Chapter 1
Eggs come in Grade A, although I've never seen Grade B eggs. Beef comes in Prime or choice, I guess that's like A or B. At the restaurant mom usually asks for prime rib, but at home Mom always buys choice, so I guess B is good enough for meat at home. Scout uniforms come in Class A or Class B. I never made it past Daisy, but I've seen pictures of both my siblings in there Class A and B uniforms. The Class B looks a lot more comfy, so B would be my preferred choice if I was a scout.
Almost everything gets grades these days. A part of my life where grades are important is school grades. School grades mean different things to different people.
My big brother, Tom, was a special case. My parents were thrilled if he got mostly C's and didn't actually flunk more than one course. He was never good in school. He is probably near genius. He absorbs knowledge like a sponge. But try to get it back out of him was an impossible venture.
At dinner, we would have the TV on in the next room. We couldn’t all see the TV but we could all hear it. Usually we ate while Jeopardy was on. If you were in the best seat, you could even almost see the Jeopardy answers. Tom would sit at the table with his back to the TV. No indication he was even listening. It was always difficult to tell if he was paying any attention. Being autistic, he lived in his own world most of the time. He would frequently just blurt out the Jeopardy question. "What is 1892?" "What is the third Egyptian dynasty?" "Who is Alfred Hitchcock?" I didn't know if he was right until Alex Trebeck gave the correct question. I have no idea who Alfred Hitchcock is, or many of the other questions Tom gave, but he was almost always right.
However, being autistic, little was expected of Tom, so C's and D's were perfectly acceptable.
Then there is my big sister, Kara. She was college bound, so she got a lot of A's, some B's. And occasionally something lower, especially in her freshman year. She hadn’t had the importance of grades drilled into her sufficiently before her freshman year. But her grades got much better by junior year. So when she applied for college, she was offered a partial scholarship. Dad was still around as she was getting close to finishing up high school, so I guess there was still some expectation that college funds would be available. My parents had been saving a little every year for college, so even when dad died, Kara had a nice little college fund ready for her. Even without the scholarship, she would have gotten her choice of college, unless it was an expensive private college. She would likely not have ended up in community college with most of her friends, even without her scholarship.
So for Kara, A's, B's, and even a few C's were perfectly acceptable.
Then we get to me. Poor little me. Dad had been dead about a year when I started high school. I was told there is NO money for college for me. If I wanted anything more than a two year community college degree, it was up to me to pay for it. And community college was a maybe. So my only chance for anything better than community college was a really good scholarship. I needed to be perfect little Darla, getting perfect A's, and having perfect extra curricular activities. A's were a possibility, the other activities would be a challege.
So for me, for perfect little Darla, nothing below A's was acceptable.
I mention all this just for some perspective. The grade you need is dependent on the circumstance at the time. For mom, C's was the best thing for her considering her circumstances.
Chapter 2
So, let me go back to the beginning of the story. It starts with Jones. He has a very important role in mom's C's. So I think I should explain how we acquired our precious 85 pounds of black lovable furry face, paws, and tail.
One Sunday we saw a German Shepherd in church. I was about 8 at the time. We had a dog at home, her name was Tippy, and I knew she was never allowed in church. Being curious, and bold, I asked load enough to make sure everyone else around us knew there was a dog there that didn’t belong in church. Everyone in the neighboring pews all turned and stared at me when I asked, "Mom, what's that dog doing in church?"
Mom said "Shhhhh." Kara gave me a sharp elbow. She always liked an excuse for bullying me and this seemed like a good one to her. Tom ignored everything as usual.
However, the lady behind us, the one with the Shepherd, whispered to me as I was rubbing my sore shoulder. She said he was a Seeing Eye Dog in training and she had permission to bring him into church, and almost everywhere else dogs were usually not allowed. Well that was all I needed. From that moment on, I wanted to train a Seeing Eye puppy. A dog that would be mine, that I could bring almost anywhere, even church. Maybe even school.
It took over a year, but I finally pestered mom enough that she finally agreed to allow me to raise a Seeing Eye puppy. Then I found out how much work it would be. I had to join the local 4H puppy raising club. They met every first Tuesday of the month. I went to a few meetings, got my name on the list, and waited.
