Santa is a Murderer

Unlike most children, I was probably the only kid in the world who wasn't at all disappointed to find out that Santa did not exist. In fact, if anything, I was a little relieved.

I never truly understood how, on one hand, our parents could ingrain the fear of God into us for talking to strangers, and yet, on the other, they'd force us to sit on some old man's lap while he promised us toys in exchange for telling him if we'd been good little boys or girls. Hmmm? Just how extensive is the background check on someone applying for the position of Mall-Santa? I think this warrants serious consideration because, let's face it, "Mall-Santa" would be a pedophile's dream job.

It wasn't my aversion to the obligatory Santa-photo that made me despise him. My deep-seated hatred for this old man developed at the age of five, when I learned a very unfortunate lesson: that which Santa giveth, he can easily taketh away. 

Terrace, B.C. 

I became privy to this lesson while my family and I were living in a remote area of northwestern British Columbia. Our modest house was enveloped by thick forest and was bordered by mountainous terrain. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and had it not been for Rudolph's shiny, luminous nose, I doubt Santa would have ever stood a chance in hell of finding us. This was, after all, long before Google Maps and GPS even existed. 

In the week preceding Christmas, my parents surprised my siblings and me with the best gift ever imaginable: a horse.  Of course, it was understood that this horse was a gift from Santa, even though it came one week early. 

This is how I remember her...

In keeping with the festive spirit, we named this majestic beauty "Holly." She was white with grey spots and was enormous compared to the four little children who danced excitedly around her shiny, black hooves. 

This is probably a more accurate
 representation of what she looked like.

Looking back, I am willing to bet that my parents purchased Holly on a whim. You didn't have to be a financial adviser to see that Holly wasn't their wisest investment. First of all, our property, though remote and rustic, was not conducive to raising anything larger than chickens and rabbits. And secondly, aside from a chicken coop, we had nothing capable of providing safe haven for Holly. Yep, I can pretty much guarantee that Holly was a few gallops away from the glue factory, and had it not been for my parents and the modest fee they paid for her, we would have probably made her acquaintance on an arts and crafts table instead of meeting her for the first time in our front yard.  

My dad, whose vocation was to construct things, set out to build Holly a stable. What started off as a "small project" for my father, the construction worker of yore, ended up taking a whole week of back-breaking labor. As fate should have it, Holly's stable was finally completed on Christmas Eve. 

Fat fucking sack of murder!!

We all watched with eager anticipation as Dad lead Holly into her own little home for the first time. Had it not been for our excitement about Santa's visit that night, we would have all slept more peacefully knowing that Holly was safe and sound in her stable, especially since large snowflakes were beginning to fall from the ominous winter sky...

and these large snowflakes continued to fall while my parents wrestled us into bed... 

they fell while my parents hurried to wrap the last of the gifts...

and they fell...

and fell...

and fell...

..until we all awoke on Christmas morn to what looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Outside our window was a pristine winter wonderland. Everything was buried under a thick blanket of snow, and nothing could be identified if you hadn't made a mental note of where it stood the night before.

Needless to say—visually—it was the picture-perfect Christmas morning. In reality, however, it was far from perfect. In fact, it would soon unravel to be the worst Christmas ever experienced by a child living in a developed nation. 

While we were busy unwrapping our gifts, Dad went out to check on Holly. Shortly after, he returned and summoned my mother into the kitchen. A great deal of time had passed before they both came out to the living room, each of them sporting a somber look.

"Ahem," my dad cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was about to have a breakdown. 

"Kids, we have something we need to tell you," said he, the man who went on to build tall skyscrapers for a living. 

This announcement didn't have enough punch to distract us from our gifts. 

"Ummm, kids...it appears as though Holly has gone to Heaven." All eight eyeballs were now fixed firmly upon him.

This evoked a battery of questions from four very confused children...

"Why? Didn't she like living with us?"...."Is she coming back?"...."Where's Heaven? Can we go see her?"..."Didn't she like her stable?"

And then came the one question that I am sure they were hoping to avoid...

"What happened? How did she die?" Of course, this question came from my older sister, Andrea, who actually understood that in order to get into Heaven, you first must die.  

In unison the rest of us asked, "She's dead???? How did she die???"  Again, the question they were trying so desperately to avoid. 

"Well," answered my father, hoping that my mom would chime in to answer; she did not. "Unfortunately, kids, the snow storm made it very difficult for Santa to land his sleigh."  

