How Old Am I?

I’m at the age where I stand up and fart… where I run around looking for my glasses that are on my head while holding my phone in my hand, asking Siri to find my phone. …When I watch TV and think, “she didn’t really need to use language.”

The other day, I was trying to debate what to pack for work when I saw a jar of olives. Uncertain as to whether they were pitted or not, I ate one. To my dismay, there were pits and all I could think was, the ladies I dine with are too young for me to be spitting it into my hand every three bites. Worse than that, I opted for store brand saltines and all that I was really missing was the “hospital” sized pitcher for my juice.

My body has also informed me in other ways as to how old I am… simply when I sit to urinate. Often I look around for my great aunt Tillie only to realize… it’s my vajaj that no longer smells like sunshine and roses. Also, sometimes after I’ve gone to the bathroom first thing in the morning, minutes later I have to go again. I learned that the hard way when I was brushing my teeth just minutes after my initial sissy, when that “feeling” came upon me. I thought to myself, I just went… this can’t be more than a drop… when in fact it was! Needless to say, I go twice within a span of 15 minutes.

The only thing on my body that’s not dehydrated is my nose and all day long I’m pulling tissues from my two sizes too big bra just to stop it from running.

Now you may be stopping to pause and wonder: why not get bras that fit?… Where else would I store my airpods, house key, money and pillbox?

Lastly, I’m the age where I have zero kegel muscles and urinate in public spaces (kitchen/street) all because I thought I could wait.


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Get In The Car!

It was just meant to be an innocent passing of gas. As I’ve told you, I had taken stool softeners; the maximum amount to assure delivery. Anyhow, I had finally convinced my middle child to drive to the other side of town for my $2 bag of cucumbers and all was fine until I felt my stomach gargle.

Gently leaning towards my child, I thought I was just having a bit of gas when I realized I’d made an error. At that point, we were halfway to the other side of town and to turn back would have caused me greater angst.

Pleading with my middle to run into the market whence we got there was futile. She was having none of it and I had to make a quick decision: call my mother or take my chance that my kid would go inside for me.

As my mother joined us en route to the market, I realized that perhaps the shart I experienced was not as bad.

Noticing the bag of dry cleaned shirts in the trunk, I told my daughter to give me her sweatshirt and put on one of her father’s shirts, so that we could at least venture to the outside portion of the store, while my mother was inside buying produce.

*Things to note: the entire car ride middle was hysterically laughing and her movements were labored.

Carefully, I climbed out of the car to examine the damage and as I thought, not as bad. Together we were walking towards the flowers- me legs crossing over one another carefully… when I noticed my child try and “tie a knot” in her father’s newly dry cleaned shirt. With one hand trying to get her attention, (as the other hand secured her sweatshirt) she couldn’t stop laughing at my gait, that she informed me she was currently urinating.

I tried my best to “freeze” in the oh shit position… but it was to no avail.

Needless to say, I’ll be paying full price for my wares from now on.

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Come On Already!

Not that tonight is any different but my stool softener finally kicked in after two days. Now, all would be well and done but hubby put the washer and dryer in my bathroom and Mondays are hectic with laundry. Add to that, our Peleton is in there as well and… well…

Hubby: (shirt up to his eyes; quickly walks in to get something and gets out) Gd dammit! How many times have I told you to flush the toilet? It’s like living in a prison in my own house! You don’t get to shit ten times a day just because you’re on chemo! You’re like a rabbit that just shits and shits! I can’t take it just shit in the downstairs bathroom already! This is a public bathroom! I just can’t believe it already! I’m going to get an industrial sized exhaust fan like they have at the Eagles’ stadium; that’s what I’ll do!

Daughter: (walks in; looks of disdain) You have no self-respect do you? This is everybody’s bathroom now!

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Can You Repeat That?

The other day while checking into chemo with my mother, the woman at the front desk sent me to have my vitals taken by nurse dumb fuck. You know, the one who called out my 158 when I was standing backwards on the scale… now known as dumb fuck.

DF: Have a seat so I can get your vitals.

Me: (sitting) (fucking annoyed while looking up at my mother)

DF: Okay, give me your left forefinger for oxygen levels.

Me: (reliving the moment)

DF: Now which arm do you want your blood pressure taken?

Me: I don’t care.

DF: 110/70… you’ve got good genes.

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The problem once again is, I look white, and so anyone that doesn’t know me, assumes that I’m not Jewish. No matter where I am, I am given well wishes for all sorts of holidays- even though there are other holidays simultaneously happening.

The other week, while receiving treatment, I was asked what I was planning for Easter. The nurses and patrons were all discussing their baskets and plans, and I just said that I was going to be with family. I was going to be with family, just not celebrating Easter.

My response was met with a questioning look, since I had nothing further to add as the others did.