Then dad died. Mom said we would have to wait for a Seeing Eye puppy. She had my name taken off the list. Tragedy upon tragedy. I’ve written about dad’s death elsewhere, it’s quite a story on it’s own, far more than would fit here. But, as I've heard said, timing is everything. As tragic as my dad's death was, it may have saved my mom's life. If we had gotten the Seeing Eye dog then, Jones would not have had the crucial part in mom's C's. That would have been tragic beyond belief.
Another year past. Our old dog Tippy was getting older. I still thought about the Seeing Eye puppy, but had long since stopped pestering mom, figured with dad gone she had enough to worry about without my pestering. And mom and I weren't on very good speaking terms at the time. Then one day, without warning, Mom asked, "Are you still interested in that Seeing Eye puppy. Tippy's getting old, maybe a new puppy around the house will rejuvenate the old girl."
So on the list goes my name again. I start attending 4H meetings again. A few weeks later, the Seeing Eye calls and says they will have a litter that will be ready for fostering soon. For me soon was tomorrow. Then she said she could bring over a lovely male black lab in a few weeks. I was excited, but disappointed it wasn’t tomorrow. Then, adding to my impatient disappointment mom said, "Maybe we should wait for the next litter." She really wanted a female puppy. A male puppy would have been fine with me, and I was going to be the puppy raiser. But still not wanting to pester, I agreed to wait again. I hated waiting back then, and I still do today.
A couple weeks later, another call, another male black lab would be ready for fostering. Again mom said, "Lets wait for a female." I said, with tears starting up, "OK, we can wait." Not my first tears in this story, and certainly not my last.
Finally, late in January, we got another call, and another male black lab would be ready soon. Mom was reluctant, but I begged. I was tired of waiting so, even though I knew I shouldn't pester mom, I did. Finally, Mom said OK. In early March, Jones arrives. The most beautiful little bundle of black fur a little girl of 12 could possibly ever want.
Miss Jeanette, the women from the Seeing Eye, handed me the puppy and I sat on the stairs hugging him. Finally I had my puppy, and he was perfect. Then Miss Jeanatte said, “You may want to take him out back, it's been a while and you don't want him to have an accident on you.” That was my real start at learning how much work a puppy is.
Along with Jones we got a large three ring binder with all the instructions on raising a Seeing Eye puppy. It also came with instructions on a DVD. And this form I had to sign agreeing to give Jones back when he was ready to return to the Seeing Eye. Of course I signed, not really aware of how painful that fateful day would be.
And Jones was the best dog ever. I didn’t even mind cleaning up his first mess off the kitchen floor. He was pretty much fully house trained in three days, there weren’t really many messes to clean up. He learned Park Time really fast. Park Time was when you brought him out in the fenced in yard, on a leash, to the same spot for him to do his business. This was one of the most important parts of Seeing Eye training that I had to teach Jones.
And we gave him toys, and he loved to play. And I loved to play with him.
I was a pretty happy girl. If it wasn’t for two bad events at that happened right then, I would have been the happiest girl in the world. Well, not the happiest, but pretty happy for me.
Bad event number one happened the day after Jones arrival. Mom gets a call and I could tell something bad happened. It was a call from Uncle Bill. Grandpa was just hit by a car, and it was really bad. Grandpa was 85, working full time as a crossing guard. He said he was still working so he could save for his old age. Being only 12, I was pretty sure he was already old, so I didn’t understand why he still needed to save for his old age. That was only one of many things that confused me back then.
He was hit by a car while he was helping children cross the street. The old lady who hit him was driving so fast, grandpa almost went through the windshield. The old lady was 10 years younger than grandpa, but she was still called an old lady.
Grandpa was badly banged up, from the windshield glass embedded in his head down to his mangled broken lag, and everything in between. While he healed nicely from all the rest of his injuries, the broken leg was a problem. He had several surgeries, and a rod installed to hold the bones together. After three weeks in the hospital, he still couldn’t walk much. He couldn’t take care of himself. So, he moved in with us.
