Jewel-toned meals and sunsets, too . . .

My latest hobby, next to making home-made ice cream, is now juicing. Anything that isn't bolted down isn't safe in this house any more . . . I just got the new juicer on Friday, and already I've made a V-8 style veggie juice, apple-pear juice, watermelon-kiwi-strawberry, a mixed-berry juice. So far, Bob has only tried fruit juices, but I add greens to mine, even the fruit juices, for a one-two-punch of nutrients. Bob is easing into the idea, but hasn't quite embraced the idea of spinach with strawberries. Yet. Just my latest attempt to do my part to help Bob get well . . . they are gorgeous juices, deep, rich, colorful liquids full of so many good things. Anything can be juiced, I tell you (plant-based, that is): greens, potatoes, bananas, nuts . . . I've been eyeballing the hostas in the front yard lately. They've gotta be good for something other than a bed for Gaia.

I'm seeing the world in juice-tones: walked Rocco the other night, and the sunset looked so juicy and vibrant, like a blood orange pulsing low in the western horizon. Juice is all around us, man. Love it!

Before I get to rambling, the basic gist of Bob's week is that he'll be hospitalized on Tuesday, August24, and surgery is Friday, August 27. He can have visitors—the more the merrier, but on Thursday, please call ahead, if you can, because I'm sure there will be pre-surgery stuff going on that might interfere with visiting (like the fact he may be sitting on the porcelain throne for a good part of the day, "prepping his bowels" for the big event. . . )

So we arrive at the U for Bob's appointments on Wednesday, I hop out of the car to let Bob out, and look down to see that the front of my formerly bright white v-neck T is splattered in coffee graffiti. Nice. Thankfully, I had the foresight to bring a sweater along, as the exam rooms are oftentimes kept at the temperature of a meat locker, now it will double-duty as a bib. Well, too late for a bib, I guess. Maybe while we're at the U, I can have that hole in my lip fixed, too. . .

As of Wednesday, Bob's pain was excruciating, had been for a few days, at least when he was on his feet. It also kicked in to a degree when he was lying down, made it hard to find a comfortable position at all; as such, sleep has been drastically affected. He sleeps a lot during the day, in small increments, to try to make up for it. Either the pain wakes him, or his alarm does, as he's back to setting his little timer to take something every two hours, to try to stay ahead of the pain. He was afraid we'd have to cancel his appointments on Wednesday, because even the short walks to the clinics might be too much, and sitting in a wheelchair just isn't an option. We just couldn't miss these appointments, so I told him to take more pain meds, to get through. He doesn't have a "maximum" dose on the one that he takes for breakthrough pain, though he's been somewhat conservative in taking them—the delicate balancing act to reduce the pain without turning him into Bob of the Walking Dead. I told him, too, that if his pain is at the point where he just can't take it any more, we'd be at the U already and could have him admitted right then and there. . .

He took extra medication before we left, but during the appointments, he was so uncomfortable—he tried to sit, but that just wasn't working, so he ended up having to lie on his stomach, facing away from Doc Rock and the endocrinologists during the appointments. Of course, they didn't mind, told him to do what he had to, to be comfortable, but makes for an awkward conversation, talking to a wall. . .

Checked in with Bob's primary doc first, a pre-op appointment. Bob's weight was 130—I can't believe that! There may be some variance with the scales at the hospital, but even if they are a few pounds off, he's almost to what he weighted before all this started. Amazing! He's at his top fighting weight and that's such a huge thing, in terms of how he'll withstand the stresses of the surgery and recovery, I can't even tell ya. Thinking back, I can't imagine the outcome of a surgery as long and extensive as what his will be, when he was at 105 lbs., so weak, so emaciated, so many things going wrong during those times . . . now, he has some reserves to fall back on, during recovery, and other than the pain (and lack of sleep because of it), he feels pretty damn good. Primary care was followed by endocrinology, a follow-up appointment to see how things are going with the steroid taper, if his adrenal glands are recovering.

Bob got through the appointment with Doc Rock, barely; we discussed the finer details of the coming week— that he'll be admitted on Tuesday, put on the IV blood thinner, then taken off a few (several? don't remember the exact number, probably because we've heard different things from different people) hours prior to surgery. After discussing Bob's pain with Doc Rock, the plan for his hospitalization and anything else we could think of with, we came up with Plan B: Bob is to increase his breakthrough medication over the next few days, see how he does (it takes a day or two for the increase to take effect) and if he's not feeling better by Friday, we call to have him admitted for pain management. We're willing to try upping his "breakthrough" medication, as he's not showing signs of zombie-dome or mental confusion, hallucinating, falling asleep standing up or any of the other signs of over-medication.

Had an hour to kill before the endocrinology appointment. We went up to their clinic, hoping that maybe there was a cancellation, but no luck. They were able to get us into an unused room so Bob could lie down while we waited, which helped immensely (and certainly beat lying on the dirty carpeted floor, which we were prepared to do, and brought a small blanket and pillow along, just in case). The appointment with endocrinology was quite insightful. It's information I've heard before, but all new to Bob. The adrenal gland stuff happened after his last heart attack when he was really, truly effed up, one of may periods of this crazy carnival ride that he doesn't remember. Doc N (a young guy, cross between Zach Efron and David Spade, I kid you not. Super nice, knows his stuff . . .) explained to Bob that because he was on a very heavy dose of steroids back before he had the last heart attack (the highest dose he's ever seen anyone on, this doc says. WTF?? is what I say . . . ), for pain management, but in the process, the steroids took over the job of the adrenal glands, which in turn, forced them to go dormant. We're told that steroids are never meant to be used long-term for pain management, at that high of a dose, because of al the dangers associated with it.