We all listened attentively, our eyes welling up with tears. 

"Santa misjudged his landing, and instead of landing on the house, he accidently landed on Holly's stable. The stable could not handle the weight of Santa and his reindeer, and it collapsed, killing Holly." And with that, the flood gates opened with a vengeance. 

This tragic event pretty much ruined the rest of the day. We'd each have moments— between consoling one another—when we'd play with our new toys, but it was difficult to appreciate a gift that was given to you by the man who had just flattened your horse. 

Thankfully, I only had a few more years of believing in Santa. But with the knowledge that he did not exist, so came the knowledge that my parents had lied about the details of Holly's death.

Dad helped build the Calgary Tower

For years I had to deal with the fact that our horse's stable—the one which my father had so carefully crafted—had really collapsed under the weight of the snow. This may not seem like a big deal, but later in life, when we would drive around Calgary, and my father would proudly point out all the high-rises he had played a huge part in building, I had no other choice but to pray that these buildings were built on sounder foundations than the one on which he had built Holly's stable. 

It has taken me a long time, but I have since forgiven my parents. As for Santa? That murdering dirt-bag is dead to me. 

Snow people make great friends. They melt.

Pinterest for Men

Totally using this on my girlfriend
the next time we have a fight!

Downloading this on my Kindle
tonight!

Must have this!

Hope this comes in a set!

Condom Christmas Wreath that screams,
"Hey, I'm a playa!"
Dude, totally making this!

Table centerpiece for game day.
Beer can with meatball flowers.
So easy to DIY!

Making this tonight!

Dude! Totally gonna use this as my
Christmas Card.

Giving Credit Where Credit's due. <--- Click on link. 

From Austin to Boston: Part Four - Better Late than Never

Part One, Part Two, and Part Three. 

Okay, I admit it... I suck. Whenever I find myself in a situation where someone expects something of me, I totally flake, which is why I will never be a real writer.

Yes, I know, this installment is way past due, but I blame Sally. She kept hounding me to post part four. The pressure, quite frankly, has been unbearable. I keep having these stress dreams in which I have to go back to finish high school because it is discovered that, due to some clerical error, I never really had the credits to graduate. Oh, and then there are the dreams where I keep losing my teeth. People, it is absolutely maddening, I tell ya. I have no earthly clue how Dickens or Hemingway ever did it. Well, granted, they both had an affinity for the drinky-drink, so maybe I kinda understand.

That said, I must apologize to all three of my readers. Sally, Terie, and googlebot: please forgive me. I give you part four... mostly in bullet format because I'm a lazy shit like that.

• We spend the whole day at the hospital with Anders and Sally. 
• In an effort to wean Anders off Sally's iphone, we play charades. 
• I brilliantly reenact Gob's chicken impression from Arrested Development.
• No one gets it because, OMG, they have not watched Arrested Development.
• I make a personal decision to cut ties with any friend who watches AD and doesn't think it's the BEST FUCKING SHOW EVER. If they don't get it, then they don't get me.
• Over the next twenty minutes, I force them to watch Gob's chicken dance on Youtube. 
• Because we are too distracted to notice, Anders has been playing on Sally's iphone the entire time. Oooops. 
• Sono tech enters room with a huge machine to do Anders' echo. I think he is kinda cute.
• Sono tech turns out to be a doctor doing his fellowship in pediatric cardiology. He just became, like, really fucking hot. 
• Echo does not yield the results we were hoping for. Anders will most likely have to go back for surgery. 
• The look on Sally's face is heartbreaking. 
• We solemnly gaze out the window while anticipating "Boston Snowstorm 2011," a storm so huge, CNN is covering it and even the locals are freaking out. 
• As nightfall approaches, we notice huge snowflakes fall from the ominous sky.
• We try to elicit Anders' interest in snow, but he couldn't care less. 
• Anders masters "Angry Birds" on the iphone that Sally is trying to wean him off of.  
• Terie and I leave well after visiting hours to brave the storm.
• Being the two northern girls that we are, we decide to walk back to the apartment. 
• We get about twenty feet out of the hospital's entrance when we decide that it is unwise to walk home in these conditions. My decision is based on my visual of Jack Nicholson's stiff, frozen body after he gets lost in the maze in "The Shining." I don't think Terie can visualize much of anything; her eyes are watering so much that I wonder if she is crying out of fear. Turns out, this is just a reaction to the cold. 
• We spend the next hour trying to hail a cab. Boston cab drivers are ASSHOLES.
• When we finally get home, Terie and I pull up two chairs in front of the huge window that overlooks Boylston Street.  
• We spend the next hour watching people dressed up for Halloween as they try to catch cabs to take them to their party destinations. Boston cab drivers are ASSHOLES. And, Oh My God, this is what we choose to do on a Saturday night... while on VACATION. We are getting old. 
• Before we go to bed, I say my prayers, which includes praying that we wake up to snowbanks the size of Mt. Rushmore in hopes of getting snowed in, thereby preventing us from returning to Austin for work. 
• Next morning: blue skies and a little bit of slush. Fuck! Does God ever answer prayers?
• We spend the morning with Anders and Sally. 
• As it is our last day, Sally insists that Terie and I go out to do some last minute sightseeing. 
• We head to the North End via the "T," thank you very much, because we are the effing gurus of public transportation.
• The North End is Boston's little Italy. 
• I am inspired to speak in an Italian accent. The. Entire. Time. Even while doing Gob's chicken dance.
• Terie gets annoyed.
• Pffft! What good are friends if you can't annoy them?
• We have appetizers at two different restaurants. 
• Benevento's... awesome, highly recommended.
• Rabia... not so much. Our lack of appetite could be due to the fact that we are full, or maybe it's because one of the "decorations" sitting on the window sill next to our table looks like this:

