Day 473: KatyDid 36

OK, I'm jumping the gun a bit, but assuming I don't get hit by the proverbial bus, I will turn 36 tomorrow, and tomorrow will actually probably come before I finish writing this blog. So I've reached another birthday. I've always felt that it was appropriate for my birthday to last about a week, but somewhere down the line, as an adult, you kind of lose the privilege of excessive birthday celebrations. Unless, of course, you have cancer at a young age, in which case you get to have whatever the hell kind of celebration you want. Last year I joked that we would have a huge party for my birthday, because no one would feel like they could say no to the cancer girl, at least not when she was in the middle of chemo.

I was right.

My mom had to put up with at least 50 people at her house last year. Gabe and I made the decision years ago that we would always dress up for our parties, no matter what other people did, so there I was in my little black dress, fancy shoes, with my bald head shining. I turned 35 four days after I finished my last round of AC chemo, and my best friend from high school was in town to help for that chemo round. People still made food for us three times a week, and the chemo gods smiled on me for my birthday party, and actually allowed me to stomach some pizza and cake. The party was great, and then there were impromptu fireworks right outside the window after most people had gone home. I felt loved, and lucky to have gotten to 35. I also felt like complete shit, physically, and had just come out of one of my short-lived cancer-related depressions; it's hard for me to remember why I was so down, but it seems like there were enough reasons, so let's just leave it at that.

I realize that by saying what I just said, I've proved that while I might have aged another year, I'm still Katy, keeping it real in cyberspace. But that's the truth. And damn, what a difference a year makes. This year I guess we just didn't want to be bored, since we decided to throw a party three days after we moved into our new house. I will have you know that it is one of my superpowers to make a home look lived in within 48 hours of moving. And with my mom's help, that's exactly what happened. Gabe came home from work on Friday with the kids in tow and was completely shocked at how everything was put together. I warned people there would be boxes everywhere; I think the three boxes (outside of some stuff in the basement) I didn't unpack were all in our unfinished master bathroom. I had even put stuff back on the walls.

I feel like our family situation is so different from a year ago, and it's not just that we live in this big sprawling house that is so far removed from Gabe and my understanding of reality. Gabe was out mowing our huge front yard yesterday morning with his nerdy battery-powered environmental mower, figuring out the best strategy to get down the sloping hill, and I wondered how many people just assumed he was the lawn guy. I think about how this house has so many things I've always wanted--a huge front porch to sit out on, with enough space for a swing; a room I could turn into my own personal library (that's where I'm sitting right now, writing this blog, listening to these incredibly loud crickets); a landing where I can sit and read a book underneath some huge windows that cast so much light down that it's hard to see; a second floor laundry room (we just had this constructed, along with the bathroom--what an absolutely frigging brilliant idea, I swear); a breakfast nook with a window seat. What a great house.

And I made it ours very quickly, but that's not the only thing. We didn't even move Augie's crib to the new house; he got to a new room, with a new big boy bed. I decided to put it in the middle of the room and I didn't give him a bed rail. He has been fine--sleeping well, doing funny things like "cuddling" a ceramic picture frame holding a picture of himself when he was a baby. And Lenny loves her new room, complete with her own mommy-style reading area. Gabe gets the whole basement to himself, and I honestly plan to never venture down there if I can help it.

So here is this house, which now is the Jacob-Sterritt house, the place where there's a party a few days after we move in. And people came, though not as many--maybe 40, including kids--which isn't surprising given the late notice and the amount of hair on my head, and general health I can claim. And after last night, I feel like we might be those people, the ones who have parties, where people go to hang out. That was a nice overall thought, but I was also excited about other things: I could eat, and drink even, and wear tall shoes and give tours and go through the whole night without any "moments" and generally feel like a normal hostess.