That explains the increase in pain; the steroid was doing its job helping to control it, and I believe it was intended for him to be on them for just a short time—a week or two, to get him through to his surgery, then the heart attack happened and all hell broke loose . . . again, I "get it" when someone tells me we have to be our own advocates in this big fucked up system, but when disciplines of doctors don't even agree on the treatments, how the hell are we supposed to know what to do?! Bob's primary care doc put him on the 'roids, his oncologist team decided to taper him off, because they felt he was on them too long, and ran the risk of infections, kidney and liver issues (since they had been affected, temporarily, by the heart attack and subsequent issues). But when he had such a severe reaction to the taper, and I called Bob's Palliative care doc to let her know what was going on, she was pissed that he had been taken off them . . . but the endocrinologists, Bob's primary doc, and the oncology team all seem to think that he shouldn't be on them for so long . . . Again, will someone please tell me how I'M supposed to know this without an MD behind my name? And apparently, even that doesn't seem to do the trick, at times!

Which brings me to the big surgery looming in the not-so-distant future, and all the things racing through my head as we race toward this event, once again. All day, I constantly push the thought, "What could possibly go wrong between now and Friday?" out of my head, but it returns, again and again. What else am I not thinking of? What else should I be asking? Am I missing anything? I've called all the doctors involved and left rambling messages about various concerns that pop into my head throughout the day. That Bob wants to meet with both surgeons face-to-face while in the hospital, prior to the surgery, to discuss the procedure and other concerns. That Bob will not undergo the horrific bowl prep he was subjected to the last time—that there has to be another option, because that one just ain't happening. To remind them that Bob is to stay on the aspirin throughout the surgery, and will need extra platelets to help his blood clot as needed, and that he needs a big ol' "stress dose" of steroids during the surgery, because he's adrenal insufficient. That it's his right side that has the tumor . . . maybe I should go mark his right hip with a Sharpie right now, just to be safe . . .

To have been living in this "in-between" world for so long now is such a surreal thing. So out of touch with the "real world, neither of us working, one debilitated by pain, illness, set-backs, horrifying events that have gone on for so long . . . the other, just witness to those events . . .wondering how our world will be when this surgery finally, really, truly arrives, and what our lives will be like afterward. And then my mind stops. Hits a black wall. I can't go beyond that.

So, after all the doctor's appointments, all the calling to various offices I've done all week, all the nurses I've talked to, did it surprise me that 1.) we got a phone call at home, after Bob's appointments on Wednesday, at 8 in the evening, from the orthopedic surgeon who will be removing the tumor. Doc is on vacation and takes the time to call us at home (maybe because his nurse told him that Bob's nutcase wife has called every day the past week?) He talked to me for a good 10 minutes or so, then I handed the phone to Bob, who carried on with the doc for at least another good 15-20 minutes . . . clarified some questions and concerns, said he's absolutely stop in to see Bob before the surgery . . . and 2.) I got an email from Bob's primary doc later that night (close to midnight, I believe), asking how Bob's pain has been since we left his office, and to let us know he'd be available by pager all weekend, should Bob's pain increase to the point where he felt he needed to be admitted for pain management, just call (maybe because I just couldn't stop asking questions and expressing concerns about the surgery and all that's involved, and that I fear Bob's going down the same path we did over two months ago, with the increase in pain prior to surgery) . . . and 3.) another phone call tonight (Sunday), from the colorectal surgeon, just checking in, first to see why Bob wasn't already in the hospital, because he was going to stop in and see him but didn't see him in the admission records. I told him about the change in admission plans, and he said he's swing by on Wednesday, to talk to Bob. Does all this surprise me?

Part of me says "yes, I am surprised." These are busy doctors, with tight schedules and vacations to take and conferences to attend, patients to see and families of their own, yet took the time to call us personally, at home, to check in, ask questions, take a few minutes to listen . . . and a part of me says, "no, I'm not surprised." They're good doctors, doing their jobs. Either that, or their nurses have told them about Bob's raving lunatic wife who's been relentlessly calling the office all week. "Will you just call her, so she stops calling us?" I can hear them saying . . . maybe that's it . . .

So, Sunday night (1 a.m.), Bob's made it through another night, once again, with the help of this deep reserve of internal strength I've witnessed in him time and time again, for months on end, the likes of which I'll never know. He's toughed it out, as he wanted to, to be at home for these days prior to the hospitalization, to be in his house, with his things around, being able to putter around a bit here as he can, instead of having to go in early due to pain. One more day at home, and then it's back to Hotel U of M.

Such a gorgeous night tonight, past few nights, really . . . I might sleep on the screened deck again, finally, after what has seemed like an eternity of heat and humidity. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because our summers are gone too quickly and this has been a wonderfully, good-ol'-fashioned hotter 'n' hell summer, the way I remember 'em as a kid. It's just that I don't like being cooped up, with windows closed tight, AC on day and night. I'd much rather have the windows wide open, crickets singing their lullaby to me from all around . . .

Things have been pretty low-key over out here in the boonies, which is good and bad, but makes for very dull writing material . . . still holding steady, no emergency room visits, no hospital stays, nothing to write home about, a blissful reprieve from the first six and a half months of this year. Days get kind of long when we're playing the waiting game, though. . . some moments are blissfully peaceful, like I could live like this forever . . . when I'm dancing to the radio while cooking, or walking the dogs in the morning, or getting Bob's meds together throughout the day, along with his meals, or just lying next to him in bed, talking about nothing and everything . . . but they're punctuated by sharp doses of reality when I say things like, "Is there anything else I can get you, hon?" and Bob responds, in the midst of a wave of pain, "Yeah . . . my old life back . . . "

So yes, uneventful, but no, not without the heaviness that is the reason for the uneventfulness hanging over us, every second, every minute, every hour of every day that passes. . . even my cooking efforts (i.e. "experiments") have suffered . . . I did make a wonderful vegetarian lasagna a few nights back, stuffed green peppers (brown rice, black beans, tons of veggies—tomatoes, corn, onion, garlic—and a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese) last night . . . tomorrow is parmesan tilapia and who knows what else . . . but the fun isn't in it right now. It feels forced, a drudgery rather than the joyful event I've looked forward to every day for the past several weeks. {{{big sigh}}} then again, maybe it's just pms . . .

