Back to reality

Posted: June 27, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Home from my girls’ trip to SPI and have been flung back into the grind. No more lazy days on the balcony and beach, whiling the day away with a great book and fantastic company.

Because of the rigors of the grind, I’ve got a long list of things to do, so this will be short and sweet. I have a hard time focusing until my suitcase is unpacked and my house is in order, but first things first, I needed to get to the gym. Too many days had passed since I got my burn on, and while the girlfriends and I kept it healthy on our trip, enjoying the phenomenal produce and seafood from the Gulf, I also ate this:

Yes, a taco as big as my head. Bigger, actually. The handmade flour tortilla was 18 inches in diameter, and more likely than not fattened up with lard and lots of it.

We dined at Manuel’s in Port Isabel, just on the inland side of the causeway leading to South Padre. This place is legendary in a land chock-full of great Mexican food.

It’s a family-run place, a hole in the wall with friendly service, passionate employees, and a-ma-zing food. Abuela was in the back, rolling out the Texas-sized tortillas and gave me a mostly-toothless grin as I asked her if she minded me taking a photo of her work. 

I’m glad she said yes, because this stack of gigantic tortillas has to be seen to be believed.

I’m a bit of a guacamole purist, and Manuel’s is by far the best I’ve tasted. With apologies to my buddy Abundio at Escalante’s in Sugar Land, whose customized, tableside guac is my favorite, I must say the guac at Manuel’s had it beat, by a slim margin. And only because the avocados were grown right there, practically on site. The Rio Grande Valley is home to some of the best produce on Earth, and the avocados are good enough to make you weep with joy. As they say at the Goode Company restaurants in this neck of the woods, “You might give some serious thought to thanking your lucky stars that you’re in Texas.” Nowhere is this more true than at Manuel’s. They don’t even have a liquor license and I still believe that. I’m glad I got a photo of the guac before it was devoured (mainly by me).

Amateur and professional foodies alike have sung Manuel’s praises and given thanks for the authentic, yummy food made there. Texas Monthly bestowed a most-prestigious award upon Manuel’s when it was added to the bible of taco-eaters, The 63 Tacos You Must Try Before You Die list. Why 63? Why not? Because this is Texas, and we do things the way we please, pardner. If you don’t like it, scurry on back to one of the other states.

Manuel’s is particularly praised for its chilaquiles. If you’ve never sampled this little piece of heaven on a plate, get thee to a Mexican hole in the wall, pronto. Ask for extra queso fresco. You can thank me later. 

One thing I do not recommend, however, is the menudo. Neither the band

nor the soup. Yuk.

Why the menudo is in a plastic tub inside a plastic bin rather than in a refrigerator is a mystery that I won’t be solving, because I won’t be anywhere near that tub. Or the bin. Maybe it’s because menudo smells so bad, it will contaminate anything and everything else in the fridge. And the county.  I’m going to think about the out-of-this world guacamole instead. And plan my next trip to Manuel’s.

Life’s a beach!

Posted: June 24, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , | 6 Comments

I’m on the 7th-floor balcony overlooking the beach at South Padre. The weather isn’t great, but the air is salty, the breeze is cool, the seagulls & pelicans are flying, and the sound of the ocean is magical. The most important part: I’M HERE! Cancer has no place on this balcony.

I’ve been here almost 24 hours and have yet to step on the beach, but no worries. Yesterday was consumed with airport transportation, procuring supplies, and waiting for the bridge to the island to re-open. While stuck in traffic, we noticed an older man riding a kitted-out scooter of sorts, bright yellow with “Granpa’s Hog” painted on the back. It has a lawnmower engine and he zips along pretty quickly. He had no traffic issues on the sidewalk. The best part: we saw him pull into the drive-through liquor store! Brilliant.

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Editor’s update: Nancy texted me the pic and I’ve inserted above.
[I have a photo but can’t download it from my phone and upload it to my iPad. Advanced technology also has no place on this balcony; the photo can wait.]

Last night, Payton’s All Star team had another stunning win in game 2 of the District Tournament. The 18-3 game included a 3-run homer and some stellar plays by the boys in red. Next game, tomorrow night. I’ll be there in spirit, but like Zac Brown, I hope to have my toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a care in the world, a cold beer in my hand. Life is good today, indeed.

At the ballpark, again

Posted: June 22, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Last summer was pretty bad for me and my family. It started innocently enough, with a bilateral mastectomy at age 40 on May 13th, and while I healed quickly and nicely from that, it all went downhill fast.

Just after my 41st birthday, I got a nasty post-surgery infection. No one saw it coming, and to say it took us all by surprise would be a gross understatement. The odds of contracting a nosocomial infection are not small, but my infection is somewhat rare, quite wily, and super slow to treat. In the scope of inconvenient infections, I won the lottery.

