We're glad to have you with us today for the first episode of our second season entitled: Susan has the life she's always dreamed of, Mom has elevated tumor markers for pancreatic and liver cancer.
Now this does not mean my mom has pancreatic or liver cancer. These are simply markers that indicate the possibility of cancer. Or at least that's what I gleaned when I had a mental break and googled for a second.
You all know not to google diseases, right? Never, ever google a disease you or a loved one may have. There are two reasons and I'm not sure which should be number 1.
1. You don't know who wrote those pages. You know better than to read the webpages from schmucks who have crystals and unicorns on their blog, but for some reason, those are the articles you end up reading. You may deny this, but all of us are cynical conspiracy theorists at heart. We know the only accurate information we can trust is from the AMA and CDC and a elite group of hospitals and universities, but when it comes to the disease google, your rationale slips. And you find yourself almost believing that the government secretly has the cure to cancer. The government and Charlie from CharliesCureforCancer.com. And you find yourself thinking, maybe Charlie is right. Maybe just going strict vegan and practicing yoga with Puss in Boots twice a week is the way to shrink that tumor.
And,
1. The news is always bad. Very bad. And that's because the articles that attract us most are the extreme ones. And the last thing you need is Charlie saying, "Listen, I know how to cure you, but if you don't start right this second, you are totally fucked. As a matter of fact, you should have started six months ago." That is not a good time.
So I googled for a second, quickly came to my senses and blocked out the horrific bold blue headlines, and began to frantically clean. It's my thing. I stayed home from work today because we had three deliveries coming in. Washer. TV. Media Center. We got two out of three. Everything worked out except the washer. It was damaged. They're coming Monday AM.
Where was I? Frantically cleaning. And doing handy man stuff. While waiting for the various delivery people, I maniacally cleaned and organized. I used a straight edge to place items in my medicine cabinet.
Yes. Your Princess is handy. But she is always careful to be cute when being that way so that she's not mistaken for those girls who go to Ginger's and identify themselves as couples by wearing the same flannel print. Like a Scottish Family's Tartan, but not. (Those lesbians would never be seen in a skirt.)Cleaning. Handy-Manning. As I told you, I got a keychain from Tiffany & Co. for the new keys. One of my keys did not fit. So I drilled it. Now it fits.
We have a shelving space and we got new shelves from Lowe's and we asked a nice kid who makes about $8 an hour to cut them down to a specific size. He was off by an 1/8 of an inch. A seemingly inconsequential amount, but with my measuring skills, a disaster. So, I cut down shelves with a 18 volt DeWalt circular saw. I later installed those same shelves. I filled those shelves with my shoes in a nice orderly fashion. I put away photo frames that have yet to be hung. I put crap out on the street like my jacket that I hung myself on a fence with one fateful night when I forgot HRH had my only set of keys to my apartment and I sent her home with the intenion of staying out a little longer (I always did) and when I realized my stupidity, I tried to climb the fence next to my apartment building that enclosed the Bette Midler Green Up New York Park Project Park (or something to that effect), and actually made it, but not before slipping, catching my jacket on a fence prong, and hanging, literally feet off the ground, hung up by my jacket collar like a scene from the Little Rascals, and then scrambling physical comedy style, back up and finally over the fence.
Again. I digress.
So, what I was talking about was how Mom is potentially very, very sick and how I am driven to distraction after distraction in an attempt to avoid the whole thing.
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