Uneventful leaves me not much to write about, except for Bob's pain. The pain seems to have shifted, he said, from the back of his leg to up deep in the right side of his butt, and it's intensified, too, to the point where he's been in bed all day yesterday and today, barely able to get up, except to go to the bathroom. If it's this bad tomorrow, we may have to take drastic measures again—I don't know. Up the meds to the scary zombie-doses? (no, no, no, noooooooooo . . .) Hospitalize him early, to work on the pain management? Been there, done that . . .Bob doesn't remember the time, back in May, when his pain got so bad we had to have him hospitalized to get it under control. That was when the PCA pump came into the picture, the zombie-state, an awful, awful time. . . tonight, I read for him the blog entries of that time, and he has no recollection of any of it, can't believe he went through all of that and has no memory of any of it. I said it's probably better he didn't. There's enough that he does remember, that he is still experiencing, than to have to remember those dark, awful days . . .

Lots of phone calls over the past few days, trying to figure out the hospitalization thing. Don't even remember the order, just figured I'd call everyone involved, cover all bases: orthopedic surgeon, colorectal surgeon, cardiologist, primary care, endocrinology (not related directly to the surgery, but Bob has an appointment with them tomorrow, and I had a few questions for them, as well . . .). Then sat back and waited. Got a few calls back yesterday, late afternoon, got the run-around, back-n-forth kind of shit that we dealt with last time . . . few more phone calls this morning, to a few more people, again to Primary Care, "Isn't this why you guys are supposed to be involved??? To be the ones doing all this, not me???" shit, shit, shit . . .

Finally, today, we got official word that Bob will be hospitalized next Tuesday. His cardiologist said he only needs to be on the IV blood thinner three days prior to surgery, not a whole week, as was originally planned. At first, I thought that sounded good, so he didn't have to be in the hospital twiddling his thumbs for a week (and me cooking every day and bringing his food for him the whole time—yes, I'd already planned to bring his meals for him—as if you're surprised! I will not allow all the hard work of these past few months unravel thanks to the shit they try to pass off as "food" in a hospital. The Big Irony of a hospital, I'm tellin' ya. Big ugly irony: sick people being fed sick food.). Actually, I had planned to put a meal sign-up sheet on the blog here, asking y'all to sign up to bring in a meal to bring to Bob every day he was to be in, before and after surgery. Good, healthy meals (didn't even have to be home-made, just not like the overly-processed, sodium-sugar-preservative-soaked crap they serve at the U . . . sorry, I just can't let that one go . . .) but since he'll only be there a few days, I think I can manage (maybe with the help of a family member or two . . .) But then that means he'll be home for a week, dealing with this increased, debilitating pain. A few days is one thing. Another whole week . . .

But back to the food, because I am so damn passionate about this . . .I will get on this soapbox again and again, because it's so critical for everyone, but particularly for someone as ill as Bob—to realize you are what you eat. Period. And for someone like Bob, who has so many strikes against him already—childhood cancer, effects of horrific treatments 30 years ago resulting in heart attacks, secondary cancer, countless other crises along the way—I firmly, wholeheartedly believe that eating well is half (more than half, really) the battle. Eliminating chemically-laden, processed food, easing up on animal-based foods, heavy on the fruits, veggies, grains, nuts, beans (organic, if possible) . . . we're all so quick to take a magic pill (with horrid side effects) or subject ourselves to monstrous treatments, without question, but when presented with the choice of changing our diet, our lifestyle? Something that won't hurt us, and can only help us, yet is so hard for so many to do . . . definitely not saying give up on modern medicine, as miracles abound in the hospitals, at the hands of doctors, every day. But supplementing that with nutrition, good, wholesome nutrition, ups the ante. I guarantee it will help what ails you . . . I've seen it with my own eyes, felt it in my own body, with my own health issues, have seen what it's done for Bob . . . sorry, sorry, sorry, don't mean to be preachy . . . you're lucky, I don't have a lot of fight in me tonight, so I'll step down for now . . .

And, it's late, we've got to get up early for his appointments in the a.m., so I'm going to wrap it up here. Sorry for not having a lot to say ("gee, for not having a lot to say, you sure had a lot to say, Jen." I can read your minds, y'know . . .) Hopefully in the next few days, we'll be at a better place. LOVE! to all . . .xxoo

Happy Anniversary, my dear Sofa King

There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other's cooking & to say it was good . . . brian andreas (author of StoryPeople)

Tomorrow, August 12, is our 15th wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary to the reason I love, the reason I write, the reason I cook, the reason I may make no money. . . even though, right now, nothing in our world makes any sense, at this moment, right this moment, it all feels right. . . Love you, Bobby. xxoo

Vice cream!

My latest hobby (does trying something once make it a "hobby?") is making vegan ice cream, aka "Vice Cream," from a recipe book by the same name. Since Bob needs his daily ice cream fix or he'll wither, delicate orchid that he is, I thought at least I'd try to give him stuff that's totally natural, no preservatives, chemicals, or full of any other nasty ingredients . . . my first try was raspberry vice cream. The recipe calls for five ingredients. Yup, I said five. Count 'em: cashews, water (or fresh fruit juice), maple syrup, non-alcohol vanilla flavoring (alcohol interferes with the freezing process) and raspberries. There ya go. Blend 'em all in a blender till silky-smooth, chill mixture in the freezer for about an hour, then add to ice cream maker and hit the "on" button . . . 40 minutes later, sweet, creamy, fruity goodness that makes about a quart of frozen delight and earned a 94 from the Official Bob Rating System!

Bob suggested raspberry as the maiden voyage for the ice cream maker, since we had about a pint and a half of the berries hangin' out in the fridge, threatening to go all fuzzy on us if not used soon. Next time, I'll try the plain ol' vanilla recipe, as that's been Bob's go-to flavor, next to Neapolitan. Doesn't he look great in this pic, by the way?! Filling out, even a little bit of muscle definition in those arms! He's been really good about doing his workouts, and has graduated to using hand weights! It wasn't that long ago that he could barely make it through a round of exercises without any weights. Progress!