Bad event number two occurred two weeks after Jones arrival. Mom wanted the Seeing Eye puppy because she though it would be good for our old dog Tippy to have a young puppy to keep her busy and active. Even I could tell that she was getting old, and slow. I guess she didn’t agree with mom’s reason for a new puppy. Maybe she thought, “Now that they have a new puppy they don’t need me any more, and I can finally leave and get some well deserved rest.” One day Tippy stopped eating, so mom brought her to the vet. She looked really tired, and the vet said she probably would not live for more than a few days. Two days later she died. The day before she died she was still out in the yard, digging holes. She loved to dig holes, our yard was ample evidence of that. She was actually trying to dig holes, not making much progress. I knew that was bad. That night she laid down in front of the TV, under the coffee table, right in front of the couch where mom and I sat to watch TV. That was her favorite place. Mom told us the end was near, and if we wanted to say goodbye we should do it now. About 10 o’clock at night she went to puppy heaven. She had a really good life, I cried when she died, with Jones on my lap. It would have been mom and dad’s 25th wedding anniversary. Mom cried too.
About a week after Tippy’s departure was grandpa’s arrival. Jones was still a "blanket" puppy. That's what the Seeing Eye call's it's puppies until they're about 13 weeks old, after they've had all their puppy shots. They're blanket puppies because whenever you take them out of the house, they are not allowed out of your arms unless you put them on a clean blanket. They are not allowed to be touched by anyone outside our house as long as they are a blanket puppy, especially other dogs. This was to protect them from disease until they get full immunity from their puppy shots.
It took a while, but Jones started showing he true colors. He ate everything, except his food. He would turn his nose up at his dinner bowl. That’s when we found out grandpa had been sneaking Jones treats. Jones favorite apparently was cheerios. Seeing Eye rules did not allow much in the way of treats, and strictly NO people food. Not even any toys that looked like people food were allowed. How would a blind person survive if, every time he made himself a nice sandwich, good old Jones helped himself to it. So we told grandpa no more treats, he said "OK", but every chance he got he still sneaked Jones treats. Most of it people food.
Jones ate lots of other things he wasn't supposed to. His favorite was the computer mouse. My computer mouse. Jones would be sleeping in the other room. I would put my mouse down next to my lap top, actually mom's laptop she allowed me to use. A few minutes later I would go to pick it up, and it would be gone. I'd find Jones, and there would be the mouse, in his mouth. He would try to hide it, but he couldn't get his mouth fully closed with the mouse inside. I would yell at him, stick my hand in and yank it out. He would look so sad then, like I just took away his favorite toy, which I guess I did. One thing I learned, a computer mouse could take quite a beating and still work fine. It got a little hard to hold, with all the tooth marks, and pieces hanging off. But it still worked for a long time and after many mouse chewing sessions.
One time I put the mouse down to get a drink. I came back and saw Jones staring at the mouse. I yelled at him, "Don't you touch that mouse." He looked at me, looked at the mouse. Looked at me again, and looked at the mouse. I dove to get it, but he was faster. Poor mouse got another chewing before I got it back out of Jones mouth. We went through three computer mice in that year.
If he couldn't get a good computer mouse to chew on, there were always the TV remote controls, newspaper from the recycling bin, grandpa’s hat. He was also very fond of slippers and sneakers. He did also chew his toys. We called it carnage. That's all that was left of most of his toys within minutes of entering those jaws. For Christmas, we got him a toy advertised as really tough, able to hold up to the toughest dogs. It was a really good toy; it lasted almost 10 minutes before he was able to do any damage. I think it was a whole month before we finally threw away the pitiful remains of that toy. Most toys we rated in seconds. I would hold up the new toy, we would all guess how long to first carnage. Few toys ever lasted more than 10 seconds before you heard the first rip or crunch.
One of the most important things we had to teach Jones was how to walk on a leash. This is where his part in the story becomes important, remember - this is a story about mom getting C's.
As Christmas approached, Jones was getting close to full grown, his birthday was in mid January. He was really getting big for me to walk safely, especially since there were lots of bunnies in the neighborhood. He really liked to chase bunnies, another thing that probably wouldn't be good for a blind person. I still did a lot of the puppy walking, and most of the time he was very good for me. But with school, and after school activities, mom had to walk Jones sometimes.