On the other hand, there's always something to remind me in the middle of it all, some second when I find myself clutching my boob because it hurts like hell out of nowhere (lifting boxes, maybe?) or when I'm telling what I still contend is a funny story about wanting to strangle Gabe for his illogical choices of where to move certain things, so I had to move them all again. Some of this was pedestrian: why are there child gates for the third floor playroom...in the basement? Why is there bathroom stuff in the living room? And by God, what were you thinking when you looked above our refrigerator, where we've placed our wine rack (we now have 19 bottles of wine, I believe, since most people brought a bottle, so I guess we have to have a wine tasting party sometime) and decided to put next to it...my wig boxes?

Seriously. Hundreds of dollars worth of synthetic hair--plus my real hair to boot-- sitting on top of our damn refrigerator. I was about to lose my mind. But I didn't, for the most part--I just gave Gabe a tremendous amount of shit about that one. I was feeling well enough to give him shit, to stay up, to eat, to see my birthday in the more traditional context, where I think I am getting old at this point. Don't get me wrong--I don't think 36 is actually old, I just think a lot about how much time has passed, and how half a lifetime ago I was still an adult, and how strange that is. I see all these kids starting high school, or going away to college, and I think about how time just seemed to be looming ahead of me at those points in my life, how everything was such a promise, even when everything was always kind of hard, because my life was always a real life, filled with difficult things, even then. But time, that seemed to always be there.

And now...who knows? I feel like it's utterly impossible that I could die from breast cancer, I feel that it is entirely surreal that I ever had breast cancer at all. Who is that lady smiling over her birthday candles, with her bald head? Well, that's me, that looks just like me, what of it? What's funny is that I think that all tragedy must manifest itself in some kind of dreamlike way, because when I think about other terrible things that have happened, that's how they all play out in my mind: my car accident and the subsequent realization that I could no longer walk; the viscous process of being robbed at gunpoint on the green line; the party I attended when I was 15, when I learned the hard way how to fight off three boys who were much bigger than me; the day my daughter had an allergic reaction to rice cereal when she was four months old and we were in the middle of the north woods and I thought she would stop breathing; and so many others, of which this whole damn cancer thing is just a piece. To me, it is all surreal. It seems obvious that I would get out of these situations, that I would live through them and come back to myself. It doesn't even occur to me that other options were really possible, not REALLY, not me, right--not me?

And yet, these moments, or months, depending on the circumstances, are surreal because they actually did happen, and the outcome absolutely could have been horrific, and yet...I'm still me, I'm still here. And some others aren't, or they are here, but their lives have inexorably changed, for the worse, due to the experience. What about me? Have I changed, will 36 bring in a different Katy? Is cancer just that thing that led to a chic haircut, or will I be looking back at all of this when I'm 37 thinking, whoa, that's surreal, that was back when I thought my cancer was gone?

Who knows. I appreciate birthdays these days, but like I said, I always did. I always assumed that my husband or boyfriend would indulge me during my whole birthday week. We just kept it to ourselves. Now I get to give myself a shout out, tell other people about it, and throw a crazy chaotic party right in the midst of all these changes with my house, my career, my life.

I just think about things a little differently now. When people talk about being afraid of turning 40, my first thought goes like this: 40! That would be a trip! My kids would be 10 and 7...that's better! I think about 50: the kids would have reached their maturity, Gabe and I would've been together for almost half of our lives...that would be better, it would be ok to go then. I think about getting old and I still hope I get to do it. But these thoughts are not at all macabre, they just are. Things happen, you roll it into your life, make it a part of the pontification rotation. When October 11, 2009 rolled around, other people posted on facebook about their daily activities and I wrote: 25 years later, still walkin. People who knew me as a child knew exactly what I meant.

And those who have been regular readers of this blog know what I mean. You say 36, I say 16 months out. You say happy birthday, I say hallelujah. You say what a beautiful home, I say, yeah, I know, I'm glad they have this to fall back on. You say this is good cake, I say Jesus Christ it is good, I can taste every bit of it, there's not a part of me that feels sick, that is defying me right now. That's what I say in the end I guess--right now, that's what I've got, right now.