I picked up a cheap ice cream maker at Target the other day, (though I had bought the "Vice Cream" book well over a month ago), on clearance for $20-$25, Sunbeam brand, and despite the el cheapo price tag, it seems to work just groovy! The cashews are what give the "vice cream" its ice-cream-like texture; when blended with the other ingredients and then frozen, the nut-flavor is barely discernible, but adds a lovely subtle touch. I followed the recipe as written (for once), but next time, I may tweak the sweetener, as a whole cup of maple syrup sweetener makes it very, very sweet. Like me. Maybe try agave syrup next time, or just cutting back on the syrup and use more fruit . . .

(A quick aside . . . a few months back, I'd bought some cheap vanilla shit thinly disguised as ice cream from I-don't-even-know-where—Holiday gas station down the road, maybe?—on a desperate late-night run to feed Bob's out-of-control habit. Sooooo, can anyone telll me what's wrong with this picture (and it's not "valu pak," wrong as that is, in and of itself)? Llllook very clllose . . . man, if they can't even get the lllabelll right, god only knows what's in the ice cream . . .)

I also bought a juicer, incidentally, a beginner's brand/model. I did some research on the brand—a Waring Pro—saw that it earned a healthy 4 out of 5 stars on several websites. Again, in time, if I get totally into the juicing thing (which I may, as I loooooooves me them green smoothies already . . .), maybe for Christmas, I'll ask Santa for the Rolls Royce of juicers. No, not Jack LaLane's (though I did see that his earned respectable ratings as well, and I know our friend, Paulie, has had great success with it). Perhaps a GreenStar. Or, as my friend, Lisa, suggested, a Hurom slow-juicer. But that seems light-years away. . . baby steps, Jen, baby steps . . .

Beautiful day at the farmer's market yesterday, despite being hotter 'n' hades, and humidity that simply dripped from the atmosphere . . . had to go it alone, as Bob wasn't feeling up to it and both sisters were out of town this weekend, but it made for a quick trip—in and out in record time when there is no balloon artist, or ice cream vendor or lemonade stand to distract! I picked up a few things—bouquet of flowers, handmade soaps, couple of sweet treats—to bring to a client-friend of mine who is in a transitional care facility in St. Paul . . . she was in a horrific motorcycle accident back in June, hospitalized for 40 days, ended up having to amputate part of her right leg, it was so mangled it was beyond saving. Discharged from the hospital to transitional care on her 40th birthday. Now, after just a week in TC, they're threatening to kick her out, because her insurance

But she had her helmet on, which she said saved her life, saved her from brain injury . . . still in transitional care, and a long road to recovery ahead for her. She will have to learn to do everything with a prosthetic leg, which won't happen for another few months, as the injury site still has more healing to do. She also ended up with a broken clavicle, a shattered knee (on the leg that survived) and broken foot.

Anyone care to tell her that everything happens for a reason? That God threw the car in front of her to teach her some kind of lesson? That God doesn't give her anything more than she can handle? As though God is some sadistic entity who loooooves to throw shit our way, horrible, horrible shit, like cars and cancer, and earthquakes and wars, but just in front of some people, not everyone, a jacked-up lottery where you'll never know if or when your number will be called . . . a god as an entity that loves to pick and chose at random whom to subject the horrors, just to see how the lucky chosen one stands up to the challenge . . . and if you don't, well, then the right answer is, "Oh, it was her time to go, God wanted her . . . " No, no, no, that's not right. Not right at all. Sometimes, people, shit just happens. As in my friend's case, the driver simply didn't see her. Bad timing. Rotten luck. Wrong place, wrong time. The driver made a terrible error in judgment. Anything but God playing a game with her life. . .

Kind of unrelated, but not really . . . I don't know if I've ever said this before on the blog, but I am absolutely blessed to have the opportunity to be home with Bob during this time, to help him heal and become stronger for his upcoming surgery. I wish it had had happened earlier in the game, that maybe we could have avoided much of the awful shit he was dragged through, but there goes that 20/20 hindsight again . . . not only do I truly, in my heart, feel that it has helped keep Bob stable and out of the hospital, but it's been so good for his mental health and overall well-being. And mine, too . . . he hasn't had an anxiety attack since, oh man, I can't even tell you when. Hasn't taken Ativan in at least as long, either. His appetite has increased ten-fold, his mental state is astoundingly sharp and clear. If only it weren't for that damn pain in his leg that just doesn't go away. The constant reminder.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Not saying everything is all puppies and rainbows over here, peeps, just grateful beyond words that things are stable and have been for several weeks now. All I can do is live here and now. Right now. Once in a while, I try to peek into the future and have to yank myself back, because there's no way I can possibly maybe begin to try to see what it holds . . .the surgery is the only "curative" treatment, we're told, Bob's only hope, yet it still scares the living daylights out of me. To the point where I have to push it out of my head whenever thoughts of it appear. And, that's just my perspective. The one without the cancer.

Every day, we are blessed, feel so very blessed, to have all the wonderful people in our lives who have done so much and continue to do so much, for us. Blows the mind, it really does . . . and that's where the miracles happen for me. Through all of you. Deep inside of me. All around me. Through your prayers, sweet e-mails, phone calls, text messages, blueberry pies, generous gifts, recipe ideas, visits, cards in the mail, offers to do "whatever you need, just call," in the gorgeous pre-storm clouds piling up in the west as I walked Rocco tonight and the brilliant orange-pink sunset that followed. . . within me, in us, being open and receptive to all the goodness that comes our way, thorugh Bob, with his wicked sense of humor still intact, his determined spirit. . . choosing to say, this is life, life happens, man, and sometimes it can be so beautiful it takes your breath away and other times, damn, sometimes it's all you can do to get through the day. . .

Despite the shit, in spite of the shit we trudge through, I like to think that I'm "learning and growing" along the way . . . with the cooking and nutrition, the care-taking role I've embraced and trying my best to navigate the hell that is our health care system, the connections and re-connections we've made with friends and family, old and new . . . all the good and the bad and the constant reminders of how the human spirit moves us, within us, throughout us, between us . . . but don't anyone come and tell me, "See, everything does happen for a reason, Jen!" because I'll slap you into next week faster than the words come out of your mouth . . . I'd trade all that back and more, in a heartbeat, to have our old life back, any day, any way, and I'd venture to guess Bob would, too. God doesn't "make" this kind of shit happen to people. It's just life, plain and simple. What we do have, though, is the ability to chose how we respond to the shit that's dealt us. That's what God has given us. A brain, a heart and soul with which to respond, react, feel, process, hope, dream, do. It comes from us, people, from us acting, doing, feeling, not just sitting around, waiting for God to clean up the mess . . .

