"It's bothering me!"

Sorry for the gaps between posts, dear ones.

Life has been a bit hectic lately--well let's be honest, it's been hectic since May. So I haven't had as much energy or creative juices to write some truly jarring and politically incorrect blog posts. I do apologize and hope you accept it as sincere.

Since not much has changed since my last post (well...certain things have, but I'm not willing to divulge specifics yet. Stay Tuned :) ) I thought I'd write about something that I found truly hilarious and very typical in my house.




After spending 5 days in the ICU after her double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery, my mother was finally able to come home. She was healing "beautifully" and the cancer is generalized to the area they removed (although she still needs to do a round of chemotherapy).

I have never been so happy to see my mother hobble in our front door, and I think she felt the same way. While my dad went to the pharmacy to pick up her MANY pain meds, my mom settled in on the couch and seemed at peace. I did everything I could to make her as comfortable as I could--even made her 3 different kinds of soup, because after a bite of the first two she decided she didn't like them--but all she truly wanted was to get into her own bed and go to sleep. Which she couldn't do until my dad got home so we could get her up the steps.

So she waited and waited, staring down our front door. She was anxious and excited, and also wanted my dad to "hurry the fuck up," so she could get into her big, comfy bed. Suddenly the doorknob turned and opened. My mom was up off the couch so fast, you wouldn't have known she just had major surgery 5 days before. It was almost funny--like a little kid waiting at tops of the steps on Christmas morning.

We got her up into bed, surrounded her with pillows on all sides, and she let out a huge sigh of relief.

"You don't know how good this feels," she said with a lazy smile on her face. We laughed and tucked her in extra tight, after which my dad went back downstairs. My mom then turned to me and asked if I would lay with her for awhile. I was happy to oblige. I cuddled in next to her, and she took her hand in mine. It felt great to have her home.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I turned over I felt a big empty space next to me. I opened my eyes to find my mother.

Up, and out of bed with a sock in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other.

Polishing and dusting my dad's dresser.

"What the hell are you doing," I laughed.

"It's bothering me," as she looked back at me, with the face of a little child getting caught in the cookie jar. She continued to spray and polish at a feverish pace, knowing I was about to end her party.

I got out of bed and de-Pledged her saying, "You're nuts. Only you would try and clean while your body is literally sewn together. Get back in bed." She took the sock off her hand and begrudgingly laid back down. I then removed all cleaning products from her room, knowing it was too big of a temptation for her.

I spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging the pictures on her wall, as she gave orders from her bed about where they should be.

It finally happened.

My mother has officially turned into her mother.
And all it took was losing her boobs.

My Mom's Angel

The last few days have been undeniably hard.

My mother had a double mastectomy on Friday (October 24th) at Fox Chase Cancer Center. She was in surgery for over 12 hours as they removed both of her breasts, and reconstructed them from fat tissue from her stomach. Her body was butchered in every sense of the word. And we tensely waited in the surgical waiting room for close to 16 hours. Every door that opened, every footstep heard coming down the hall, every telephone ring made us jump. The surgery ended with no complications around 9pm and the first thing she asked once awake was, "Where are my girls?"

Still makes me cry thinking about it.

We weren't able to see her for more than a few minutes--basically to give her a kiss goodnight--but we returned early the next morning, armed with pink roses. And even though she was groggy and in a lot of pain, she was all smiles for us.

The last two days have been up and down--yesterday she was in a lot of pain and couldn't get comfortable. It was awful to watch--all I wanted was to take the pain away. But they also had her up and walking, which was astonishing. My mom is a true fighter and has the strength of a warrior.

I realize now, writing this, how lucky she is. How lucky we all are that my aunt--on her deathbed--urged her to go get a mammogram. My mom had been neglecting her own health in the last few years because she was so concerned about her. I thank God that she listened to her. My aunt saved her life because they caught it early. We were surrounded by others in that waiting room who weren't as lucky. Who will have long battles ahead with a lot of bad news.

It's truly scary to think about how close she was--the tumors were right in her armpit, inches from lymph nodes. If she had waited any longer, the outcome would be drastically different.

We truly have someone watching over us on the other side. And I know she's with her even now. Thanks Aunt Annie for protecting her and filling her with strength.

 Love you.