• Terie gladly schools me by informing me that this is called a gourd. I hate to make her feel stupid, but I am pretty sure this is a plasticized replica of Snooki's spray-tanned vagina. 
• Don't believe me?

• See? Told ja!
• After picking up Cannoli (it's the plural form, I swear. Look it up.) from Mike's Pastries, we head back to the hospital, where Sally dresses Anders up for Halloween, and where I proceed to wolf down an entire cannolo that Sally was convinced none of us would ever finish. 
• My fat jeans—bought for the trip to replace the skinny jeans that can no longer accommodate my fat ass—just became my new skinny jeans.
• Anders is dressed up as Mario. Can you say ADORABLE?

• Saddened by the news that Anders definitely needs to go back for a second surgery, we regretfully bid adieu to Sally and Anders.
• We hate to leave Sally in her time of need, but she assures us that Sarrah and Karen will be arriving tomorrow to take over our duty of being "supportive friends." 
• I'm happy they are going to be here for her, but I secretly hope that Terie and I have done a better job of keeping Sally's spirits up. 
• The day after we get home, we learn Anders is out of surgery and doing well. Yaaay!
• Dang it! Sally texts us to tell us that Karen just bought a gazzillion dollars worth of groceries so Sally and Anders will have food for when they return to the apartment. Who does she think she is, anyway? I wonder if Karen was brave enough to sneak wine past security, like Ter and I did, just so we could throw down in a children's hospital 'cuz that's how we do. 
• Determined not to be outdone by Mizz Oh-I-Just-Bought-You-A-Rotisserie-Chicken Karen, Terie and I send Anders this...

• What? Shut up! It was done in the name of happiness! Yeah, that's right, happiness. As in the happiness of a child... who just had OPEN-HEART surgery. So suck it!
• After sending this to Anders, who apparently watches it a thousand times groceries, smoceries, we get this in return...

But, wait, I must warn you: it's a little offensive. Viewer discretion is definitely advised. Grab your Valtrex, ladies and gents, 'cuz this shit's going viral!

The kid's got talent!

Update: Anders is doing awesome. The surgery was a success, which just goes to show ya, sometimes...

God does answer prayers.

Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste. 

From Austin to Boston: Part Three - Send in the Clowns

Part One and Part Two 

******

Is it horrible for me to admit that I can't decide what makes me happier: the fact that Anders' condition has improved, so he was discharged from ICU earlier this morning; or the fact that this new unit doesn't impose restrictions on the number of visitors he can have at any given time?

Okay, I'm going to be an asshole and say it: I'm just happy I won't be third man out, because even when I'm present, Terie and Sally are becoming, like, BFFs—right in front of my face, no less. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if I were stuck in the waiting room, unable to provide interference?  It would be all...Ooooh... "Sally, you like Haribo gummy bears, too? OMG, so do I! We have so much in common," or... ooooh... "Terie, thanks for cleaning up the room. You are so AWESOME," or... "Look, Anders, Terie bought you a Spider-Man action figure. Isn't Aunty Ter, Ter the best?"... and blah, blah, blah, OH MY GOD, I'm going to fucking puke rainbows and unicorns.