Last night was the first game of the All Star tournament for Payton’s team–something I missed entirely last summer. Being present last night to watch my boy do what he does best with his team of like-minded and uber-talented buddies was one of the simplest yet deepest thrills of all time. We take a lot of things for granted in this life of ours, and being able to sit on metal bleachers in the Texas heat in June to watch youth baseball is one of those things. I’ve sat through thousands of games for my little ball player, and hardly thought twice about it beyond the random, mundane thoughts associated with this endeavor: who are we “versing” (as our catcher, #10 Carl says)? Where is Payton in the line-up? Are we on the shady side of the field? Did I remember my stadium seat? How many times will Macy hit the concession stand? How many pieces of bubble gum does Pay have in his mouth at once?

Those are the thoughts that traverse my brain during a game, along with the usual baseball stuff: What’s the run rule in this tournament?; How did we fare against this team last time we met? If the ball hits the bat then hits the batter, he’s out, right? Rules and regulations course through my head as I follow the many games my boy has played.

Last night was different, though. As I was ready to walk out the door, our bestie Ed reminded me that I’ve come a long way since this time last year. Several of the parents on our team remarked at the park that it’s nice to have me there this year. A couple of the coaches said something about having missed me and my big mouth last summer; once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader.

I have come a long way since last summer, and watching my kid play ball is something to be savored, something to most definitely not take for granted. The metal bleachers, the roar of the crowd, the (gross) smell of hot dogs, the infield dirt blowing in my eyes…every bit of it is special to me on a whole ‘nother level.

Last night also marked the first time a newspaper reporter has covered the game, and seeing my boy’s name in print in association with his rock-star team’s blowout and his personal success is something I’ll be savoring for a while. Before cancer came into my life, I would have enjoyed reading the article, and likely would have forwarded it to our nearest & dearest, but this time, I’m carrying the feeling of that article along with me, inside my heart, in that little space where the gratitude lies.

I was flipping through my old Caring Bridge blog, and happened upon this entry, which seems even more prescient a year later. I wrote this on the morning of my mastectomy, before leaving for the hospital. No doubt I was antsy, preoccupied, and ready to get the show on the road that morning. It seems appropriate to reprint it today, in light of the theme of today’s blog.

I realize that when cancer comes into one’s life it disrupts everything and changes “the normal” forever. Dr Dempsey, my superstar breast surgeon, told me you  no longer schedule cancer around your life, you schedule your life around your cancer. Life takes a backseat to war. 

 With cancer, I join a club that I never signed up for and for which I never wanted to become a member. 

No matter, I now have a new normal. The new normal is all about taking care of what’s most important. We hear this all the time, but when you really put it into play in your own life, you know exactly what it means. For me, it means facing this beast head on and telling the bastard repeatedly that it doesn’t stand a chance. It means never once, not even once, considering that this cancer will win. It’s not even in the game. 

It also  means all the pithy stuff you hear about, like savor every day, make the most our of whatever you’ve got. That’s also true. For me it means truly embracing and enjoying my kids and my family, and letting my friends into my life — warts & all — on a whole new level. Y’all may well see my house a mess, which doesn’t happen much. You may see me in a grumpy mood (ok, you’ve seen that, esp on the tennis court!). You  may see me just a teensy bit vulnerable, but only for a short time so don’t expect a repeat performance. No matter what, there is a new normal, and I’m all over it.

Dad’s Day

Posted: June 19, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer, kids | Tags: , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I write a lot in this space about my sweet mama, and how much I miss her since cancer snatched her away in October 2006. I don’t write as much about my dad, and today, on Father’s Day, it’s high time I remedied that inequity.

My dad and I are a lot alike: opinionated, confident, and possessing a strong sense of right & wrong. He was the originator of the “it’s just what you do” idea. He lived it and preached it. One of his many sayings is “Good things happen to people who get up and go to work every day.” He instilled a rock-solid work ethic in my brother and me, and that is one of the many things for which I’m grateful to him.

It all started, I guess, when my dad’s dad, Elias “Louis” Katapodis, was born on July 20, 1893 in the village of Haradiatika, on the island of Levkas, in western Greece off the Ionian Sea. Life was hard, and Louie wanted more.

At age 21, Louie emigrated from Greece to the United States in pursuit of a better life. He and his brother John (for whom my brother is named) departed the port of Patras, Greece, on the passenger ship Patris and arrived at Ellis Island April 5, 1914. I have copies of their ship’s passenger list as well as Louie’s Petition for U.S. Citizenship, dated January 19, 1925. After landing at Ellis Island, Louie and Uncle John traveled to Iowa to work on the railroad, and Louie ended up in Sapulpa, Oklahoma, where he met Mona Mae. He married her and they and had 3 boys. My dad, Leon, was the middle child, on the far right.Louie was immensely proud of his U.S. citizenship, and apparently hung the framed document in his bedroom. He had just enough formal education to read the newspaper and pass the citizenship test, but  he could never read cursive writing, and neither he nor Mona Mae ever learned to drive a car. Louie learned enough math to work a cash register, and worked hard. He had a reputation as a prankster and was always smiling.