Kicked in the Nuts and the Woman Equalitive

My life has been a complete whirlwind the last few months. Or as my Dad says, "We are being kicked in the nuts over and over again." Obviously, I am a female and I do not have nuts. The only female comparison I can compare to this rational is being punch in the boob during certain times of the month.

Or a mammogram; where a heavy steel plate is slammed into your boob over and over again.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

And as I make that comparison, I realize it's pretty fitting for what my family is going through at the moment.

About a month ago, my mom revealed to us that her doctor found something in her right breast during her annual mammogram. And being the person my mother was, she had known for quite awhile and waited to tell us until she had conclusive results; which she now had. She has 3 lumps in her breast, all of which are cancerous.

Are you imagining that foot retracting slowly, then forcefully thrusting forward towards your nuts? Yeah after the summer we just had, it's pretty good imagery.

Obviously, we were all very upset. But that quickly turned to extreme anger.

How is this fair?
Haven't we suffered enough?
Given enough?
Lost enough?
Grieved enough?

We just watched my Aunt--my mom's sister and the closest person to her and us--die after a horrific battle with cancer, only to now watch my mother potentially go through the same thing. I know people say life isn't meant to be fair, but Jesus God this is a lot to handle!

But....I think what we went through this summer has mentally prepared us for this; a hard-won lesson, but meant to prepare us for future hardship. We've been through this--the worst of it in fact--and we know what to expect. We know we need a game plan. We know we need a stress-free environment and positive energy around her. And we know the road is going to be tough. But we are strong; stronger because of what we went through. I'm actually pretty proud of how we have all taken this news; yes we cried and were very upset, but we got it out of our systems and now are on survival and positivity mode. We are not dwelling on what could be, but focusing on recovery. It's the only thing we can do at this point.

My mom will be having a mastectomy and immediate reconstructive surgery on the 24th. It was a hard decision for her to make--one that my Dad wasn't too happy with at first--but it's the best preventative for future reoccurrences. It's an 8-hour long surgery, which blows my mind a bit. She doesn't let on, but I know she's scared--more for us than herself. I catch her every so often just staring into space with a sad look on her face, and I know what she's thinking and I know the only person in the world who could ease her mind isn't here. And it's the one person she needs more than anything. It kills me that she isn't here to talk her through this. But I know she'll be holding her hand through the surgery. At least I hope.

I'm not going to say, "I hope things turn around soon," because I've learned better. Once one thing ends, something else comes creeping up to replace it. It's a constant circle. Instead, I hope we continue to stand strong and be what my mom needs. And if anything else happens--which most likely it will--we'll continue to face it together.

And ice our nuts thoroughly for the next swift kick.

100th Post

When I opened my blogger page this morning, I came to the stark realization that my next post would be my 100th. I had one of those "WOW! Holy Shit!" moments because I definitely did not realize this would my 100th, which yes is a pretty big deal. I started reading through some of my previous blogs, which made me semi-sentimental, laugh a bit at my stupidity and pretty proud. Proud because I mainly started this blog as an outlet for my writer's frustration and my angst towards life in general. But, in the process it has become something quite different.

For me at least.

I've found this whole other writing world that has really helped me through some pretty hard shit. Yes, I admit most of my blogs have to do with my dating life because that was important in my life. But there are also some great original stories and funny little life-isodes that I think many can relate to. I also feel like I have a genuine voice--like my writing is honest and direct. Not flowery or overly dramatic--unless I am purposely trying to be, of course. I am 100% myself on this blog because I have no censorship or have to worry about pissing anyone off. This is truly my own little safe-haven. One that I have come to cherish.

Now I know you must be thinking that I should write something epic because it's my 100th. That I have this whole plan and synopsis in my head, that will truly blow your mind and change your life forever.

Honestly, I don't.

It's currently 8:40 am on the Wednesday after Irish Weekend and I am still trying to recover from binge drinking for the last 4 days. Yes, there are a great many stories from the last weekend that I could divulge, but I am choosing not to. Maybe in a week or two I will, but right now I just don't have the energy or head-space to think something out.

I just wanted to thank this blog, honestly. It has helped me through a lot of tough moments, especially over the last few months. And I'm sure it will do the same over the next few years. It's helped me grow in a lot of ways and really take a look at what I hold most dear and how I should change things. I truly believe I am a different person now. Different things are more important and I appreciate things in a different way.

I've changed.