Grandpa was still living with us, recovering from another surgery on his leg. Mom was really feeling stressed, having to take care of him every day, never having any time for herself. It was now over 9 months since grandpa arrived with his broken leg.
One day in January, mom was walking Jones. He saw a bunny before mom did, and he tried to chase the bunny, almost pulling mom over. After the walk her shoulder and chest muscles hurt a little so she rubbed the area. That's when she found it. Without Jones attempt to chase the bunny, mom probably would not have found the lump for another couple months.
She didn't tell anyone at the time, but I remember the day. She was in a real bad mood. I remember her saying something about, "He's got to go, I can't handle this with him here." I didn't know what she was talking about but I was afraid she wanted to get rid of Jones. I found out later she actually she needed grandpa to go back home. She didn't think she could even start doing anything about the newly discovered lump while still taking care of grandpa. It took her about two weeks, but mom finally convinced grandpa that he was recovered enough, and was able to get around on his own enough to move back home. In mid February, more than 10 months after moving in with us, grandpa moved back home.
That's when mom started with the calls to the doctor. That's when she told me about the lump. Then the tests. First the mammogram, then the ultrasound, then the needle biopsy. A couple days after the biopsy, the doctor called, and gave the bad news. Breast Cancer. The doctor said it looked like stage 3, the tumor was 4 centimeters. No longer called a lump, it was now a tumor.
There was also some tissue in the other breast that the doctor said could be precancerous. Nothing to worry about now, but should be watched closely. Next came the options. Lumpectomy or mastectomy. A lumpectomy, with a tumor that size would leave a deformity. And would require serious chemo, and probably radiation treatments. A mastectomy could have reconstructive surgery right away. Mom had double D's, so the plastic surgeon said there would be plenty of tissue to do reconstruction right away. But mom would need breast reduction on the other side, or they would be very different sizes.
So, without hesitation, mom said remove them both. The breast cancer surgeon and plastic surgeons both agreed, considering the results of all the tests and family history, that would be the best decision. Surgery was scheduled for about a week later, with more pre-op tests needed first.
There was one more final bit of bad news, as mom was being prepped for surgery, and the doctors were looking at all the pre-op test results. They said they needed one more quick test. They did a blood glucose test. Then they said, "Your diabetic, here's a shot of insulin." Then wheeled her in for surgery to remove her breasts. I wasn't there, and that's probably not the exact words, but that's how mom told me the story. She knew some day she would be diabetic, she had a family history of diabetes. But she didn't expect to find out that way. She thought she still had years left before diabetes set in.
Surgery started around 9 am and lasted until after 6 pm. Our neighbor brought me to the hospital after school. Yes, even with mom in surgery I had to go to school. Remember I need those perfect A's, so even though I couldn't think about school at all, there I sat in class worrying about mom.
After surgery, the surgeon said everything went well. All the margins looked clean. I was told that meant it looked like the cancer hadn't spread at all, which was very good. More tests were needed on the tissue, but they all came back good. Clean margins and clean lymph nodes. That made mom happy, and I think that was the first real smile either of us had in weeks.
If Jones hadn't pulled hard that day, mom would not have found the lump as fast as she did. The cancer could have spread, and after loosing dad a few years earlier, mom might not have survived much longer. Mom still says Jones saved her life that day. Mom also said, with a small laugh, she traded in her droopy old double D's for perky new C's. They will stay perky even as gravity takes it's toll everywhere else.
So as bad as things could have been, as I said in the beginning of this story, for mom, C's was the best thing for her considering her circumstances.
And as for Jones, he went back to the Seeing Eye a couple months later. They kept him for about 5 months. I guess they really tried hard to train him. One day they called and said he would not make it as a Seeing Eye guide dog, we could have him back. They said he failed because he liked to play with other dogs too much. I guess that’s because they didn’t have any bunnies around. I think he would have flunked out a lot faster if they had bunnies in their neighborhood.
So Darla's a happy girl, mom is healthy with her new C's and I got my boy back.