Sadly, Louis died before I was born so I never met him but I’ve heard about what a great man he was. He came to the Unites States speaking little English and with very little money, but with hard work and determination–the typical immigrant story–he prospered. He raised his boys to love their family and their country, and he instilled the value of a good education. He taught my dad how important it is “to keep your nose clean” and he wasn’t talking about hygiene. My dad passed that lesson on to my brother and me, and I distinctly remember him talking about how his greatest fear as a child was that he would disappoint his dad. Me, too.

One of my great regrets is that circumstances never allowed me to meet Louie, my Papou, but I’ve been told my entire life that he would have loved me, and I’m sure the feeling would have been mutual.

My dad was a star athlete, excelling in both baseball and football. He passed that trait on to his grandkids, no doubt. In fact, my dad taught Payton to hit a pitched ball at age 2, and perhaps started Pay’s lifelong baseball love affair. Thanks to my dad’s genes and tutelage, Payton looked like this on the ball field, even at a young age. 

My dad not only passed on the baseball legacy but also loves watching Payton’s games. He thinks nothing of traveling 525 miles one way to be in the stands for Pay’s Little League games and for Pay’s year-round team’s many tournaments. Last year, Dad traveled to watch Pay’s All Star team in the State Championship in Tyler, TX, cheering them on while I was stuck in yet another hospital room.

Watching Payton play baseball is one of my dad’s favorite things, followed closely by hanging out with his grandkids. He’s been there from Day One in each of his 4 grandkids’ lives, and in fact, on the day that Payton was born, Dad was visiting my nephew Andrew in Kansas. When he got the word that Pay was making his appearance into this world a few weeks early, he jumped in the car and high-tailed it across 3 states to meet his second grandson. When Macy was born, he kept Payton for us and when the coast was clear and she was safely delivered into the world, Dad brought Pay up to the hospital. I will never forget watching him standing over her incubator with a tear of joy rolling down his cheek.  Wish I had a photo of that!

He never got tired of holding his grandbabies, and he’s logged a lot of hours chasing them around playgrounds, taking them to the zoo, and relishing their company.

I love how you can see Dad just over Andrew’s shoulder in the left corner of this photo. Three cousins having a snack while their Papou watches over them is pretty good stuff.

My parents loved their grandparent role immensely, and I know my dad is as sad as I am that YaYa didn’t get to see her grandkids grow up.

Dad has spent a lot of time hanging with my kids in the pool,

and he’s been around for the first day of school. 

He was proud to be a featured guest for kindergarten read-aloud, and Macy was so happy to have him there. 

Holidays are a special time for my dad, and he loves to have everyone gathered around a table laden with good food. That first Thanksgiving after my mom died was brutal, but even though it had only been a few weeks since he lost his beloved Bride, he insisted that the show must go on and he proudly presided from the head of the table. My mom would have liked that.

Every Christmas, the biggest and best gift comes from Papou, and he’s always there to gather up the trash, insert batteries into new toys, and open the wine and carve the roast beast. 

My dad has taught me a lot of things over the years, from looking both ways before crossing the street to the satisfaction of a job well done. He’s been a guiding influence for my brother and me in how we raise our families. He set the example we follow in parenting: love your kids, teach them well, call them out on their wrongdoings, and have lots of fun. He used to give me his chewed piece of Juicy Fruit gum every evening when he got home from work. The germ-o-phobe I grew up to become would never chew someone else’s already-chewed gum, but as a kid I didn’t think twice about it, and it seemed like a special ritual between the two of us, one of many special things we shared. He sang “You Are My Sunshine” to me every night before bed as he tucked me in.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, he was by her side every step of the way. When it became evident that her cancer battle was one she would not win, he faced that cruel truth head-on; a great and important lesson for me and one that I would employ just a handful of years after her death. If it freaked out my dad to learn that his little girl also had cancer, he never let on. He simply told me that he had every confidence that I would map out a plan to deal with it and execute that plan. He has supported and encouraged me, never missing an opportunity to tell me how proud he is of how I’ve waged my battle, and reminding me that my mama would be proud, too.

While I no longer need my nightly song and tuck-in, I still love my daddy and feel so grateful to have him in my life.

Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies out there.

It’s that time of year again

Posted: June 16, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Summer in Texas means a few things: happy kids, hot & humid days, and baseball All Stars.

Texas is a baseball powerhouse in general, and our neck of the woods is no different. We’re right down the highway from Pearland, whose Boys of Summer blazed a trail from Texas to Williamsport, Pennsylvania, last summer to go nearly all the way in the prestigious Little League World Series.