Despite their budding friendship, which resembles two lost kindred spirits reuniting after years of separation, I'm secure enough to know where I stand as a friend. I AM NEEDED, god damn it, and I will do anything to prove it! Which is why, when the nurse announces that it is important for Anders to pee, I over zealously volunteer to help him like I'm some kind of pedophile out on parole. Sally, suffering from a back injury, doesn't put up a fight. Like, at all.

Unfortunately, Anders not only makes peepee, but he also makes poopoo. This is considered great progress from a post-operative point of view, but to me, it is totally gag worthy. I don't complain, though, because I'm an AWESOME friend like that. And I don't complain when Sally asks me to help him a second time, either. The third time, however, I've gone from being Sally's loyal friend to being her bitch, and I am more than happy to let her new best friend assume the responsibility.

In our ardent efforts to keep Anders entertained, we do all the things that he loves to do. We play Uno, which, strangely enough, he keeps winning. Unbeknownst to me, Sally and Terie are letting him win.

I am not.

Because Anders is obsessed with all things booty, we let him smack our butts, and we do little dances while shaking our ass-ets like dancers in a rap video. And though we probably shouldn't be encouraging this behavior, we actually foster it, because guess what? The kid just had open-heart surgery and if this is what makes him happy, so be it.

Right around lunchtime, we notice two clowns walk by our room. Sally, unable to contain her excitement, tells the nurse that Anders would love a visit from the clowns. Terie and I, trying to suppress our excitement, are also eager for a visit from the clowns, 'cuz said clowns are flippin' hot. And it is this very admission that makes me stand back and ask myself, "How the hell did I get here?" And by "here," I mean the point in my life where I'm so sexually deprived, I am openly admitting in a blog post that I'm getting all hot n' bothered over a pair of clowns. I feel a little better knowing that Terie is also drooling over this dynamic duo. So is Sally, but she won't admit it.

When the clowns finally come to see Anders, he couldn't care less. Teri, Sally and I, on the other hand, sway to-and-fro in time with their silly songs, while joyously clapping our hands and laughing flirtatiously. We look like three adolescent girls swooning over Justin Bieber, except we have wrinkles and saddle bags, and the objects of our affections are clowns. Clowns!

After they leave, Terie and I create pretend lives for the clowns so as to make ourselves feel less pathetic about finding them attractive. We decide they are starving musicians who have to do the clown gig by day so they can hone their real craft by night.

It is Sally who finally suggests that Terie and I go do some sightseeing around Boston. "It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so why don't you guys go out and enjoy this beautiful day."

"Oh, Sally, we simply can't; we'd feel too guilty leaving you here at the hospital," we conscientiously reply.

"No, seriously, you guys g—"

"Well, OKAY! Only if you insist," we say, our voices trailing off because we're already halfway out the door.

Seconds later, we are in a cab, on our way to Newbury Street, a trendy street lined with novelty shops and eateries. Because we are trying to cram as much in as possible, we do some quick shopping and then decide to do appetizers and wine at a couple of different restaurants.

The first restaurant, Piattini Wine Cafe, is absolutely amazing. We share three appetizers and have a flight of wine each. Terie gives it two thumbs up:

Our next stop is Tapeo, where we are more impressed with the ambiance and the bartender than we are with the appetizers. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel deep in my core is a result of the wine, or if it's a response to the bartender's Latin American accent. But my heightened arousal to his accent reminds me of the time I went through this phase where I was intent on only dating guys with accents. This phase was inspired by the movie Unfaithful, a suspense thriller starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane, in which Lane has an adulterous affair with an incredibly sexy French man, who ends up getting his head bashed in with a snow-globe by Gere, Lane's jilted husband. Ooops, sorry. I guess announcing "spoiler alert" is a moot point.

Anyway, this intense desire to date a guy with an accent landed me in a one night relationship with a French Canadian guy, who, in his drunken state, mistakenly confused my bathroom drawer for a toilet. Needless to say, the relationship ended poorly the next morning when I found my makeup drenched in piss. It was hardly the Diane-Lane-experience I had been hoping for.

With nightfall fast approaching, Terie and I brave the subway system... translation: the nice security guard maps out our route and also helps us buy tickets from the electronic ticket dispenser. As Terie so accurately puts it, "You'd think we were two girls fresh off the farm."

