, but was not capable of being there when they started the treatment.  I decided to go.  It was all I could do to fight the visceral need to rip that bag of poison out of his arm as they hooked it up.  I watched the line of fluid stream from the bag down, down, down into his arm.  I felt sick at the thought of poison, hopeful at the thought of treatment, and sick that poison was making me hopeful.

Chemo is a very good thing, and a very bad thing.  It is debilitating. There are profound side-effects that don’t go away.  Peter had to be literally knocked unconscious for days following each chemo session because it made him so sick.  He lost some of his hearing, he lost tons of weight, he lost the feeling in the bottoms of his feet.  And Peter went into remission.

At one year post-chemo, Peter, Joyce and I went into Dana Farber for a checkup.  The Oncologist told us that there was a mass where his adrenal gland used to be and other nodes as well.  She talked about treatment.  I remember going into the ladies’ room afterwards and talking to Joyce about what we’d found out. How surreal it was that Joyce and I had heard two completely different things.  What she heard was positive, she heard treatment.  What I heard was negative, I heard that it was back.

Peter went through more hell, and then just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was a bone marrow transplant.  He was already beaten and bruised and battered and now they were going to eradicate his immune system.  Poison, and hope, and poison.

Once I was allowed in the room (suited up) where Peter was recovering from the transplant, I went in with a backgammon game.  I have to tell you, I’m not one who lets others win.  Ever.  Ask my poor little niece.   I remember that I was winning, and then suddenly every time it was my turn Peter would reach up, take out a little clump of his (loose) hair and put it on the game.  That little bugger was playing dirty.  And it worked.  He won.  Every game.

Peter went into remission again and went to college.  Cal State Chico.  He was pledging a fraternity when it became clear that he wasn’t well.  I remember that my husband (then boyfriend) and I had plans to host friends at his ski house when, the day before we were to head  up to New Hampshire, Joyce called and asked me to come home and fly with her up to California to take Peter out of school.  The whole 2 hour drive home was a blur.  Joyce, her niece and I flew up there. 

Peter ended up at Cedars Sinai on the same floor as Pierce Brosnan’s wife.  It would have been a cool story if it had ended well . . .  for either family.  But it did not.  For us, the end result was this: Peter could fight, beat the cancer back, wait for it to return, fight, beat, wait, fight, beat, wait.  It was up to him to decide when to stop.

I stood at Peter’s funeral 8 days before my wedding.  Peter had been 20 years old.  I remember my sister and I approaching together and holding hands as we threw a rose into his grave.  I don’t remember anything else.

Jews name babies (in many cases the child’s Hebrew name) after the dead.  It’s a way to remember them through the living.  My oldest son’s Hebrew name is Peter’s.  My son’s always known who he was named after and the general story. 

When my son was very little and we were back home, he wanted to go see Peter’s grave.  I wasn’t really sure what to do so I talked to Joyce.  I knew she’d come with us, but you never know what a small child will say.  I was really concerned that Older Son could very well inadvertently hurt Joyce.  We knew, though, that his simple request to see his namesake’s grave would be honored.

We went but didn’t stay there long. We saw his beautiful, simple gravestone.  Joyce talked a little about Peter, we said a prayer and one by one left him a stone.  In the car, as I was pulling out of the cemetery, I heard Older Son say “I wish Peter had never died”.  

There it was. 

I sort of held my breath as Peter’s Mom turned around, looked at my little boy, and simply said “me too”.

 
Peter David Sferra is remembered.

PS: I'm on the National Bone Marrow Registry. Are you?