Where are you right now, those who are still reading this? Happy with your place, I hope, content. Here's where I am: I'm looking at all these books around me about urban studies, racial politics, genocide, and poetry, wondering how I ever had a date in my life, and there's a picture on the desk of my daughter with her Magnum PI poster, one of me with a paper crown on my bald head, holding my deviously-smiling son on my last birthday, another of me at the dawn of my professional life when I could wear a suit, hold an orange juice, and still look glamorous, and there are way too many shoes in the closet, and I'm writing a blog while my husband falls asleep on the guest bed in this room because he wanted to be near me while I was writing, and it all seems to fit, this puzzle that's my life. You say happy 36, I say why not? It might as well be. Good night.

Day 378: No time to blog

Back when I started this blog, I assumed that the day would come when I wouldn't have any time to write it. However, I thought that would be because I was too sick, or too weak, to sit down at the computer. I worried that I would have chemo brain and that I would be unable to remember how to spell, that I would lose my creativity or at least my train of thought. (As an aside, I received an article recently that verified that the poorly-named "chemo brain" is a set of real cognitive and neurological impairments that some chemos, especially those used to treat breast cancer, can cause for a significant portion of those who take it--for up to five years after they stop the drug. My fear of this was apparently justified.)

I never thought I wouldn't have time because I would be changing a million things in my life at the same time, just like a normal person who is overwhelmed for normal reasons. But look at all that's happened! I'll have a new job at the Fed soon, though before I transition I need to get through the next few days. I have my huge conference starting today, lasting through Friday. I 'get" to stay downtown at a hotel for a while, which will be nice I guess, but the kids already seem to miss me. I'll collapse tonight to watch the Bulls game after a long day putting out fires and dealing with the complexities of getting 200 executives together. (Kids are a piece of cake compared to adults, I tell you). My son will be two in just eleven days, and he will switch out of daycare and into Montessori school. And then, on top of that, we will be moving. After renovating a house, and selling another one. Yikes.

Those who are friends of mine on facebook know that we got the house that I alluded to in a previous blog. There was so much drama involved that I can't even begin to describe it here. The house is a very charming home on a great street in our neighborhood--and it was a foreclosure. It is much bigger than our current house. It also needs a gargantuan amount of work. In some ways, we got the deal of the century. We had to go to two lenders to do it (apparently the conventional, vanilla loan is not the norm these days, though that's what we got in the end) and I learned a lot about how little banks care about the process of selling homes they have foreclosed on. Their attorney wouldn't even talk to our attorney. The real estate company wouldn't do anything. It was completely exhausting, especially since we have yet to put our house on the market. We will try to do that in the next week, and we will need to be aggressive about selling it at the right price, so we're not sitting with two mortgages for very long. That means that somehow we have to de-clutter and organize a house with two messy little kids living there. Like I said, yikes.

In the past, I never would have done this--never. I remember panicking when I was selling my condo and the first offer on it fell through, but our offer for our current house was in process. In the end we had one month of overlap where we paid two mortgages. The monthly mortgage cost for the condo was ridiculously low, but it still killed me to double-pay like that. Of course, we had just financed our wedding as well (those who know me, or were there, know that we didn't have a typical wedding, so we saved a lot of money. I actually really hate the wedding industry). I worked at a nonprofit organization while Gabe was self-employed, so it was tough.

This time, I only started panicking a few days ago, as we've started to plan the needed repairs for the new house. I have had so much other fear about bigger things, that this financial fear, while very tangible, is less immobilizing than it would have been if I hadn't stared my own death in the face. I mean, I really understand now how you can't take it with you. Gabe and I talked about why we were able to buy this house in the first place, and in some ways it was just plain luck, as we saw the house right away, our bid was accepted over all the others, etc. In other ways it is because, as he said, we have spent most of our lives "turtling." We are both the type of people who expect the worst, who hate taking risks because we can imagine all the really bad things that could happen if luck doesn't go our way. Back when I did community development work and I focused on financial education, I used to say that poor people save for a rainy day if they can and rich people save for a sunny day if they feel like it. Poor folks never expect the sun to shine. Rich people never expect the flood. And, moreover, that way of looking at the world never really leaves you, even if your circumstances change.