As an update to this story, it's been nearly five years, and mom is still cancer free. And I figured out why we have waffles with strawberries and whipped cream every Saturday. The first time mom fixed us Saturday waffles was after she found the lump, before grandpa moved back home. We had waffles every Saturday for the next few weeks, and then again after she recovered from surgery.
I figured out that she was giving us something nice to remember, after she was gone. Things were not always good between mom and me, and she was trying to fix things between us. But as time went on, and we had waffles every Saturday, she remained cancer free. She didn't do the rounds of chemotherapy that the Oncologist originally recommended, instead she went strait into Tamoxifen. She had done tons of her own research, and felt that, for her specific situation, the risks and side effects of chemo were more dangerous then beneficial. As it turns out, for a mastectomy, going strait to Tamoxifen is probably better than doing chemo first. Another few months and she ends her five years on Tamoxifen.
So, every Saturday we still have mom's waffles. And the best thing about them is that mom is still here to make them.
New followup. Tamoxifen is one of those miracle drugs that actually works to prevent breast cancer from reoccurring. However, like pretty much all drugs, it can have some nasty side effects. After 4 years of Tamoxifen it put mom into menopause, which at 55 she was pretty happy about. However, as soon as she stopped taking Tamoxifen, she started with her monthly visitor again, at the age of 56. She really wasn't happy about that. Shouldn't she be done with that by now? Not only did she start bleeding again every month, with stopping Tamoxifen, her hormones came back with a vengeance. She bled so bad one month, she needed a visit to the hospital for a blood transfusion. And a gynologic visit the next day. A biopsy showed endometrial cancer. It's one of the possible side effects of Tamoxifen. So another round of surgery and it looks like she's fully cured again.
And every Saturday we still have waffles.
The first two doctor visits, three and six months after surgery, were good. Mom had another visit to the doctor nine moths after surgery. But the doctor found something, a lump in her vigina. A biopsy, a visit to a radiologist with more painful poking and prodding, and a schedule to return for a pet scan. Then the results. The radioactive dye lit up on the screen in over a dozen places, including Lymph nodes and liver, Stage IV metastatic cancer. According to the doctor, mom has about one year left. Over seven years since first being diagnosed for breast cancer, I think she's going to give up this time.
I don't know what to say. I'm going to loose my mom, far too soon.
I wrote a poem about the doctor visit.
The Monster Within
Seeping, sneaking, unknown doom
Waiting in silence to go boom
A monster looking to sneak inside
Seeking in darkness a place to hide
Hiding in a most unwelcome place
A deadly secret concealing its face
Multiplying itself bit by fatal bit
It's cells in silence quickly split
A routine checkup quick in and out
I was fully healthy without a doubt
Then surprize it's my third time
That cancer's invaded like a crime
Never knowing that it's hiding there
Until at the pet scan I sadly stare
Spots yellow, green and red as I glare
On the screen is my worst nightmare
But how did it grow without me knowing
I look in the mirror nothing's showing
I never felt anything in me growing
Now the screen shows it isn't slowing
It's spread to here and spread to there
It looks like its growing every where
And my shocked mind needed an answer
As the doctor says metastatic cancer
How many months do I have left
Is my old age now lost to theft
Lost to the growing monster within
Relentlessly growing under my skin
.
It's now four months later, and mom's getting tired really fast now. Her appetite is like a bird's. She has trouble traveling much now, she can't be too far from a bathroom. I see her getting weaker day by day. I wrote another poem.
Day By Day
Oh, the darkness spreads, growing day by day
Sometimes a nap where never a nap there was
A growing lack of energy travels through the soul
Making each day a little bit less
The appetite declines, a little less day by day
The bit of pasta sits staring back at me
Prime rib used to fly off from the plate
Now each week food sits longer ignored
The insides a bit less comfortable day by day
Sleeping through the night is a memory of the past
Getting up repeatedly with innards rumbling
Making bed a more dreaded place
I know its growing uninterrupted day by day
Eating away a piece of me with each passing day
Making me less of who I used to be
How much longer will it last
After months of losing life, a bit day by day
Wishing it was all a dream that would end
There's not much left of me to keep up hope
Cancer slowly eating my life away
NEXT ---> Choices