Our next stop is Sweet Caroline's, a newer restaurant that is located a block down from our apartment. Having both eaten to the point where we could puke, we decide to only order wine.

After a couple of glasses, we discuss how cute Anders is and how we feel terrible for abandoning Sally. To make up for it, we write, produce, direct and star in the following videos...

Ladies and gents, send in the clowns:

After sending them to Sally, we get this in return:

Sally texts us to tell us that Anders loved the videos, and he watched them over and over again, all the while laughing. 

For some reason, I am quite content in knowing that we were able to make Anders laugh, especially when he didn't even crack a smile for the clowns. Perhaps Terie and I have missed our calling. 

To be continued...

From Austin to Boston: Part Two - Butt I Wanna Go First!

⇈ That title up there will hopefully make sense by the end of this post. If it doesn't, I can't help it if you are not as profound thinking as I.

This will make more sense if you read Part One first. Oh, c'mon. What else are you going to do tonight?

*****

Terie and I arrive in Boston midafternoon on Wednesday. Eager to get to the hospital, we catch a cab to the apartment. Yes, that's right, we stay in an apartment 'cuz that's how we roll. Okay, fine, it's the apartment that Sally has rented for her month's stay in Boston. 

At the apartment, we find Sally's mom, Anthea, waiting for us. She and her husband Grog, Sally's dad, have been staying with Sally as a show of support. I adore Sally's parents. The fact they are British only solidifies my love for them because, as we all know, I love me some Brits. I really wish I'd been born in the U.K.. Though my mom denied it until she was blue in the face (that seems like a horrible idiom, considering I really did watch her turn blue in the face) I'm pretty sure I was conceived in England, but that would have meant my mom and dad played the "Lock-n-Key" game before they were married; hence, my mother's need to deny it vehemently.

After our initial salutations, Anthea gives us a quick tour of our swank accommodations, and then she takes us to the hospital. The hospital is in walking distance from the apartment, which is a good thing because a) we don't have a car, and b) the walk will give us a chance to burn off some of the calories we are likely to consume over the next five days. (Update: we consume a lot.) Anthea clearly takes Terie and me for two girls who are incapable of curbing their caloric intake, because she is intent on pointing out the Burger King that is conveniently located on our way to the hospital. Can't blame her, really. I have, after all, gained like three of me since we last saw each other.  

As we walk, I notice that Boston has a very scholarly feel to it. Perhaps it's all the college-aged people carrying their attache cases, scurrying to get coffee before their next lectures. Or maybe it's because I'm reminded of Good Will Hunting (yes, I know, MIT is located in Cambridge, but I'm hardly a stickler for details, people). Whatever it is, it makes me want to go back to school. I'm sure this feeling will pass once I get back to Austin. (Update: it does.)

When we arrive at Boston Children's Hospital, we meet up with Sally and Grog. Anders remains in the ICU, where only two people can visit at a time. I'm really eager to see him, so I get to go first, leaving Terie in the waiting room with Anthea and Grog. 

When I see Anders, my heart melts. It's difficult seeing anyone when he or she is sick, but seeing a child who is sick, especially one you love, is unbearably sad. Like, Million-Dollar-Baby sad.

What's even more touching is seeing Sally interact with Anders. I've always considered Sally an excellent mother, but seeing her in this light makes me regard her as the Mother Teresa of mothers... but without the hymen. She is one of the most caring and loving people I know. (Snap! She is going to love this paragraph.)

I spend some time with Anders, who isn't talking much at all—most likely a result from having been extubated earlier in the day. Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Grog has convinced Terie to buy a MacBook Air. What is it with these Grogonos and their ability to persuade people into using Macs? I became a convert, myself, after living with Sally years ago. I swear the lot of them are vested in the company. 

Because it is getting late, and Anders is drifting in and out of sleep, we decide to bid farewell to Sally and Anders. Sally declines my offer to stay the night with Anders so that she can go back to the apartment for a good night's sleep. She refuses to leave him... understandably so. 

This is a more lucid Anders later that evening, after we left. 

Sally's parents take Terie and me out for a drink to a sports bar a block down from the apartment. And by drink, I mean one each, because we are not about to get crazy-drunk in front of Sally's parents. The last time I got drunk with a bunch of Brits, I ended up making a total ass of myself and regretting it deeply. 