If God "makes" this crap happen in our lives to teach us some kind of lesson, then that's not the kind of God I want in my life. We'll go crazy trying to figure out the "reason," because there is none. I believe in the God who says, "Here you go, peeps. I created this big wide wonderful world, with all kinds of miraculous things in it. Now it's your chance to see what you do with it . . ." In all it's beautiful, ugly, generous, stingy, fabulous, horrific, humorous, horrific glory . . . I've said it before, I'll say it again, horrible things happen to really wonderful people, and wonderful things happen to really horrible people. All the time. Over and over and over again. Many, many things we have control over, but there are other things we simply don't. Our job is to figure out how to get through the shit the best we can. Whatever gets us through the night, 's all right, 's all right . . . and don't read too much into all this, because God knows my mind changes on a daily basis, what I think, what I feel, what I believe. . .

See, that's the trouble with this waiting game. Too much time to think, dammit.

Save the date . . .

Had visitors yesterday afternoon, two old friends of mine from way back when, Ronda and Corey, who live in Kansas now, but are in MN for the week, for a family wedding down near Rochester. Ronda and her family were next-door neighbors of ours back in Mt. Lake; we spent countless hours of our childhoods, playing house, monsters, kick-the-can, sleeping over at each other's houses . . . Corey and I were in speech and theater together in h.s. . . . Ronda's parents were two of the most wonderful people I knew growing up, such kind, gentle, generous souls. . . Ronda, Corey and I reconnected on the time-sucking vampire that is facebook; a week or so ago, they told me they'll be up for the week for the wedding and was wondering if we were up for visitors.

Corey is a 7 year cancer survivor—brain tumor—and incidentally, just celebrated his 7-year anniversary of his surgery. He was the one who made the shockingly accurate analogy I'd mentioned a while back, of getting the phone call for his surgery and feeling like someone had called to let him know his car crash had just been scheduled . . . he had a helluva ride—whole family did, actually; Ronda was caring for both an ill husband and their son, who was just a babe when Corey was diagnosed—but he's here, seven years later, doing so well, enjoying life, a wonderful living inspiration . . . Their visit was a great surprise, as I haven't seen them in over five years, at least. Thankfully, the weather was gorgeous, so we all sat out on the deck and shot the breeze for a few hours.

Of course, the conversation turned to cancer, treatments, etc. now and then—so many familiar stories to share, along with new details to learn—the frustrations as well as the miracles of the medical world, the awful side-effects of medications and infuriating crap-shoot method of finding ones that do the job and can be tolerated, the life on hold, the doctors—some great, some not so much (and all of them "practicing" medicine, as Ronda pointed out, which cracks me up! Can't believe I never thought of it that way before . . .{{{shaking head}}}) . . .and family, friends, strangers, even . . . the kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness and love of the countless people who swoop in to be by our side, to help support and carry us during the battle . . . but honestly, that was just a fraction of the day's visit; the conversation was really more delicious home-town gossip, family updates, and other things far removed from cancer. Bob even joined us for the duration of their visit, mostly just listening, but nice to have his presence with us, as I know it was a huge effort for him to be sitting with us as long as he did . . . Such a nice afternoon, catching up with old friends, lots of laughs, good company. . . and before we knew it, two hours were gone, and they were saying their goodbyes . . . for a while, life felt a little normal again . . .

No sooner had Ronda and Corey pulled out of the driveway, when my cellphone rang. I recognized the U of MN main #, wondering who could be calling about what. . . turned out to be the surgery scheduler. "This is Tanya calling to tell you that Robert's surgery is on for August 27 th, I'm told. What?!? I asked her to repeat what she just said—that the 27th is the date? Yes, that's correct. So. We're set. In stone. So many mixed feelings about it, I could go on and on, but I won't. The main one we have to focus on, and push everything else aside, is that this surgery is what will give Bob his life back, bring a semblance of normalcy to our lives again, let him move on, start to really live again . . . He'll be hospitalized the week before, likely going in on the 20th, to be put on the IV blood thinner and monitored all week. He's already told me to spread the word that he wants visitors, and lots of them, because he's going to be bored to death, waiting around all week . . .

After a day or so's hiatus from messin' in the kitchen, I was back at it last night; the recipe was a complete and utter experimental one (as if all the others haven't been, Jen?! hmmmm . . .). I mean that I kind of made it up, a collage of about 12 different recipes, because I couldn't find exactly the one I had in my head. (Again—how is that different from the others, Jen?!?) ANYhow, it was one of those recipes that I spent an inordinate amount of time on, lots of putzy work, dirtying up about every pot and pan in the joint, the deeper I got into it, the louder the voices got: "What the hell are you doing . . .nuh-uh—don't have a good feeling about this one . . . all this hard work and it's gonna taste like crapola and you'll end up tossing it over the side of the deck . . . " Despite the voices, I persevered.

Oh, what was it, you ask? Sorry! It was {{{drum roll. . . .}}} Zucchini boats! When my friend,

Karen, dropped off the load of veggies last week, from her hubby's garden, there were two ginormous zucchinis in the box. Gargantuan. Monumental. Elephantine. Titanic. Really, really big. Karen planted the seed about the boat idea back then (though calling them "boats" is really a disservice to those mammoth beasts. Ocean liners, really. . . ), and I've been obsessed with the idea of edible boats ever since. Unfortunately, Bob hasn't been "on board" (ha-ha—get it? Boats? On board? ummm, nevermind . . . ) with the idea, and has been threatening to have a TV dinner on stand-by . . . I shredded and froze one of the Chernobyl zukes for future use, then last night, I finally succumbed to the haunting call of the zuke-boat. I halved the colossal squash, scooped out the innards (chopped up and set aside). Then made 1 c. brown rice and 1/2 cup wild rice, cooked up 2 large chick breasts, then shredded/chopped it. I added onion, mushrooms, garlic and the chopped zuke innards to the cooked chicken, chicken, then mixed all that together with the rice. Seasonings were: couple tablespoons of tomato paste, fresh chopped basil, a splash of mushroom stock, sea salt and fresh ground pepper. Load boats up with bounty, sprinkle with a generous amount of grated cheese (I used my proprietary 3-cheese blend made from hard cheeses from Surdyk's. Bake 1/2 hour.