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This truckload of Pearland boys could be from any Little League in Texas; hopefully in a couple of years it will be my kid’s First Colony team. We watched every game last summer, cheering for those boys in blue and hoping they would prevail. We laughed at the way the media zeroed in on the Pearland moms and their blinged-out team shirts. I guess not everyone “does” baseball that way, but around here, it’s de rigueur for baseball moms to have glitzy shirts, often with their kid’s number emblazoned in rhinestones. Writer Ken Hoffman said the Pearland team “tore through Texas tournaments and blew into Williamsport with tape-measure home runs, speeding- ticket-worthy fastballs and bedazzling mothers that the Little League World Series won’t forget.”

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All Stars is an exciting time. Grueling, too, with practice 7 days a week until the games start. We plan our vacations around the All Stars schedule, and schedule our daily activities around practice. The first tournament begins Tuesday, and I sure hope the Big Red Machine blows through District and Sectionals the way they did last summer, blazing a trail straight for the State Championship in Tyler, TX.

Since I missed pretty much all of it last summer, I didn’t realize that our district, Texas East Little League, “stretches from the Sabine River in the East to I-20 in the North to I-35 on the West to San Antonio and from there to the Gulf of Mexico and back to the Sabine River,” according to the Texas East website. 

We’re that little strip of green in the middle, District 16. Texas is a big state, the second-biggest in the country in both population and area, and baseball is serious business around here. I don’t know how many Little Leagues there are in Texas, but considering that this great state is 773 miles wide and 790 miles long and populated by some 25 million people (thank you, Wikipedia), I’d say there are a bunch.

I’ve written a lot about having missed so many of Payton’s games last summer. Don’t worry, I’m not going to re-hash it today. Suffice to say that if it had just been the bilateral mastectomy in mid-May, I would have been in fine shape for the All Star summer schedule. But no, the post-mastectomy infection had to surface, and the resulting hospital stays and surgeries meant there would be no trip to Tyler for me. From the moment that infection reared its ugly head, my life became one complication after another, and I began to live the famous Winston Churchill quote of “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Just do it without being able to watch your kid play the best baseball of his life. From mastectomy to infection, to nearly 30 days in the hospital, to multiple tissue excisions, to saying good-bye to the tissue expanders, to a shaky recovery involving all manner of antibiotics and home health, to slowly very slowly getting a semblance of a normal life back to finally getting around to reconstruction, to the long recovery process after The Big Dig. Quite a circuitous route I took, with very little baseball.

So this summer, I’m going to soak it all up. Every scorching minute of it. Since Texas is in a major, seemingly unending drought, we probably won’t have to worry about getting rained out, like we did a few times last summer. I’ll be in my blinged-out shirt, cheering hard for the boys in red, and reflecting back on how much I missed last summer at the ballpark.

Happy Patriots’ Day!

Posted: April 18, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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Patriots’ Day isn’t a holiday we celebrate in Texas, but in honor of our friends from Boston who are visiting, we will now. I’m always looking for a reason to celebrate something, and Patriots’ Day works for me.

For my fellow Texans who may not be familiar with this holiday, it commemorates the first battle of the Revolutionary War. This day is celebrated in Massachusetts and Maine every third Monday in April, and curiously enough, it’s observed in Wisconsin as well. If anyone knows why, let me know.

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The celebration gets going bright & early in Boston with a re-enactment of the Redcoats’ arrival at dawn at Lexington Green. Present-day revelers can stake out a spot early (some people even spend the night) to hear the steps of the Redcoats marching in formation along Battle Road to surprise the enemy. After that, there are parades with fife-and-drum bands and ceremonies to mark this important event in American history.

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More importantly, though, Patriots’ Day also brings a day game for our beloved Red Sox. Historically the game has been played early so that its ending coincides with the Boston Marathon runners racing through Kenmore Square, but the timing is hard to synchronize, and I guess the commercials that pay the bills for NESN don’t cotton to anyone else’s schedule. It’s the 115th year for the Boston Marathon, and the Sox have been playing a day game on Patriots’ Day every year since 1959, with the exception of some weather delays and the 1995 players’ strike. Like most things relating to the Sox, this game is steeped in tradition and fans await it with that baseball-heavy mixture of excitement and dread.

The Sox got off to a slow start with the worst record the American League. However, thanks to Jacoby Ellsbury’s 3-run ding-dong against the Blue Jays, we’re officially on a winning streak. And, that give me another reason to post a pic of Ells. bosox.com

And another.

And another.

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And another. He doesn’t bunt very often, preferring to swing away, but when he does bunt, this is what it looks like:

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One more won’t hurt.

You’re welcome.

Ells and catcher Jarrod Saltalamacchia blew the game wide-open yesterday, allowing the Sox to triumph 8-1 over the Blue Jays, and starting the rally for which Sox fans have been desperate already, in this fledgling season. The dynamic duo of Ells and Salty have given Red Sox Nation reason to believe again, and now Salty can be known for something other than having the longest name in MLB history.

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Ells had this to say about his big hit: “I was sitting on a pitch I could drive and got something I could do something with.” When asked if that was as hard as he could hit the ball, the ever-confident Ells said, “I still got a little bit in me.” Bring it, Ells!