After a pleasant evening of appetizers, beer, and a candid conversation about Sally's childhood, we head back to the apartment. Because Anthea and Grog are flying home in the morning, we retire for the night. But only after a quick picture... okay, more like six pictures; I couldn't figure out how to work the flash. 

Terie, Anthea, Steve Jobs, and Me.

With them in one room, Terie and I have to share a bed in the other, which means we stay up whispering, taking care not to disturb them, while muffling our giggles like a couple of school girls at a slumber party.

For some reason, we get to talking about The Human Centipede, a morbidly disturbing movie about a psycho killer who sews his three victims together, connecting them by their mouths and their butts. It's one of those disgusting conversations that is absolutely pointless—one that women our age shouldn't be having. But hell, we are on our holidays. (This same excuse is uttered repeatedly over the next couple of days, every time I shove something fattening down my gullet or imbibe something that will likely damage my liver.)

We eventually laugh ourselves to sleep while contemplating who in the centipede chain is worse off. Clearly, it is the middle person. Right, Ter? I mean, we all know that the person who is first in the chain got the better end of the deal. No ifs, ands, or butts about it. 

Little do we know, thanks to a four-year-old boy, this is the first of many conversations we will have over the next week that is focussed around butts. In fact, the "derrière" will fast become the theme of our trip to Boston. 

To be continued...

From Austin to Boston: A Series

Last week, my friend, Terie, and I took a little jaunt up to Boston to support our other friend, Sally, whose son was having open-heart surgery. Allow me to provide you with the condensed version of Anders' (Sally's son's) condition... in layman's terms, of course:

• 2007: Sally is 22 weeks pregnant with her second son. She is an OB-Gyn doctor, so, having easy access to an ultrasound machine, she does weekly sonos in her office because she is a hypochondriac.
• Nurses in L&D say, "Sally, quit being so paranoid. Enough with the weekly ultrasounds, already."
• Sally doesn't listen. See Sally be defiant. 
• Sally's sonographer notices something wrong with her baby's heart. 
• Sally goes to specialist. It's not good. Like, it's really bad. 
• Sally is given the option of terminating the pregnancy because her baby is going to end up with a one-chambered heart (there are supposed to be four) which is incompatible with life, or she can go to Boston and have intrauterine surgery (surgery performed on fetus while in the womb— I know, right? Friggin' unbelievable).
• Sally chooses Boston. Yaaay, Sally, for making the best decision EVER!
• Nurses in L&D, myself included, feel like total assholes because, for once, Sally's hypochondriacal behavior pays off. Unlike like the time she did a myriad of tests to determine if she had MS, only to find out she was tired (story for another blog). 
• Sally goes to Boston, has surgery, and her baby's heart is repaired. Yaaay, modern medicine! 
• Sally has her baby in Boston, where they do another open-heart surgery on Anders right after delivery.
• Anders returns home with Sally a month later and spends the rest of his recovery in our neonatal ICU.
• Anders' case makes it on national news, and Sally is interviewed by Sunjay Gupta. 
• Rachel (me) does not get interviewed, but I guess taking care of your best friend's other son while his mother and father are in Boston isn't worthy of national attention. Screw you, CNN. Whatever.
• Anders grows into a beautiful little boy who can make your heart melt with just a smile and a smack on the butt.

The first time I went to Boston was two years ago when I accompanied Sally and Anders. Anders had a bunch of appointments to test the function of his heart, so we decided to make a trip out of it. Unfortunately, it was deathly cold, and aside from going back and forth to the hospital, we didn't do too much. Oh wait, I lie. We did do a historical tour, which included some graveyard. Sally pointed out that it was the graveyard in which Paul Revere was buried, and I was all incredulous and, like, "The guy from 'Mad About You'? He's dead?" To which she replied, "That's Paul Reiser, you idiot." Whatever. I grew up in Canada, so American history isn't my forte. It's not like Sally can tell me where Louis Riel is buried, much less who Louis Riel was. Yeah, that's right. Who's the history buff now, Sally? 

So, last week, while I was still in Austin, I talked to Anders on the phone a couple of nights before his surgery. I asked him if he was excited to see me and he said, "Yeah. When you get here, I'm gonna spank your butt!" I could hear Sally in the background saying, "No, Anders, that is not a nice thing to say," because, apparently, she is trying to get him passed the "Anal Stage" on Freud's spectrum of development, where butt and potty humor is the epicenter of his existence. Unlike Sally, I revel in this stage, not because I'm some kind of perv who likes her butt spanked by a four-year-old, but because I like to encourage my four-year-old, male friends to be chauvinistic oink, oinks. I figure if they get it out of their systems at a young age, they will grow up to be respectable men who don't find pleasure in farting on cue or smacking ladies' asses as they walk by. Oh, and I find it fucking hilarious, but that's just between you and me. Shhhh!  Don't tell Sally. 