I know I'm rambling and I doubt any of this is cohesive or makes any sense, but I'm not going to reread and edit like I usually do. This is it.

This is my 100th blog.

Not what anyone would expect, or even myself. But I don't give a fuck.

This is me.

"It's about Joy that comes out of Sorrow"

I've had this one line from Billy Joel's song All About Soul stuck in my head for weeks now. Mainly because it was the song that my cousin Sarah danced with her father at her wedding in June. This song has a pretty big significance to them as it is the song that reminds my uncle of my Aunt Ann. And listening to the lyrics closely I know exactly why.

She waits for me at night, she waits for me in silence
She gives me all her tenderness and takes away my pain
And so far she hasn't run, though I swear she's had her moments
She still believes in miracles while others cry in vain

 

It's all about soul
It's all about faith and a deeper devotion
It's all about soul
'Cause under the love it is a stronger emotion

She's got to be strong
'Cause so many things getting out of control
Should drive her away, so why does she stay?
It's all about soul

 

She turns to me sometimes and she asks me what I'm dreaming
And I realize I must have gone a million miles away
And I ask her how she knew to reach out for me at that moment
And she smiles because it's understood there are no words to say

 

It's all about soul
It's all about knowing what someone is feeling
The woman's got soul
The power of love and the power of healing

This life isn't fair
It's gonna get dark, it's gonna get cold
You gotta get tough but that ain't enough
It's all about soul

It's all about soul
Yes, it is
It's all about soul

 

There are people who have lost every trace of human kindness
There are many who have fallen, there are some who still survive
As she comes to me at night and she tells me her desires
And she gives me all the love I need to keep my faith alive

 

It's all about soul
It's all about joy that comes out of sorrow
It's all about soul
Who's standing now, who's standing tomorrow

You've got to be hard
As hard as the rock in that old rock 'n' roll
But that's only part, you know in your heart
It's all about soul

It's all about soul
Yes, it is
All about soul
Yes, it is
All about soul
Yes, it is
It's all about soul

 

 

In the weeks following her death, I've been listening to this song on repeat wanting to be close to her. And I almost always end up in tears by the last refrain. It captures every aspect of her personality--her selflessness, her strength when all seemed lost, her endless hope. And now I think about my cousin's dance with her father, while my aunt watched on a monitor from home via Skype--none of them knowing she'd only be with us for 4 more days.

 

But it's that one line that I've been stuck on relentlessly.

 

Because I've been looking for the joy that comes out of sorrow for awhile now. Waiting for something great to come out of this awful summer my family has been stuck in. Something to have made all the sorrow we've experienced in such a small period of time worth it in the end.

 

And I thought the easiest form of joy would come with the birth of my sister's new baby.

 

But the joy didn't come easy.

 

My sister gave birth to my nephew, Owen Robert at 7:53 AM on August 11th via C-Section. He was beautiful--looking just like his big sister Maggie--big, and we thought healthy. After the doctors took him back to examine him closer around 8am, my sister did not see him again for nearly 12 hours.

 

Something was wrong.

 

But no one would tell any of us what or allow us to see him. My sister was hysterical and beyond exhaustion, all she wanted was to see her baby and know what was wrong. My brother-in-law was hounding the nurses in the NICU and calling the doctor every hour. It was mass chaos and we all tried to keep our spirits ups for sake of my sister--but we were all worried.

 

Around 9pm, the doctor called and told my sister that Owen was going to be taken to CHOP for further testing. There seemed to be a defect in his heart, and he went blue twice while the nurses attempted to feed him. They also believed a syndrome was involved as his head was a little large, his ears very small, and his arms short. Naturally, we were all terrified of the implications of this and my sister basically had to be sedated.

 

For the last week, my family has been splitting our time between CHOP and taking care of my 11month old niece. We'd switch twice a day, making sure one of us was always at the hospital while another was home with Maggie. It was hectic and we still had no answers---test after test was done, with no results. Everyone was diagnosing him--the worst was the possibility he could be blind and death.

 

We all just prayed to Aunt Ann and Pop. Asking them both to protect him.

