I talked to my mom again today. She was making chicken salad, which was the best news I'd heard all week.
"I have a terrible attitude," she laughed. "I'm mad about the scars, and they're not even that bad."
I laughed with her. "You can never go topless again," I pointed out.
"I know," she sighed. "Thank God I have all those pictures."
So I think we're okay. She gets the results of this, the Lancing of The Captain of the Lymph Nodes (also known affectionately as "Chief Node" and "Head Node") on Monday. Also my birthday. All I want in the world is radiation instead of chemo.
I can't even begin to thank you all for your comments and emails. Seriously. You're all friends to me, truly, and I'm proud and honored to be a friend to you.
Plus, the Jumping Jake pictures are in the process of being uploaded. Things aren't as tense and fucked up, and since Mom really loves The Jake (even if it is in a "please don't bring him over" way), I think she'd be proud.
As an aside, R is at some "gentleman's fundraiser" tonight, where a bunch of guys pay a couple hundred bucks to get together to smoke cigars, drink expensive liquor, buy raffle tickets for firearms and bid on fur coats worn by nubile, c-section-scarred strippers.
"You better get me a mink," I threatened. Because I live in fucking Phoenix. And mink is so unbelievably lame it's campy.
"Even if it was worn by a naked, sweaty hooker?"
"Jesus, '
even'? Try
only."
So maybe I'll get lucky. If everything goes according to plan I can give my mom a celebratory mink coat that smells like vanilla and whiskey.