LOVED 'em, peeps! Absolutely LOVED 'em!! Even Bob, aka Mr. Naysayer, enjoyed them, though he wouldn't eat the boat for some reason—it's totally edible, gets nice and soft after cooking. The hard work was worth it. This recipe could be made totally vegan by skipping the chicken and add more 'shrooms, other veggies—some cubed squash would rock, beans, even—whatever you want, to give it a little more substance. I am not kidding when I say this one huge zucchini, with its contents, could easily feed 4-6 people, if you had a few other veggie sides (I had roasted beets, too). Doing my part to reduce the zucchini population this time of year . . .

btw, I seem to be getting the reputation of Ice Cream Nazi lately, as though I am absolutely forbidding Bob from the delicacy (and my suspicions are that he's the force behind the rumors, but I could be wrong . . .). I am simply scaling back on the treat, to normal serving sizes, and now to a few times a week, instead of a few times a day. For the longest time, it was basically two of his daily meals, and not much else. I'd conservatively estimate that he was consuming almost two cups of ice cream in a sitting—a serving of ice cream is 1/2 cup, at 250 calories, peeps. His ice cream consumption alone was haulin' in close to 1000 calories a "serving"—not to mention topping that off with least 1/2 an Ensure (another 175 calories), a big ol' hosin' down with Hershey's syrup and caramel topping (another 100+ calories) in one sitting. THAT, my peeps, is insane, and absolutely not healthy.

I am not a fan of the "calories, no matter what" philosophy of the medical community, in regard to the chronic, critically ill, but that's what's pushed, by doctors, nurses—so many in the medical field. Which is so crazy, especially when so much evidence strongly supports that nutritionally sound food, mainly from plant sources, is what helps heal the body, help build the immune system—hell, helps all the systems and defenses battle the demon, cancer. The ice cream can supplement, but should not be the main source of calories/nutrition. I know, I know, I know, I'm not the one with cancer, I'm not the one who's emaciated, who had debilitating nausea, severe loss of appetite, horrible mouth sores, but I honestly don't think we've been doing Bob any favors by letting him shovel ice cream at whim into his already critically ill body. This is a matter of tough love, doing something to help, not hinder, Bob's fight. Funny, how we have no problem choking down pills with horrific side effects, or subjecting ourselves to torturous treatments, but "forcing" us to eat well, even when very sick, hell, especially when very sick, is seen a bad thing . . . Sorry, but it's a soapbox upon which I'll step any time . . .

We've got his weight up dramatically, in a relatively short period of time, which rocks the house, man, and now we're on a maintenance program. And, now I'll step down from the soapbox for today . . . oh, and disregard any e-mails, texts, smoke signals or other messages Bob might be sending out, to anyone and everyone, asking to smuggle in extra "goods". . . he is not being held in a dungeon against his will, barred of all real food. He can serve himself up a bowl of ice cream whenever he wants. For the record, we had blueberry pie with ice cream for dessert this noon. Right now, in this moment of time, life is good. . .

Anyhoo, mark August 27th on your calendars . . . big, scary day ahead. . .

Guest blogger . . .

So, I've been working reeeeeeealy hard at getting a guest blogger to take my place for at least a few posts here, as I am absolutely certain y'all are getting extremely annoyed with my play-by-play of farmer's market excursions and kitchen acrobatics, but it might take a little more work on my end, so bear with me and my ramblings for a while more . . .

Bob had an MRI yesterday and his bi-weekly follow-up appointment with his primary doc today. Nothing astounding on either end; we're still waiting for an official interpretation of the MRI from the orthopedic oncologist (and yes, I will be giving them a call tomorrow), and we didn't have too much to discuss with Doc Rock (Bob's primary), except to just check in, see how things have been going.

Bob weighed in at a whopping 125 lbs. today; I was kinda freakin' over that (and yes, I even called last week, to report excessive girth around Bob's abdomen, because I told Primary care, when they got involved after Bob's last hospital stay, that I would be calling with every hang nail, odd bruise, hair out of place, rapid weight gain/loss . . .), as he hasn't weighed that much since he had about 20 lbs of fluid sloshing around inside of him after his last MI (myocardial infarction, aka, heart attack, for those not hip to the hospital lingo). Doc Rock gave Bob a very thorough once-over and is confident it isn't fluid retention. More likely the result of a very healthy appetite but a very sedentary lifestyle.

He is carrying around a cute li'l spare tire 'round his midsection, so I've put the kibosh on twice-daily servings of ice cream . . . I know, I know, so cruel, but I have been lax on the treats for so long, allowing junk food and out-right shit food, as Bob's been through so much, but at the same time, gaining fat is not healthy, either. Eating shitty, processed, chemically-laden foods is just plain and utterly wrong, no matter what one's health situation is . . . I've said it before and you know I'll say it a million times again, I am absolutely horrified with the "calories, no matter what" attitude of the medical community in regard to cancer patients, and a couple months ago, I decided to buck that system and get real, nutritious food in Bob. Ice cream isn't completely off the menu, but as a meal in and of itself, no more. Funny, how that seems to coincide with no more hospital stays, no more crises . . .coincidence? I think not. I'm not arrogant enough to think it's the only reason he's ben stable, but I know it has a big role, along with his primary care doctor being in the picture, and with me being home full time, and that he's had a break from the god-awful treatments he was subjected to a few months ago . . .