Then, the other day while at a fitness center, again, everyone was discussing Easter- in fact, the manager had “hidden” candy all over the place for everyone.

Now, I consider myself a learned woman and I know the meaning of the holiday and its symbolic elements. Easter is the second biggest holiday for Christians, to Christmas. In fact, I know about a lot of non-Jewish and non-Christian holidays because I like to understand and growing up that’s what I learned about in school.

Anyhow, when it was my turn to go back, I was greeted and when asked how my Easter was, I started to say, “it was good….” but then decided I didn’t want to pretend anymore, and added “but I celebrate Passover.”

*No, I didn’t feel better saying something, because as I expected, there was no follow up.

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My people have informed me over the past year that I should still have a primary physician. I let them know that my oncologist is essentially that; why else would I see a “regular” doctor??

This evening, I realized why my primary doctor is important.

Me: (on phone with bubbie) Did you see what’s in My Chart?

Bubbie: I did…. that reminds me, I need to schedule my mammogram around your schedule.

Me: (Hmm… when did I last have that?) Do I still need that? I mean, does it really matter?

Bubbie: Yes mommom, it matters.


Me: I need to schedule a mammogram.

Hubby: You don’t schedule it; you need a script.

Me: Who gives me that?

Hubby: Your primary.

…. And then it hit me; they give me my scripts for both mammogram and gyno! GD help me for what awaits.

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You Want A Piece Of Me?

Could you imagine trying to plan a dinner reception and having to go to a different market for each item? Think about it: the Super Fresh for chicken, the Giant for seasoning, Wegmans for dessert… It would be insane!

Now that you’ve got that scenario in your head, that is what I have to do every six weeks… and that fine rotation starts soon!

Here is a typical schedule for someone starring in this shit show:

Monday: Brain MRI

Tuesday: Brain results

Wednesday: Bloodwork in the a.m.

Wednesday: CT of the spine in p.m.

Thursday: Chemo and results

Friday: MRI of the Thoracic spine

Monday: MRI of the cervical spine

Monday: PM results of Thoracic

Tuesday: MRI of the lumbar area

Tuesday: PM results from cervical

Wednesday: results of cervical

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Signed, Sealed

Well, my two confidants and I have become investors in a shared property on the Mainline. It’s new construction actually and while my mother’s good friends will just be around the bend, I found out my psychiatrist and her husband will be in the gated community next to our’s.

That’s right, my mother, hubby and I committed to setting up camp at the local cemetery and we’ll be surrounded by many of our synagogue’s finest.

Now, last we discussed, I was not wanting to spend eternity with the mister, but he pointed out that he will not be marrying anyone else (thanks to the joyous home I’ve provided) and reminded me that it was he, who originally wanted to someday be there.

Despite everyone always telling me that I could die tomorrow by car or so and so could have a heart attack tomorrow… it’s assumed the odds are in my favor.

Interestingly enough, I learned that when purchasing plots with others, when the first one kicks the can, the rest must pay up in full prior to the burial. …Add to the fact that I’m the one with the least in my wallet… well, whatever order it shall be, so be it.

*Just note that I would prefer the center of the two plots so I could have my cake and eat it too.

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We Good

Somebody will always have something better than you and somebody will always have something that is worse. Today, I found the worse.

While sitting in laser with my daughter, I was talking to the technician about her family. Her daughter has 22 Q-11 (google it). In short, her daughter has tons of developmental delays and mental health issues. Although she is 19 years in age, mentally she is but six. Additionally, the tech is single and has other children to raise.

So, though I may be feeling down in the dumps with my middle child in terms of her functioning outside of our zip code, I will take that any time.

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Too Young To Remember

I remember nothing of my mother from my childhood except for a feeling. I can remember if she was angry or mad, but if I had to think back to when I was fifteen, I don’t remember her. Now, there are moments of sporadic memories- and if I were to look at a photo I may for a blip, be able to recall that event- but how I felt about my mother or things she used to say? Nada.

To go a step further, even when I was say, 22 years old, I don’t remember my mother during that time in my life. Nothing significant or stuck worthy…

I can recall when my grandfather had a heart attack… but nothing specific in terms of conversations or even feelings of my mother- yet I know that I loved her.

In fact, I can’t even think back to 4 years ago where I remember conversations or events of significance with my mom- including just a kiss she gave me. I know she did… but I don’t remember the feeling or exact memory.

My children are 11, 14 and 15- they’ll remember when I was diagnosed and they’ll remember I yelled a lot, but only if one of them were to remind the other. My son will have the least recollection of me.

This is what I think about. All the time.

So when people ask me why I would ever want to uproot my place of business which is conveniently located in my backyard, it is in the hopes that one memory that I make with my son, sticks.

*Before I hear from everyone that I’ll be around for a long time… your long and mine are not even on the same road so, stfu.

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