So, as I mentioned, Terie and I ventured up to Boston. On an airplane. I hate airplanes. But I've decided that my fear of flying is somewhat quelled when someone I know is on the plane with me. I guess dying in an plane crash isn't all that bad if you have a friend with you. Death is kinda like misery: it loves company. 

Wow, this is getting, like, John Holms (I spelled that wrong so you don't think I'm into porn) long, so I am going to make this into a series. If you're interested, the subsequent posts will include the following: how Anders recovers after his surgery; how Sally takes advantage of my being a nurse by assigning me to help Anders poop and pee post-operatively; how two sex-deprived, single girls in a big city act like a pair of dogs in heat; how Anders' obsession with butts and farts inspires an entire video catalog. 

I vow to not be lazy and to actually follow through with this. In the meantime, Sally and Anders, I love you both. Somewhere in the near future, this will all be a memory. Prayers, hugs, healing thoughts, and big butts to you both. xo

Anders 2007

I Think I Ordered a Tall, Skinny Crotchuccino, But I Can't Remember

I am going to start off by saying this: yes, I can understand how, in the past, there may have been certain situations where I came across as being somewhat of a hypochondriac. However, given my family's long history of cancer, I feel I have worrying rights.

Okay, yeah, I admit, there was that one time when I may have slightly overreacted by thinking I had the West Nile virus after chewing a piece of expired—like, last-decade-expired—Nicorette gum. Hello? I was dizzy, diaphoretic, nauseated and disoriented. I may have had a high fever. Or not. Who knows? I didn't have a thermometer at the time, so shoot me. What the hell else was I supposed to think? At the time, the media was shoving the bird flu—oh, wait... no... was it SARS? Crap, I can't remember. But let's just say I've had a shit-load of (non-sexually transmitted) infectious diseases, it's a wonder I'm still alive. Okay, come to think of it, they may have been just hangovers, but whatever.

I, personally, don't consider myself a hypochondriac so much as I consider myself a person who is just really in tune with her body. Like this one time, for instance, I knew there was something up with my ovary—something other than mittelschmerz. Remember that, coworkers? Do you remember how I left in the middle of work on a Sunday to have Sally, my friend/doctor, take me over to her office to do a sonogram—the invasive, violating kind—and she found a 4cm cyst on my ovary? And do you remember how when I showed you the pictures of my 4CM OVARIAN CYST, you guys did that little twirly thing in the air with your index fingers and rolled your eyes and you were all, like  "Big Whoop! It's a 4cm cyst!" But see?  I knew there was something growing on my ovary. Granted, it wasn't a tumor like I had originally suggested, but I knew something was awry. Why? Because I'm HIGHLY IN TUNE WITH MY BODY.

Oh, and another thing? When Gainer's cyst ruptured, she had to go to the E.R. for pain management. Not me. I was all, like... Cyst's gone. That was easy! Which means I probably have a very high pain threshold, which means I could probably give birth without an epidural. Actually, on second thought, I'm going to retract that last statement, on the chance I end up pregnant from all the heterosexual sex I'm going to be having because I need to prove to my family that, despite their suspicions, I'm not gay. Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, but I'm not. I'm just a single, independent woman in her ____ties, who is really, really picky commitment-phobe with daddy issues. 

So, anyway, on my way to work today, I spilled coffee on my crotch. Thank God it wasn't scalding hot. With it being a balls-to-the-wall busy kind of day, I didn't pee until after I got home from work. So, as I'm sitting on the toilet, I'm thinking... Wowzer, I must be really dehydrated because my pee smells just like coffee. Imagine my fear when I looked down at my undies and saw this gigantic, rust-colored stain. In that split second, my brain consulted its own internal Web-MD and came up with three different diagnoses:

1) Sally misdiagnosed my cyst a couple of months back, and I really do have ovarian cancer. Fuck, I'm a goner.  

2) It's probably bladder cancer from all the times I've held my urine at work for hours on end.

3) Judging by the odor, I likely have Maple Syrup Urine disease.  

Like any other time I've self-diagnosed, I had to employ my big-gun-assessment skills, so I moved in for the obligatory sniff test...

