The past four days of my life don’t even feel like they happened to me and my family.  It’s like I’m watching some bad Lifetime movie and I’m too lazy to reach for the remote control to change the channel.  Most of you already know about what has been going on, but it’s therapeutic for me to type it out.

My mother has been sick for months.  Months.  October.  She had bronchitis.  She couldn’t rebound.  She’s been fatigued all the time and eventually she’s had a lot of shortness of breath.  Finally, she allowed me to drag her to the local emergency room on Sunday morning.  It was pretty clear that she had pneumonia.  After a few hours of testing, we learned that her lungs were clear with no sign of fluid or infection.  What started out as a day of hoping to get a heavy duty antibiotic, ended in the back of an ambulance that rushed us to Brigham & Women’s hospital.

My 61-year-old, vegetarian, organic food-eating, crystal-collection, spiritual-healing, never really had a cold in her life, mother has cancer.  They think ovarian.  Maybe colon.  Fallopian?  They don’t know.

My brother and sister-in-law and I drove home at about 2 a.m. Monday morning in near silence.  We cannot believe this.  I spent Monday laying on my bed, staring at my ceiling.  Somewhere in that haze, I made lunches, got Cory to school and vaguely supervised Grace and Jack.  I came to The Connor Women’s Health Center Monday night with a plan to stay.  I walked into my mom’s room, dropped my bags, and told the nurse, “Get me a bed.  I’m movin’ in.”  And I have.

Here’s the thing about cancer.  It’s so complicated.  It’s not as simple as looking at cells under a microscope and identifying them as a certain type.  It’s so. Much. More. Complicated.  It’s conversations, conferences, consultations with the best doctors and surgeons in the world.

And my mother.  This situation has shook her faith.  2009 and 2010 to date have really made us all question what we believe in.  It’s one thing after another and I guess that is just life.  I have my vision of what life is supposed to look like; it’s not panning out.  Through it all, she has urged my brother and me to not hate the cancer.  Hate feeds.  Yeah, she’s been having mental conversations with her cancer, encouraging it to reveal itself.

Yesterday was a day of all waiting and no action.  The three of us spent the day together with the exception of the vitals checks and occasional blood tests.  We had tough conversations.  Conversations we were lucky to be able to have and never, ever wanted to have.  Sunday I was focused on getting my mother some Keflex and Wednesday we were talking about health care proxies and last wishes.  How is this our life?

My mom’s attitude is great.  It’s funny, because people always think they’ll react one way when confronted with challenge, and it often happens very differently.  My mother has always said that if she ever had cancer she wouldn’t subject herself to chemo and radiation.  Now that it stands in front of us, and we know all the amazing miracles that happen every day here at one of the best hospitals in the world, she is ready to fight.  Fight without hating the scourge that threatens her.  I don’t know how she does it.

In a moment of levity, and God do we need levity right now, some flower deliveries started coming in.  I placed them around her room while she was sleeping and said to my brother, “You watch.  She’s going to wake up and think she died.”  A while later, my mother said “I woke up and thought I was in a funeral parlor.”

The hospital offers so many different treatments, therapies and resources for a multi-aspect approach to healing.  They offer Reiki and the dietician went grocery shopping specifically to get my mother’s favorite gluten-free foods.  They have a harpist who comes to the floor and will play in your room if you’d like.  The image of my mother in her bed, surrounded by flowers, with a short, Jewish, former-Roman Catholic nun-turned-harpist playing “Stairway to Heaven” is just more than I can handle.  My brother and I were laughing so hard that I thought we might need medical — or mental — attention.  As Simon Cowell would say “I don’t think that’s the right song choice.”

The outpouring of support has been over the top.  I know my mother, brother and I have amazing friends and family.  But even Facebook friends, readers and total strangers have shared so much of their thoughts, prayers and guidance with me.  There’s really no way to properly express gratitude for that.

And so it goes.  I’m here full-time.  Special K is working out of the house and being Mr. Mom.  I’m strong for my mom; I go in the bathroom and cry, then come back out and carry on with all the routines of the day.  Adjusting the bed, advocating for her, checking all the charts posted on the wall, making her laugh with my commentary on the creepy flower delivery guy — “Has anyone done a background check?  Keep him away from children!” — and annoying her surgeon.

Everything that happens here is so scheduled, so methodical, so consistent.  It’s just a day like any other here on the floor.  I just cannot believe we are a part of this day, here in this building, in this life.

My children also survived our move.  Barely.

Cory loves his new school and ended up being placed in the same class as his twin cousins.  (The children of this cousin of mine.)  That was pretty awesome to have two familiar faces.  According to them, Cory has already made a ton of friends that just flocked to him and he knows his way around the entire school.  Also, he turned ten at the end of January and with that has come the annoying inability to keep his mouth shut during any photo-taking session.  Actually, just keeping his mouth shut in general has become a challenge.