We're also working hard on PT stuff (or "calisthenics," a la Jack LaLane, as we like to call it here at Wrenwood Health Spa. Imagine how annoying that can be when I pop into the bedroom and announce, "It's calisthenics time, Bobby! Let's go!" We've graduated from simple movements to adding weights to the exercises. Big deal, peeps, as despite the weight gain, his muscles have atrophied to less than half of what he used to have . . . people have always been surprised that, for such a small guy, Bob's so damn strong. Even now, emaciated—with a spare tire! ;)—he's still stronger than most people think) at least once a day. . . incidentally, Doc Rock also identified a couple more issues that have been missed by the other docs who've been overseeing Bob since all this began, even something his old primary doc should have been concerned about, but wasn't: his thyroid levels were quite low, suggesting that he's been over-medicated for a long time (his thyroid was affected by the radiation treatments he had as a kid, but no one has ever mentioned testing his thyroid levels until now. Never. I get the whole "being you own advocate" thing, peeps, but seriously, unless you have an internal MD, as Doc Rock is—even then, it's so hard to keep track of everything . . .).

And, his vitamin D and B12 levels were way low . . .vitamin D, the "sunshine vitamin" (so-called because it's synthesized by exposure to sunlight, with 10-15 minutes a day being all that's needed), is an essential player in basically every body system, from the skeletal, to cardiac health, to the immune system and muscular composition and function, not to mention critical in warding off diabetes, many types of cancer, and overall, general health and wellness . . . that Doc Rock, he's so thorough . . . after his blood work results come back, probably tomorrow, Doc Rock will let us know what do do next, likely supplements, with regular outdoor excursions, to expose Bob to some sunshine therapy, never a bad thing . . .

Interestingly, after researching Vit. D, I found several articles that mention studies discovering the use of statin (cholesterol-lowering) drugs may be contributing to Vit. D deficiencies, because cholesterol is necessary to synthesize vit. D. Bob takes Simvastatin, standard post-heart attack protocol, even though he's never had high cholesterol . . . hmmm . . . sometimes I wish I weren't so damn nosey, such a "need to know" kinda gal . . . all the things I read about, learn about, and then worry about . . . my goal today is to go out and find a couple of lounge chairs for the deck. Our new hobby: laying out! Judiciously, of course.

Lately, maybe because of the gorgeous, albeit hotter-n-hell weather, when I've been taking Rocco on a walk tonight, we run into lots of neighbors who are also out and about. 1/2 hour walks turn into hour+ long excursions, many neighbors asking for updates . . . even in our "isolation" up here on Walton's Mountain, we are surrounded by love, prayers, support, blessings, offers of assistance, whatever we need, never really alone . . . one of our neighbors brought a beautiful—and I mean beautiful, as in kicks-ass-on-Betty's-Pies-on-North-Shore kind of beautiful—blueberry pie, made from berries grown on their property, along with a bag of sweet corn . . . the pie was to die for, peeps, to die for . . .c'mon over for coffee and pie in the a.m., if you want a piece of the goodness that is this pie, cuz I can't guarantee it'll be around longer than that . . . On our walk tonight, we ran into another neighbor and her two adorable girlies playing in the front yard. Their oldest, only 6 years old, always asks about Bob whenever I see her . . . such a sweet, sensitive soul. She sent Bob an e-mail the other day, just a few sentences (which took her a painstakingly 30 minutes to complete, her mom said), to which Bob sent a response (which thrilled her to no end, her mom also said). Many pieces of artwork that adorn our fridge are hers . . .

We're still waiting on the surgery date. Doc Rock couldn't tell us much, or offer much pull on his part, even when I asked him to take out the whip, head down to the OR scheduling staff and start crackin' it, so we will wait. And I will continue to call, at least weekly, if not more . . . 'cause that's how I roll . . . and I'll keep working on that guest blogger, peeps. . . LOVE! to all . . .

Popcorn, Sundrop . . . and more waiting . . .

(Gretchen, Jen & Jill at the farmer's market, pic taken by Sophi or Amelia . . . )

Went to the farmer's market yesterday, with my sisters and two of my nieces, to pick up a few items for the coming week's meals—some eggs and porkchops, cabbage for slaw I wanted to make for lunch, more greens for my world-famous green smoothies (oh, you just wait, non-believers, you just wait!) and garlic. Didn't need too much this time, thanks to Karen and Tim's beautiful bounty. A lovely morning, and as always, good times with my peeps. The

balloon artist was there again, made a dolphin and a whale for the li'l girlies. I asked her if she's ever had a request that she just couldn't do—only a few that were too intricate to complete in just a few minutes, she said, which is really all the time she can spend on her amazing creations, given the line of people waiting. But, she could do a fire truck if she had the time, she assured us . . . Jill's going to try to book her for Amelia's upcoming birthday at the end of August. I can't wait to go! And I'm so gonna ask her to make me a balloon Eiffel Tower . . .

Jill and Amelia came over after the market excursion to share a late lunch with us—walleye sandwiches from the leftovers we had Saturday night, on cute little french rolls (from A Toast to Bread), topped with fresh sliced tomatoes. Jill created a fabulous side of Brussels sprouts sauteed in olive oil, with garlic, onion, cashews and a few dashes of maple sugar (yes, sugar, not syrup, though in a pinch, syrup would probably work as well. I'd certainly try it.). Bob's not a big fan of Brussels sprouts (funny, the things you learn about your beloved, after 18 years of being together—I would have sworn he liked 'em . . .), but made the way Jillybean made them, even he enjoyed them. To round the meal off, I whipped up the coleslaw that I though was going to suck hugely because once I started making it, I realized that I didn't have any carrots or much mayo left (and had even been staring at the carrots at the farmer's market, saying to myself, oh, I don't think I need any of those . . .)