Today’s game against Toronto starts at 10 a.m. Texas time, and I’ll be tuned in. In fact, I need to wrap this up and get ready. Dice K is pitching, and he hasn’t had a win at home since August. That’s about the time things started looking up for me in my “cancer journey,” but like in baseball, anything can happen, and in my “cancer journey” it did. But I overcame it, and so will Dice K. He’s 6-1 against the Blue Jays, and I’ve got a good feeling that things are looking up, for both of us.

Just another day in paradise

Posted: March 22, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , | 8 Comments

To me, paradise looks something like this: 

Insert a comfy chaise lounge and a pitcher of perfectly mixed margaritas or a bottle of Vueve Cliquot, and I’m good. Add a compelling novel I’m really good.

I can’t conjure up a photo that shows the opposite of my version of paradise, but whatever it is, I’m smack-dab in the middle. Instead of sitting beachside on the chaise, staring out at a peaceful blue sea and feeling the warm rays of the sun on my skin, I’m still in my jammies, back in bed, feeling rotten with no end in sight. Not complaining, just explaining.

This is the portion of the program in which I make a quick mental run-down of all the things that are going right these days. The list is shorter than I’d like, but my expectations are high, and it’s good to have a little perspective.

Sadly, once my blessings have been counted and perspective delivered, the realization of my situation sinks in. Sure, it’s one more week of convalescence out of my entire life. One week isn’t much, right? But the days are long, and the frustrations grow with all the things I still can’t do. Add to that the fact that I still have the drains, when I really, really, really thought I’d get at least one of them pulled yesterday, and I’m blue. Knowing that I will have the drains for yet another week makes me bluer still.

It’s my own damn fault for setting the bar so high, for having the audacity to expect to be nearly well by the 3rd week. I was fully prepared to dedicate two full weeks to feeling crummy, walking hunched-over, aching all over, and feeling like a full-blown invalid. I could give up my independence and my car keys for two weeks, no problem. Those expectations were reasonable. The DIEP surgery was intense, but I was ok with that.

But then I snuck my Super Girl cape on over my hospital gown. After the agony of getting in and out of bed the first few times passed, I spread that cape across my shoulders and pulled it tight around the 17-inch-long scar on my belly (yes, I measured it and no I’m not exaggerating it. Those of you who have seen it know. And I apologize if your retinas were burned by the reality of my gutting).

My cape and I powered through the requisite hospital stay, and I got home a few days early. Once home, the progress rolled on and I was on the mend. This was do-able. This wasn’t so bad. Recovery was within my grasp. Every day got a little bit better, and I began to think the worst of it was behind me.

I packed up my cape, thinking I no longer needed superpowers and that I could return to “normal.”

Super Girl is not known for her brains.

That fast-tracked recovery came to a screeching halt with the appearance of the divot in the newly created right breast. This was troublesome because it was in the same spot as the post-mastectomy infection, aka my arch nemesis, mycobacterium fortuitum. Oh how I despise that bacteria. The only good thing about it has been the education it has forced me to undergo, and the addition of words like nosocomial and gram-positive will surely help my Scrabble game. The divot was followed by a fever, then hardening in the previously soft newly created right breast, and rounded out by some intense pain in the area around the remaining right drain.

In other words, paradise lost.

It has been widely reported that I’m a very impatient patient. These reports are true. I’m no good at convalescing and have no patience for the slow pace and endless days of non-productivity. The list of things I’m not getting done is long, very long. I try not to think about the process of digging out from under this period of doing nothing; that’s way too depressing. I don’t even look at the calendar anymore because there’s nothing on it but doctor’s appointments, and I don’t need the reminder of all the things I’m missing. My tennis team and Payton’s Little League team both forge on through their seasons without me. I haven’t seen a baseball game yet, and even though my poor boy is wearing the dreaded Yankees uniform this season, I’d still like to see him take the field, step up to the plate, and grace my favorite spectator sport with his presence. I would really like to be just another parent at just another game, bum aching from the metal bleachers. I miss the sights and sounds of the ballpark, and in my current state, there’s no telling when I’ll make it there. Opening Day ceremonies are Saturday, and my little boy gets to march with his All Star team from this past summer, with their Sectional and District champion banners. I missed the entire summer of baseball because of the post-mastectomy infection, and here we are in the midst of another season, and I’m still on the DL.

One step forward, two steps back.

Maybe I’d better unpack that cape. I think I’m going to need it. 

Away we go…

Posted: March 2, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer, food, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Of course I’m up early on my big surgery day…you didn’t think I would actually sleep until the alarm went off, throw on some clothes and jump in the car when I could post one last time, did you?

It’s 4:15 a.m. and we’re set to leave the house for the med center at 5:30 for my 6 a.m. arrival. I sure hope that when we pull up, Dr S and Dr Spiegel aren’t fighting it out about who gets to do which part of the surgery and who’s in charge of follow-up care. Of course they wouldn’t be, and I’m 100 percent sure that every aspect of this procedure has been planned, checked, and double-checked to ensure excellence will result.