Grace enjoys having her own room, but spends the majority of time in Jack’s room telling him what to do, which toys to play with and what to think and say.  She turned five last week — yes, I suck as a blogger —  and spent a good portion of the day calling friends and family to tell them “I’m five now.  I’m no longer young.”  And in a way, she’s right.  She has bonded with another Grace who lives close by.  They look alike, are both princess-obsessed and will be attending the same Kindergarten in September.  They hold hands and hug each other often.  Her life is good.

Jack is obnoxious.  Though almost three-and-a-half, he still is not potty-trained.  This isn’t due to a lack of understanding or a change in environment.  He has full days where he will use the facilities.  He also has days that he’ll saunter up to me, squint his eyes into a smarmy little grimace and say “I love you and I have something to tell you.  I’m peeing my pants.  Right. This. Minute.”  We’re researching military schools.

One of the benefits of our recent move is that we are now in the same small town that I grew up in.  My cousin lives here too; we were close growing up –only four months apart in age and raised more like sisters if only in that we spent almost all non-school and vacation time together.  As life progressed, we weren’t as bonded, usually due to geography, but now we find ourselves both married with three kids apiece, living less than three miles from one another.  Our children are growing up together and it’s really awesome to watch them run around and play — close like we were.

During our move, Cousin helped me so much by babysitting my kids so that I could unpack without Grace and Jack’s special, patented brand of “help.”  So, when she called the other day and asked if I’d be willing to attend some Bingo event with her, I didn’t hesitate in agreeing to go.

This is what I learned:  Never sign a contract without reading all the fine print.  Oh, and never accept vague invitations issued from vengeful relatives to gaming events without knowing all the details.  Because I was not in the know.

I picked Cousin up and in the five minute drive to Bingo (Bingo … clearly it’s time for me to start collecting cats and calcium supplements) she informs me that instead of shouting out “Bingo!” you’re supposed to yell “Dildo!”  And that the dude calling out the numbers would be topless.  And instead of winning money, the prizes are sex toys.

Now, obviously I’m not a conservative person.  I don’t view myself as prudish, narrow-minded or even polite.  But I am modest.  I’ve seriously considered getting a breast reduction in hopes that eye contact can become a regular part of my day-to-day communications.  I don’t like boobs and I don’t talk about sex.  Well, I’m happy to talk about other people’s boobs and fucking, just not mine.  Going to a sex toy Bingo event quite possibly ranks up there with realizing that your new ob/gyn is the same kid that sat next to you in tenth grade Algebra.  Or being locked in a house with a teething child and no wine.

So, we get there and my cousin’s best friend is one of the “Goddesses.”  These women host parties where they sell everything from suction-cup handles that provide leverage in the shower to trapezes that you can mount — “mount” — over your bed.  I’ve known my cousin’s BF — B — for years.  She’s gorgeous and super-intelligent, witty and I had no idea what a nymphomaniac she was.  Because within minutes, she, along with other fellow Goddesses, was demonstrating all sorts of contraptions.  More about that in a minute.

B seated us at a table alongside her drunken neighbors.  One in particular, the one seated right next to me of course, was completely leveled after downing a couple of Cosmos.  There were ten games called.  Assuming that there were approximately twenty “I-22″s and “N-43″s called per game, that’s 200 times that the lush next to me had the opportunity to say either “I have that, but it doesn’t do me any good,” or “I don’t have that, but it wouldn’t do me any good either.”  She said the same thing after each and every number was called.  From 7 p.m. until 10 p.m.  She also leaned over my shoulder to check my card to see if whatever was called would do me any good.  Invasion of personal space coupled with my massive terror that I might see someone I know, resulted in me spiraling into my obsessive paper-folding ritual.

As each game ended, I folded my card into a neat triangle, the same way we used to fold notes in school.  (No wonder texting was invented.)  Some hard-looking drunk kept coming by, trying to clear the excess paper off our table, but I hissed every time she came near me or my faux-origami aka self-soother.

Bingo is so funny.  There are a couple things that remain constant:  Most notably, everyone in the room gets pissed when someone hits Bingo — it’s such an unsupportive pastime.  Also, approximately every third number that is called, everyone will start looking around and saying “What did he say?  Did he say G-55 or B-55?”  There will never be a B-55! The numbers correspond with letters.  B will always be matched with a number 1-15 and G will always be 46-60.  Finally, people are not open to variations on traditional Bingo.  When it was announced that the goal was to get a “O”, “X,” “Diamond,” or “Cover All” it resulted in tittering that spread across the room like wildfire in SoCal.  It seems like the most basic game, even with the dildo aspect, yet every single game deteriorated into the same confused dialog when the goal stretched beyond trying to get a straight line.  Clearly I’m too elitist for Dildo Bingo.

One of the more obnoxious elements of the evening, other than Cosmo McLushington’s near-constant appraisal of my Bingo card, was that every time O-69 was called, 90 horny harpies would scream “Wheeeeeeeeeeeewwwww Heeeeeeeeeeeeew!”  Oh, the gaiety.  O, like orgasm, coupled with the number 69!  Madcap!