What to do, what do do??? Well—being the culinary genius that I am, I improvised, of course!Taking a quick mental inventory of what we had on hand and how flavors of ingredients can either play upon each other, enhance, compliment one another, or create disaster, I . . .ummm . . . well, okay. I didn't really put that much thought into it. I punted. Rather than dumping a half a head of cabbage out back for the rabbits, I grabbed what I thought might work with the cabbage: shredded a few tart apples that I'd bought last week at the market, tossed in a few big handfuls of raisins, mixed it all up with a 1/2 and 1/2 dressing of regular & wasabi mayo (Trader Joe's), few splashes of apple cider vinegar and agave syrup. I held my breath while I held it out for Bob to taste (I was afraid the wasabi mayo would be too hot for his still-tender tongue) . . . drum roll . . . Bob gave me a 9.5 on the slaw, ladies and gentlemen—a nine-point-five! He told me he never gives out tens (always room for improvement). . . sorry about the super-disgusting picture, btw—looks like I ralphed the meal back up onto my plate. I got half-way through the meal before I realized I'd forgotten to take a picture! Enjoy. No, really. Enjoy that image.

Last night, Bob actually ventured out of the bedroom and came out to the living room to watch some golf. He hasn't done much of that lately, since it's more comfortable for him in our bed, and because he's not sleeping well, he tends to stay in bed to try to catch up on elusive sleep. We had such a late lunch that by 8 pm, neither of us was really hungry yet. I asked if he just wanted to find a movie on TV, I could pop some popcorn, and we could just forget dinner for tonight. Sounded like a good plan to him.

As luck had it, The 40 Year Old Virgin was on a cable channel, and Bob had never seen it. I'd seen it before, but has been a few years (didn't realized it came out in 2005, that long ago). Regardless, if you haven't seen this movie yet, don't walk—run—to the nearest Red Box, Blockbuster, pop it into the #1 slot on your Netflicks queue, do whatever you gotta do to see this movie asap! Or if you have seen it before, watch it again—ranks right up there with The Hangover, some seriously good humor, peeps! When I came into the living room with our bowls of air-popped popcorn (one of the many items I inherited from my Dad when he passed away was the cutest little air popper that shoots popcorn all over my kitchen counter and floors,much to the dogs' delight and my annoyance, but I still love it—makes a quick bowl of corn, no burnt ones, lots of old maids), I saw a can of Sundrop on the coffee table next to Bob. Sundrop?! I haven't had a

sugary soda in I don't know how long, a Sundrop in even longer. He said there were more in the basement, his parents left 'em when they were here last. Do I dare?!? hell, yeah . . . and, with Sundrop and popcorn as dinner, we settled in front of the boob tube to watch the movie. As funny as it is (I had forgotten just how much—the waxing scene alone is worth the whole movie—I start giggling just thinking about it . . .), the coolest thing: to hear Bob laugh like he did last night. Something I haven't heard in a very long time. Not great big huge belly laughs, mind you, but lots of snorts, chuckles, even giggles, coming from the couch . . . we stayed up till after midnight, to watch through the bitter end.

Today was errand day (??? As if all the other days are Bon-bon-Eating Days. Every day is errand day, to some degree—laundry, ran to Trader Joe's for a few provisions and a spin

through the new Goodwill in Woodbury—it pulled me in, like a little planet sucked into a black hole—and came out with three new sundresses, a pile of summer tops and shorts, all cute as all-get-out, for $35! A tinge of guilt at the frivolous purchases, but I cab sell my plasma the next time we're at the U, to make it up . . . came home and spent a few hours in the kitchen preparing the veggies I got from Karen & Tim, Bob's parents and the farmer's market. Shredded some zucchini, cooked up beets, made a big batch of green smoothies, then started dinner. Baked eggplant parmesan, spinach pasta and marinara sauce. Not my best work tonight, peeps, sorry to say . . . the recipe for the eggplant was a big disappointment. I had used one last year that kicked major ass, but evidently this one wasn't it . . . grrr . . . I have a few more eggplants, maybe make another run with a new recipe later this week, just to redeem myself . . . wasn't terrible, but wasn't what I remembered. But, I will post the pictures, as I need to share the good with the bad, the successes with the failures, so here y'go.

Made a call this afternoon (or two . . . I'm nothing, if not persistent. Some might say annoying . . .) to the colorectal surgeon's office, to see if they know anything more about Bob's surgery, because everyone we talk to points fingers at Doc M as being the reason for the holdup. His nurse was very nice, but couldn't tell me much. She gave me the number to the scheduling person in the colorectal dept., saying this person could give me a better idea where things stood. My call went right to voice mail when I tried that number, so left my rambling message, then went to putter around the house and yard, waiting for the return call. Of course, it came when I stepped away from my phone for just a minute or two. . . the return message said Bob was on a "waiting list" for the surgery on August 27, and that we'd probably hear a week or so before the actual date if it will actually happen or not. W.T.F?????!!!! I relayed this message to Bob. "A waiting list?" he asked, the look on his face almost more than I could stand to see. "What does that mean . . . oh, man . . ." he said in helpless exasperation.

That's it. I got back on the phone, left another message with Doc M's nurse, this time, laying it on even thicker . . . I can't say this enough to anyone i talk to at the U, that it's not like this surgery just came up, it's been months in the making, with countless set-backs. Bob's bedridden, his pain is not managed unless we decide to jack him up on insane amounts of medications (ain't happenin' again, folks), this is an emergency. . . got a call back at quarter to five, as I was getting the pups' dinner ready. Gaia is raspy-howling in the background, so I have to go into the laundry room to hear her. She continues to howl at me through the door. His nurse told me the same thing everyone's been telling us for weeks, that it's a complicated scheduling process, there are many doctors with lots of schedules to coordinate, that everyone is working hard at trying to make this happen . . . yeah, but, in the meantime, Bob suffers, has been for over nine months now, it's ridiculous that everyone is okay with him existing like this for weeks on end. . . all the doctors are in place, I'm told, their schedules are cleared, but now, it's a matter of getting on the OR schedule for the day, that's what "in line" means. Bob's in line for the OR room. It's a long surgery, requiring a big chunk of OR time . . . yeah, yeah, yeah, and as I said, in the meantime . . . she said that she can't say with any degree of certainty, because things always change, but she really feels that the August 27th date is going to work out; with everyone working on Bob's case is putting a lot of pressure on the OR staff to make it work out . . .

yeah, but in the meantime. . .