The last few days have been a whirlwind, with last-minute preparations and socializing. Yesterday afternoon and evening, my phones both rang off the hook, with calls and texts full of good wishes and genuine love. Several people have asked if I can feel the love, and the answer is YES! And THANK YOU! A huge part of why I am going into this big ol’ surgery with such peace is knowing that my posse has got my back. I appreciate each and every one of you. If you happen to come to the hospital for a visit and see me wretching uncontrollably, don’t worry: I didn’t have too much champagne or margartitas. Coming out of the anesthesia tends to make me barfy. Don’t panic. It’ll pass. Last time around I puked in front of lots of visitors; the kids in the room thought it was neat.

Yesterday was another perfect day: my last tennis drill with my team was spectacular. Mid-seventies and sunny with just enough warmth to get a sweat going, and birds singing like crazy because it feels like springtime. I made some good shots and thoroughly enjoyed my teammates’ company. Love those girls.

Loved them extra hard after this: 

Surprise champagne in the back of Julie’s SUV after drill. We tailgated in high style. It was such a fun treat, and I adore you girls for having such a brilliant idea and for sending me off in the most perfect way. I will be counting down the days until I can get back on the court with you.  Meanwhile, Go Alley Cats! Beat Westheimer Indoors today. Hit it where they ain’t!

The rest of the day yesterday was fantastic. Busy, but fantastic. My dad arrived, and  he took Macy to the pet store to buy the daily allotment of crickets for Cincko. That little gecko is on a major growing tear and has been eating at least 12 crickets every day. My dad will be interrim assistant zookeeper while I’m out of commission, so Macy broke him in with on-the-job training right away.
We had our belated birthday dinner for Dad, after a bottle of Vueve Cliquot (yes, I know I had champagne twice yesterday; at the tennis courts and at dinner. Why do you think it was such a great day??). Our Tuesday night tradition of watching “The Biggest Loser” was fun, as always, and there’s something especially satisfying about watching that show after a most delicious dinner.

It was all going swimmingly until Macy‘s bedtime, when I went to tuck  her in and she started crying. The big, rolling tears that linger and pool in the eye before breaking free and trailing down her face. Her ginormous eyelashes were soaked and matted, and the look of utter desolation on her face made my heart crack right in two. She was trying to be brave, but that well of genuine emotion that makes her the astoundingly compassionate little girl she is came gushing out when it was time for her to tell me good-bye. She was trying to be brave, but struggling. We talked for a long time about how mommies always come back, and even when they’re away for a while, they carry their kiddos in their hearts. I told her about my favorite e.e. cummings poem, i carry your heart with me, and how the words can certainly apply to anyone you love, whether a pet or a friend or the most amazing little girl ever. We talked about how she wouldn’t get to talk to me today, but tomorrow I expected a phone call as soon as she got home from school, so she can tell me all about her day. She cheered up a little bit when I told her that I need her to be in charge around here, and help my dad find the jelly in the door of the refrigerator, stay on schedule when driving the carpool, etc. She is on the job. She sent me off with Baby Snoopy, one of her most prized stuffed animals, to take along with me for company. She’s thoughtful like that.

Payton was busy, busy ignoring a math project that’s due Thursday, so he didn’t have much to say in the way of good-bye. Not surprisingly, as he is a man of few words. He too has instructions to call me Thursday with a full report on his first Little League game of the season. I need to see how long it takes him to “lose” his Yankees hat and replace it with a Red Sox version. It’s hard enough on him to have his mom in the hospital, but to have to don the dreaded Yankees uniform too? Poor guy.

I’ll leave you with the “before” photos. Don’t worry, I won’t publish the “after” photos —  you may just have to see them in person.

This is one of my favorite tennis tops. I have it in at least 3 colors, maybe more. Wear it all the time, hence the funky tan lines. Every time I wear it, I notice how seriously flat my chest is. Maybe because of the “V” neck of the shirt, I don’t know. I’ve had this uber-flat chest since May 13 and am quite used to it. In fact, if not for the mess left by the post-mastectomy infection, I could have envisioned not doing reconstruction at all, or waiting a lot longer. But, the mess must be cleaned up, so away we go. And yes, my chest really is that flat in person…until tomorrow!

Can I get that overnighted, please?

Posted: February 19, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

I like funny t-shirts. I like snarky, funny t-shirts even better. Or is it redundant to say “snarky” and “funny?” Are there people who don’t think snarky is funny? If so, I have no use for them. Trevor’s grandma, Petie, had a cute little needlepoint pillow on her couch in the sitting room of her Salisbury, North Carolina, home that says “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.” I’ve always ascribed to that point of view.