Then, there were the Goddesses.  Like I said, my cousin’s friend is beautiful, but these other girls?  Really unattractive.  I secretly wondered if they sold sex toys so they could get discounts on vibrators for themselves.  Because I question if there are people willing to have sex with these gals.  Shallow?  Yes.  And if they had nice personalities, it would be different.  But they were nasty little wenches and it just highlighted the worst in them.  One, in particular had the unfortunate missing chin/sloping shoulders combo and boy, was she just a bitch.  If you can’t appreciate the specialness of me — as evidenced by me shrieking “Oh, Jaysus!” every time a sex word was uttered by a Goddess — you can’t be in my world.  I gave her my best evil eye and I’m pretty sure she feared me.

After every three games, the Goddesses would demonstrate the products that were being offered up as prizes for the next three rounds.  Each demo resulted in a rousing “Wheeeeeeeeeeew Heeeeeeeeeeew!” from the crowd.  I will never, ever forget the look on my cousin’s face as she glanced over just in time to see her best friend demo-ing a sex sling by laying on the floor, No Chin straddled over her, and her feet pointed towards Jesus.  You just never really know people and what they’re capable of.

Tonight, K walked in the door and I walked out the door.  I headed to Target as a means of escape to pick up our weekly staples.  After tossing a couple of boxes of cereal and cookies in my cart, I turned a corner and bumped right into the NoChinWeakShoulders Goddess.  She was buying tampons which shouldn’t surprise me since she’s all about the vajayjay.  Her eyes flashed immediate recognition and I’m pretty sure that she was about to offer me some lube samples.  I spun around and ran away as fast as I could screaming “Wheeeeeeeeeeew Heeeeeeeeeew!”

Gary has left the building.  And tomorrow, I’ll share the tale of how Special K and I have near-mortal injuries that Gary inflicted upon us.

Writing yesterday did me good.  It unstuck me and for the rest of the day I was a whirlwind of organizing and unpacking.  All day.  Almost all night.

There were a few dramatic moments — a kitchen shelf gave way, resulting in eight dinner plates, which weigh a mother-fucking-lode, crashed down on my head.  I really believe in signs, so I’m pretty sure the message, straight from the Guy upstairs, was “Don’t cook anymore.”

Our entire living room would have been properly set up if the cable hadn’t gone out at 3 a.m.  Oh, I didn’t mention?  I can only unpack if I can also simultaneously watch TV.  Needless to say, this policy thwarted my efforts for the first couple of days that we were here.

K seems to think that I am somehow responsible for this outage, because about six hours later,when I whipped the remote control at his head and screeched “Thanks to Comfuckingtastic I couldn’t unpack all our shit,” he pressed one button and HGTV magically reappeared on the screen.  Listen, I’m only human and I can’t handle using one remote for changing stations and another for volume control.  We live in a world where people are getting cornea transplants; THERE MUST BE A WAY TO ONLY HAVE ONE DEVICE THAT MAKES EVERYTHING WORK.

Anyway, when the television screen went black at three in the morning for some reason that had nothing to do with me, I decided to go to bed.  Special K was snoring.  He’s been sick with some sort of flu/virus this week which has made him so irritating.  Like, the part of me that loves him feels bad that he’s suffering.  The part of me that is housebound with three screaming harpies every day, wants to punch him in the face.  It’s a scientific fact that once a woman’s cervix has ever effaced 100%, she loses a lot of compassion for others.  I left our bed and went to sleep on the couch.  Have I ever talked about our couch?  I secretly call it Gary Coleman because it’s black, chunky, squat, generally unattractive and hasn’t been in fashion since 1983.  Let me put it this way:  In a weak and undoubtedly flu-induced moment, K was swayed by my promise of daily sex for a fortnight agreed to my master plan of getting rid of the hideous, black leather, overstuffed atrocity that was his first piece of furniture.  I wasted no time getting that thing listed on Freecycle — Freecycle, folks.  As in … FREE if you want to pick it up — and though a ton of people inquired about it, once they received the picture of it, I never heard back from any of them again.  You’ve heard the expression “can’t give it away”?  That’s our Gary.

I tossed and turned, completely unable to get comfortable on my little 80s sitcom star for three hours.  At about 5:55 a.m., I finally drifted off.  At 6:03 I heard distinct waddling.  It’s amazing how, as a parent, you can tell which kid is circling around you even when your eyes are clenched shut (or you’re pretending to be dead).  Jack decided that I needed to get up, and since he has no concept of subtlety, he proceeded to jam one index finger in each of my eyes and scream “It’s morning, Mommy!  Get up!  I need my Shredded Wheat!” right in my ear.

Which, you know, it’s fine.  Kids suck sometimes; they can’t really help it.  Thankfully, just a few short hours later, a payback opportunity presented itself.  My Facebook friends suggested that this would be a great blackmail picture to leverage against my kid when he’s a teen.  But don’t you think thigh-high snowmen leg warmer pictures are something that need to be distributed to the masses in a near-immediate manner?  There’s no way I was waiting until 2020 to share this magic.