B, G and J Day: GingerDucks!

B:

In general, men have a much harder time than women hearing about and talking about my cancer. Lots of reasons for this. I suspect it would not be so if my cancer were in a body part that they have, too, for instance.

But I also suspect it's because a man personalizes it by wondering, "What if that were my wife?" And the thought scares the crap out him. Not just because of the body part involved, but because he recognizes as we all do that cancer is not an outside invader that can be dispatched with a home defense weapon.

He sees that there's practically nothing he can do to save his wife's life. This kind of helplessness, or even the possibility of it, rattles men.

Here's the good news for these men regarding the body part issue, if we were to gauge from Bryan's experience: When you are told that your wife is going to lose her breasts, the very last thing you care about is whether your wife will have breasts a year into the future. The only thing you care about is that your wife is alive one year, and many years, into the future.

Truly. It's amazing how unimportant breasts become.

As for the bigger concern, the helpless-in-the-face-of-a-killer concern, it's difficult. The part Bryan hated the most was seeing the styes in my eyes after each round of chemo because they looked so painful. The styes and all the rest of it--all just a crappy physical experience for me that he couldn't spare me from. He really hated it.

Which brings me to my homeschool co-op Christmas party this past Wednesday. I hosted it, taught a poetry lesson, and then we all decorated gingerbread train.

Gingerbread trains? Oh yes. One engine for each family (7 of them), and one open box car for each child (16 of those). Gingerbread pieces that were designed and baked by Bryan himself.

For a whole week, he was a gingerbread fool. He made 12 batches of dough. Rolled and cut and baked and trimmed and bagged and then started rolling again.

The night before, I made the icing and assembled the trains, which was a 4 hour job in all. Nothing compared to the 20 hours he spent on the baking.

Why would we do this? I did it because
a) I love a good party
b) I love decorate gingerbread structures
c) I love to see children decorate gingerbread structures
d) I love the women in my co-op and so enjoy talking with them and
e) I LOVE when our house is filled with people and we actually use all these square feet of shelter.

Normally, the living we do could happen comfortably in half the space we own. But at a gingerbread train decorating party, with 23 people present and a project going full-blast, we use a lot of space.

And he did it because of points a through e.

A terrific time was had by all. And all helped clean up such that my house was in better shape than when the crowd arrived. I did have to take a 2 hour nap after everyone left, but it was a good kind of exhaustion.

We collapsed into bed on Tuesday night, after the last of the baking and assembly, with the party ahead of me, and Bryan, for the first time since June, looked. . . satisfied. Peaceful. Un-Anxious.

"Well, Babe," I said to him, "You couldn't go through my chemotherapy, but you could bake a crapload of gingerbread for me!"

He smiled the smile that says I got it exactly right.

G:

Gemma made something for Bryan's birthday last week, a set of 4 stars, 2 big, 2 small, all glued together by their side points. She drew smiling faces on them. Star people!

"This one's Daddy, this one's you, this one's me and this one's Josh!" she explained to me before wrapping it up.

I said, "But my star doesn't have any hair drawn on top like the others."

Gemma leaned in close and said, as though she were breaking bad news, "That's because you're bald."



Yes. 7 weeks after the last round of chemo went in: still bald. I'll keep you posted on the hairfront.

J:

He's reached that amazing stage of verbal acquisition and explosion. He's now doing more than just communicating the concrete and the basics. For instance:

Last night he said from the stairs, at a time when he should have been in bed, "Mommy, I have to whisper you a question."

I recognized this as a ploy to get downstairs where he'd probably ask for gingerbread or candy and said, "You can ask me from right there. You don't need to whisper it."

"But I want to whisper it."

"No. Just say it out loud. Right there."

"But I want to whisper it!"

"Joshua, either ask me right now or go back to bed."

"Well now I can't find it."

"You 'can't find' your question?"

"No, I lost it. Now I'm looking for it."


Another example:

We needed to leave the house by 8:40 today and though I'd asked Josh to get his shoes on a few times, he was still dawdling.

I finally said, sternly, loudly, though it was not yelling, "Get your shoes on now!"

"Whoah," he said, "That was a huge voice!"

This made me laugh. And he did, finally, get his shoes on.