When people would tell me to be positive about cancer, to not think about the effects of chemo, I would think, bullshit. Cancer is a very bad thing. Chemo is poison. I wanted to prepare myself for what might happen, because I have other people I am responsible for, not just myself. If I couldn't walk, or think clearly, how would I take care of my kids? And yes, many things that could have happened with chemo did not, but a hell of a lot of bad things did happen. And then, almost all the bad just disappeared, despite my less than positive attitude. Even so, I still look over my shoulder, waiting for menopause to return. When my scalp tingles I wait for my hair to fall out. My back still hurts, and it hurts much more after spinning, so I'm sure that's what it is, but I wonder.

So all I have been able to do is wait it out. And we did, we just waited. But when I think about it, I didn't really just wait. I know people who have said that while going through cancer treatment, they put their lives on hold. What's the point of making plans? What if I die? What if I can't work?

That's the part where the glass-half empty attitude saved me. I guess I just figured, I could lose my job anyway, unrelated to cancer. Why not start a new one? Having cancer does not preclude me getting hit by a bus or becoming somehow impaired, so why not start five new workout routines in the middle of chemo? Our cars could stop working when we really need them (this has happened--stupid, dead Jetta). Kids could still get sick when I'm not well enough to care for them. So why not make plans? Shit will happen. You might as well try to do what you want, and if it blows up in your face, there was really no guarantee that life wouldn't blow up in your face anyway, when you weren't doing what you wanted to do.

After all, I got breast cancer. I don't drink, I exercise like a nut, I'm thin. I breast-fed both my kids. I did the right things, and I got cancer anyway. Why not buy a rambling house with a landing on the staircase big enough for furniture (sitting room!), a porch like I've always wanted, a huge play area for the kids? Maybe the universe will cooperate and we will sell our house quickly. Believe me, neither Gabe nor I expect that to happen. We are fully prepared to become landlords, though I unfortunately know what that entails from firsthand experience from my building manager days, and he doesn't. But we expect some drama. If that's what you expect, life will never disappoint.

We've been having some issues with contractors, which shouldn't surprise anyone. Yesterday I was talking to the guy who was replacing the gutter and he told me about a defunct squirrels' nest that he found. In fact, he said, look. And he showed me a dead squirrel carcass. He then proceeded to throw it onto my new lawn. I thought, huh. That's life right there. Beautiful house, great yard. Rotten gutter and a dead squirrel. As long as you know that these types of things go together, you're all right.

Years ago when Gabe and I were driving from New Hampshire to Maine, we stopped at a tiny dive bar called Nick and Lenora's. (Yes, that's partly where Lenny's name comes from--that, and Stevie Ray Vaughan's guitar). We played pool with the locals and ate some great cheap bar food. It was insanely hot. We made a bunch of buddies there, including an out of work carpenter who told us the following gem: "Big wheels roll through shit and dogs still piss on em."

I'm just saying.

Chicago-based blog readers, get ready. In a few months, we will have a Katydid 36 party. And this time, we will have enough space to host it at our house. Just leave your dead animals and dogshit at home, bring yourselves and remember that a party at Katy and Gabe's house is always going to be an easygoing, unpretentious affair. It's even possible that we will be having these parties for years. At least a few, however long I have. The house is so damn big that Gabe had better keep having parties even if I kick the bucket. In the meantime, we're no longer turtles, but little crazy hares, running in a million different directions. What was that cancer stuff, did that really happen? That was some big shit, I guess, and we just had to roll through it.