I don’t have a picture of Petie’s pillow, but found this one by using the Google. Now I’m wondering why in the world I don’t own one of these pillows? It would make me smile every time I spied it. It’s the little things, people.

While looking for an image of that cute little pillow, I found this: 

For those of you who are uninitiated into all things Red Sox, that foxy number 46 is my boy crush, Jacoby Ellsbury. He now wears number 2 on his jersey, though looks no less foxy. That’s JD Drew crouched next to him, close enough to whisper in Ell’s ear (lucky bastard). I’m sure they were discussing some serious strategy, or maybe making fun of Dora (aka Alex Rodriguez) who is such a tool and deserves to be made fun of at every possible opportunity.

But I digress.

Here’s the real reason for today’s post (although it could easily become all about Ells. Last season was a long, dry boring one for me because Ells was hurt. Not just hurt, but rehabbing in Arizona, so not even in the dugout and available for close-ups or slow pans by the ever competent NESN camera guys. It was a long season indeed. But Ells is back and ready for action and hopefully lots of on-screen time.)

But seriously, back to the real reason for today’s post.

Look what I found.

Just what I’ve been looking for.

But wow, what bad luck to have found it so close to the Resurrection, instead of during the long months of walking around with a chest flat enough to play quarters on, with no explanation. Ok, that is some seriously bad sentence construction, but you get the drift. I’ve had a freakishly flat chest for a long time, and have longed for a shirt that tells the world that change is underfoot. Or, undershirt, as the case may be. I got that chance with my “cupcakes” shirt, but I can’t very well wear that every day. I hate doing laundry, and wearing my cupcakes shirt every day would require a lot more of that chore.

So I probably need the “under construction” shirt, too. Although, can someone please explain to me why the shirt is modeled by a guy???

Now that is just weird.

But I still want the shirt. Wonder how fast I can get it?

I heard the news today, oh boy

Posted: February 8, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

It started around age 2, I guess. The baseball obsession. From his earliest days, Payton was a baseball fanatic.

He’s probably not even 2 years old here, but he’s already at the plate, ready to swing for the fences. 

That original swing morphed into this —

and even in 2nd grade, it was game on.

The Red Sox obsession started when he was around 4 years old, maybe even earlier. He has a lot of Sox jerseys and t-shirts. He even had a shirt way back then that says “Yankees Stink” and when he wore it to Fenway Park one year, he was a rock star among Sox fans. He wore it to an Astros game and was featured on the Jumbo-Tron screens. Sweet.

He wears Sox shirts for all occasions, both important and everyday. And not just at the ballpark, either. He wears them pretty much every day, no matter where he’s going.

From playing in the driveway in our Durham house, where we lived for two years, to the first day of kindergarten, Payton wore Sox apparel. Always a Sox shirt, and usually a cap, too.

If they allowed ballcaps at school, he’d wear a Sox cap every day. At one point, we had to clean out the closet because there were so many Sox caps. Every color combination of red, white & blue, and a green one, too. Eventually he got a red one with black flames. There was a green camo one, too, but it disappeared before we had any photos of it. 

Here he is in a Sox cap at his Little League team party in 1st grade, I think. All the other boys on the team wore the team cap, but this die-hard Sox fan had other plans.

He’s wearing a Sox shirt and cap in this photo, taken in his room six months after we moved back to Houston from North Carolina. This kid is (and no doubt will be) a Sox fan no matter where he lives.

His blue Sox cap was with him at the rodeo. He’s not wearing a Sox shirt, though.

I probably made him wear a Longhorns shirt, since it was the most Western-y thing he had to wear to the rodeo. (And yes, I see the expression on Macy’s face. Classic.)

He’s probably still mad about it, too.

For a while, Macy was in on it, too. This is one of my all-time favorite pics of my kids. In New Orleans, on the way home from Fort Meyers, FL, at spring break for, what else? Red Sox spring training.

Of course he wore a Sox jersey for the first day of school in 1st grade, just like he had done on the first day of school in kindergarten. He’s got a Sox backpack, too.

We got a lot of wear from the original jersey, a Nomar Garciaparra #5 authentic MLB version. He wore that one for a couple of years, and I still have it. I keep thinking I’ll do something special with it, like put it in a shadowbox with other memorabilia to preserve the Sox legacy. For now, it’s hanging in the laundry room, and every time I see it, I smile at how tiny it is, and how the tiniest jersey was worn by the biggest fan.

Here he is at Fenway Park in jersey and rally cap, showing off his newly-toothless grin. He had just turned 6, and was already a veteran traveler to Boston and Fenway Park.

Guess what he wore to his 6th birthday party? Yep, a Sox shirt. He loved the shirt, but wasn’t too happy about having to pose for a photo.

He looks a little happier here, celebrating Ed’s birthday in, what else? a Sox jersey. 