*sniff, sniff*  Holy Christmas, that definitely smells like coff—oh, wait a sec... it is coffee!

Phew! Thank God I solved that little mystery, because now I'm deeply troubled by the fact that I could spill coffee on myself at 6:30 a.m. (okay, 6:45—I was running late) and forget about it by two o'clock in the afternoon. That's not normal. It can only mean one thing...

I have Early-onset Alzheimer's, which would also explain why I can't remember going on a date with this guy...

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this picture proves that I'm as straight as they come!

Things I've Learned From this Process

I'm forcing myself to stay awake tonight because I'm too scared to go to sleep. I can't stop counting her respirations,* especially when she goes from these deep, rhythmic inhalations to... nothing. Right before I lean over to do a sternal rub on her, she takes a deep breath in, which, thank God, allows me to exhale a deep sigh of relief. Does sternal rub count as a form of resuscitation?

Anyway, to occupy my mind, I've been reflecting back on what these last three weeks have taught me. Sorry, guys, per usual, I am going to be brutally honest. Love me or hate me, whatever.

1) According to my mother, I am not a real nurse. This was brought to my attention a couple of weeks ago while I was bathing her.**

Mom: You are so good at this, Rachel. You should have become a real nurse.

Me: Mom, I am a real nurse, but thanks just the same. 

Mom: Ohhh, that's not what I meant. You should be taking care of sick people. 

I felt it futile to go into detail about how women in labor can be just as demanding (and with good reason) as any sick patient can be. All that matters, though, is that Mom thinks I'm good at this.

2) Time of death, like time of birth, cannot be predicted. We were told by her doctors that she had only "a couple of weeks." That was three and a half weeks ago. I'm not complaining, but with each new day, it is getting more difficult to see her like this.

3) This has been the most difficult patient assignment I have ever been given. Maybe it's because she is not a "patient" and I'm not really her nurse. But as a nurse, and as her daughter, I can't stand back and let anyone else care for her (except for my niece Aimee, who has been incredible, and my sister Andrea). That said, this has also been the most rewarding assignment I have ever encountered... Mom thinks I'm really good at it.

4) This sucks.

5) In the beginning, I underestimated how evil cancer actually is. Mom was doing so well for so long that I actually thought she was going to be a medical miracle and beat it. WRONG!! This evil parasite has reduced my mother to skin and bones. It has eaten away at her body and her spirit. Her eyes are now vacant and her body is slowly withering away into a vessel that, at one time, held her soul. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy.

WOW, THIS SHIT IS GETTING DEEEPRESSING. Let's lighten things up a bit, shall we?

6) After this experience, dying in a plane crash—my biggest fear—seems like a trip to Disneyland... on shrooms (providing you're not the paranoid type).***

7)Vancouver Island is God's garden, which would explain all the rain it gets. But it seems to me that God is too busy watering his flower beds to answer prayers.****Ooops, probably shouldn't have just typed that, but considering anger is part of the grieving process, I think I'm permitted at least one blasphemous comment.

8) I could really get into running again—okay, jogging... okay, shifting my weight from one foot to the other in a pace that is slightly faster than a walk— if it weren't for the feeling that my ass, stomach and breasts are being ripped away from my body with each painful step. Oh, and then there's the weather. Jogging here is pleasant. Jogging in Austin is like running through hell in a snowsuit.

9) In times of need, family can be just what you need... but they can also drive you bat-shit-crazy!

10) If it weren't for all my friends, there is no way in hell I could have ever endured this without pharmacological help, which reminds me...

Last week, Mom encouraged us to start thinking about things of hers we want. I can't really take too much stuff back home due to luggage restrictions, so I'm keeping it simple by only taking things that are really important to me. I've stashed away some of her writing, poems and old photographs of her. She was absolutely stunningly beautiful. Like, movie-star-beautiful!

Oh, yeah, and sibs? Providing there's any left, I've also got dibs on these...

*Imagine that... a nurse actually counting respirations!
**This wasn't a George Costanza sponge bath moment, so get your mind out of the gutter!
***Realizing I still have to get home via air travel, I would like to retract this statement. I am not putting it out in the universe that a plane crash would be fun, and given the next footnote, God is probably pissed at me. 
**** Sorry, God, I didn't mean to offend you. The flowers here are absolutely beautiful. Good job! Too bad my mother looks like she needs some watering and some good nutrients, but whatever!