The past month or so has been a mix of highs (anniversary dinner, engagement party) and lows (Nicole's car crash, my best friend at work being let go), but the thing that's been on my mind the most is my mother.
Tomorrow marks one year since I got the call. The call that signaled the official beginning of mom's deterioration. The call that said from now on any call could be the death call.
I only remember that it was Sept. 12 because of prep football. Every year when prep football starts, we say 12 weeks of prep to go and at the end of each Friday night we say how many prep Fridays left.
Because for the longest time in my work career, prep Fridays were by far the hardest nights of the year. Not so much now -- a story for a different day -- but I still count them off.
The call came on the second week of prep Fridays last year. It was 10:30 p.m., just before the rush of prep actually happens and right after the time I go to the vending machine to get a bag of cookies and a coke -- my prep adrenaline. (Back in the day, this time would also be reserved for me and Lopes to do our prep chant: an old wrestling catchphrase parodied into being about prep football. Are you ready? ...)
I was thinking the other day: What was the actual date of the call? I only remember it as the second prep Friday, but since today is the second prep Friday of 2015 I realized that tomorrow the 12th is the one-year anniversary of the call.
Anyway, mom called at 10:30 p.m., and I knew that wasn't a good sign. She was diagnosed with inoperable cancer in April, but her body was still operating normally through the summer. She didn't have a doctor and wasn't on any medication.
The call ended all of that. Mom thought that night was the end. She couldn't stop throwing up. She begged me to come home immediately.
I updated Katie on everything I had left to do, and she took over my duties. I raced home trying not to cry and/or drive my car off the Earhart.
We got her under control, but that night began a steep decline where every step of deterioration down seemed like the end. Except it's not.
There was the time I found her naked on the hallway floor gasping for air. There was the week of "vacation" at the hospital where she lost her mental capacity and said the most random, fucked-up shit imaginable (babies in the freezer, the cop getting murdered in her living room, etc.)
The two weeks where all she did was throw up. The nine-day stretch when she didn't eat anything -- and I don't mean she nibbled and barely ate, she literally ate nothing for NINE days.
The growing tumors on her neck and back. The constant pain in her arms is the latest thing. And don't get me started on her cough.
But she's still here, and as I try to cherish every waking moment I have with her, it just keeps getting harder. And not just because the process is taking longer than a college football game -- I mean, seriously those games are now almost unwatchable they take so long.
It's that she's so miserable there's not much to enjoy. You can be having a good convo, she's laughing, and then bam! a shot of pain or throw up comes, and the good mood is gone. And the good part happens not often enough.
You just hope it's over soon. She begs for it every day. But over means death.
And that's a hard thing to hope for.
THE TINA CURSING CORNER
My mom has never lost her cursing ways. She recently played some music with the volume turnt up.
"People in the neighborhood probably thought I was fucking crazy. I had it cranked up so loud. But what do I give a shit for?"
Mom says dad's hearing is so bad you can call him names to his face and he won't hear you. "Like you little shithead. You little asshole."
HAPPY PICTURES
Here's a photo essay from the good times in the past month.
My Loyola monthly dinner group had our nine-year anniversary dinner on August 4th. It also marked our 100th dinner. Wow! A lot to celebrate.
We went to Dick and Jenny's, and I had the black drum. Very good.
The nine-year anniversary gift is tin. So I ordered these little tin men online, and Nicole made them into key chains for the group. Rachel made everyone tin foil animals, and I got a dolphin that sits on my dashboard.
I had a contest to see who could get closest to guessing how many of the 100 dinners they've attended. Kelli guessed 81, one off from her 82. She won a small bottle of wine.
Nicole's aunts threw us an engagement party on August 8. Ninety-eight people attended, and I think everyone had a good time. So much food. So much dessert. This was our cake, the top half of which was chocolate. I ate the chocolate.
Couldn't ask for a better group of groosmen. Well, unless, one of them hit it rich, and gave me a mil or so. Get to it, guys.
The theme of the party was to wear your favorite jersey or favorite team colors.
I ordered a jersey for the party. Alas, it didn't arrive. But it was waiting on my porch when I returned home from the party.
Tyler is still my favorite.
Nicole and I went to the beach for two days and stayed with Paul, pictured with me in the water. Nicole fell asleep in her chair after taking this pic. Hehe.
Nicole turned 30 on Sept. 6. I told her I was trading her in for a newer model, but I would never. Well, probably not.
After dinner at Amici, we went to The Bulldog, where I took this terrible photo.
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