Here he is before the birthday bash, in yet another Sox shirt. He and Ed are smiling so big because they love the Red Sox! In fact, it was Ed who first brainwashed Payton into becoming part of Red Sox Nation. Thanks, Ed! I’ve never been more proud than I was during a game at Fenway when Pay was little (4 or 5 years old at most) and quickly established himself among our seasoned seat-mates as a real fan. He knew who was next in the batting order, and who made the last out. It wasn’t long before the men around us were asking Pay questions about the roster, and he knew the answer every time.

Riding the T after a game at Fenway, happy with a Fenway Frank or two in his tummy and a pennant in his hand. This boy loves baseball, and to him, baseball means the Red Sox.

This was his face when he came home from school one day in the 1st grade to find his room contained new bunk beds. I love the look on his face almost as much as the fact that he’s wearing yet another Sox shirt.

He’s all dressed up here for Mother’s Day.

And for YaYa’s birthday. Well, as dressed up as Pay gets. Which is fine with me. If he’s not wearing a Sox shirt, something seems just the slightest bit off.

In 3rd grade, he wore Sox shirts on the first day of school: and the last day of school. He got an award at the end of the year from Mrs. Spearman, probably for being the biggest Sox fan.

It was more of the same for the first day of 4th grade.

Hanging out with Snoopy, in a jersey of course.

She’s a Sox fan, too.

After the Nomar jersey came the Veritek version. Then Youklis. Then Beckett. 

I’m sure there were more, but they all sorta run together after all these years.

We’re really lucky to be able to go to Boston every summer and stay with our dear friends-who-are-now-family. The trip is the highlight of the year for all of us, and getting to go to Fenway as well as hang out for a couple of weeks on the shore, is the best.

At the airport on one of those trips when the kids were really little, Pay was decked out in Sox championship apparel. People traveling from Houston to Boston on that flight with us knew where that kid was headed. First stop, Yawkey Way. 

Catching some z’s on the beach in Salisbury, north of Boston. Notice the cap?

Wearing one of my favorite Sox shirts at Markey’s Lobster Pound, one of the best places on Earth. This shirt says, “It’s obvious you wish you were part of Red Sox Nation.”

Indeed.

Another Sox ensemble while enjoying another delicacy at the shore: Blink’s Fried Doe. Payton prefers chocolate frosting and chocolate sprinkles. Only they call them jimmies at the shore.

One year we went back to the shore for Thanksgiving. It was cold on the beach, but we took a walk. Pay wore a Sox shirt, and no coat.

Back at home, we buy the MLB extended cable package so we can watch every Sox game. 

Payton always gets new Sox shirts for Christmas, which makes him smile. Santa knows what that kid wants most. 

Fuzzy dice to go with the new shirts. Good stuff.

I don’t remember what we were celebrating here, but I’m sure it was fun. And the Pedroia shirt means it was a special occasion. Or a Tuesday. Either one.

When Pay broke his wrist in the 5th grade and had to get a cast, he got a red one. While wearing a Sox shirt, natch. Then he tried to scratch inside the cast with a mechanical pencil, and the eraser got stuck and he had to get another red cast. Three days after the first one. I told him that if he did it again, the third cast would be pink.

There was no third cast.

This past summer, Pay had to go to Fenway without me. I was home recovering from the latest bout with the post-mastectomy infection and wasn’t fit to travel.

He brought me a get-well gift. Guess what it was: a new Sox shirt of my very own. My favorite player had changed his number, so I needed an updated shirt. Sweet boy.

Red Sox apparel is such a big part of Payton’s life, and his wardrobe. Our family has logged lots of hours at Fenway and spent even more time camped out in front of the TV watching games from home. We check the box scores in the morning paper, and on any given day during the MLB season Pay can tell you exactly how many games ahead or back the Sox are in the playoff pursuit. We’ve had fun seeing the Sox at our home ballpark, Minute Maid Park, during interleague play, and at Camden Yards while visiting friends in D.C. When the Sox were playing the Rockies in Colorado en route to the World Series, we were ready to pack up and drive there, but the quick sweep made it a moot point.

My baseball-loving son doesn’t have a lot to say; he’s a pretty quiet kid. But get him talking about the Sox, and you’d better settle in because it may take awhile. We’ve bonded over good games and bad, big hits and strike-outs, bad calls and triumphant victories, opportunities lost and capitalized upon. We are a Red Sox family.

And as another Little Season is upon us, Payton, the biggest Sox fan of all, just got drafted by the Yankees. Worst. Thing. Ever. (in his mind, anyway.) This happened once before, a few seasons back, and he was pretty upset. He handled it like a pro, though, saying he would wear the dreaded navy blue jersey, but with a Sox shirt underneath, close to his heart. And when he “lost” his Yankees hat a few days into the season and needed to wear a navy blue Sox hat, I didn’t question him. He decided he would play hard while on the field, because that’s part of being on a team, but would take off the Yankees jersey as soon as the games ended. I admit, it was pretty weird to see him in Yankees gear. Wonder if he can still fit into his shirt that says “Yankees Stink?”

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