 

By the end of the week we had an official diagnosis; Owen has DiGeorge Syndrome. Here's the main issues associated with it:

1. congenital heart disease
2. learning disabilities
3. problems with speech and swallowing due to a vascular ring in the throat
4. susceptible to infection due to a low T-Cell count
5. small ears 

Finally having a diagnosis put us all at ease. No more wondering or worrying. But the reality set in--Owen was going to be different and would need a lot of attention and work. Having just one child with this issue is a lot, but also having an 11-month old who is just learning to walk makes the situation a little more precarious. My sister and brother-in-law were going to have their hands full.

 

But after the dust settled, we realized Owen was born into a loving and supportive family, where he would thrive and grow to the best of his ability. We would all band together and do anything they needed to make life easier. That the best and only hospital in the country to have an entire wing devoted to DiGeorge Syndrome was at CHOP, and Owen would have a team of doctors to help him as he grows. We would not take this diagnosis as a set-back, but a reason to keep fighting. We'd love him even more.

 

And that's where I found it.

 

Owen Robert.
Our joy that came out of sorrow.

Where did the Summer go?

The summer is flying by. I looked at my planner this morning and couldn't believe it's August 7th already. No, I haven't been avoiding calendars or have been living on a deserted island for the last two months with no concept of time. It literally just hit me this morning--as I sat down at my computer for work, and decided to write this blog instead--that the summer is almost over. Labor Day, the official end of the summer season, is three weeks away.

What the heck happened summer?

Regardless of the fact that the East Coast has had maybe.....3 weeks of truly summer hot days in this entire three month period and it's rained almost twice a week, it just hasn't felt like a true summer. And yes, I've done summery things that I haven't touched on in this blog--gone to the shore a few times, swam in a pool, worn flip-flops and shorts, took a vacation with my sisters to Florida (and FINALLY Disney World), and got pretty wicked sun-burn on multiple occasions.

 

But it's been different.

And recalling all that has happened this summer, I'm not too surprised. Made me realize why the summer flew by.

Thinking about how extreme things got the past weeks makes me exhausted. My life literally flip-flopped between extreme pain, to extreme joy and then back again. Summer started with a blind-sided breakup and my aunt's cancer coming back, then to my cousin pushing up her wedding and marrying the man of her dreams in time for her mother to see it, then my aunt passed, I had my first editing session with my editor for my new project, and Pop got sick and then passed a week later. And over the next few weeks I have more joys and sorrows coming--my other cousin is getting married on Saturday, without my aunt there to see it. My sister is giving birth to her second child on Monday, and Pop will never meet his second great-grandchild.

 

I really feel like I'm on one of those teeter-totters we played on as kids. Once you get down to safety and security, you're kicked back off into the air. Almost like I'm looking for the next tragedy in life, and I can't keep my guard down.

But I guess what this summer has taught me is that that's life; we weeble and wooble between the extremes in emotion. That from great pain can come great joy, it's just a matter of finding it. Life isn't always smooth and easy, but giving in to grief and sadness isn't the way to live. We need to take the bad with the good, and just remember peace will eventually come.

I can't wait til this summer is over, to be honest. I want to get to that peace and move on.

A summer I can't wait to end, but one I will never forget.

"Top of the World Ma"

It's hard for me to think about how crazy and devastating the last month of my life has been. My Aunt passed on June 17th, after succumbing to her 8 year battle with cancer. She was in so much pain, and truly wasn't living a life. I'll miss her terribly, but I have some consolation in knowing that she is no longer in pain and finally at peace.

Then last week Pop died.

I've written about my paternal grandfather quite a bit--he's the subject of my first book as well. And his death was a complete shock. Yes, he was 91 but up until a month ago he was perfectly healthy. He was hospitalized for about a week--because he had stopped eating and fell while at my aunt's. But he seemed ok. He was even combative in the hospital--he punched out a nurse, and had to be sedated so he wouldn't pull out his IV's. Now I know that sounds extreme, but if you knew Pop you wouldn't be surprised. He is not the type of person who liked being told what to do and what he couldn't do.

They brought him home last Monday, and he finally seemed at ease. He settled down and slept--and never really came out of it. Almost like he knew this was his time, that this is how he wanted to go out--at home, with his family around him, no prolonged suffering or life in a wheelchair. And that's what happened. He slipped away on July 2nd.

The loss was tremendous. I got the call while in work, and I don't know how I was able to drive home. The next few days passed in a blur. People came and went, and we prepared for the funeral.

My grandmother asked me to give the Eulogy. I was honored she asked.
Here is the speech I gave on Monday:

 

On November 4^th 1922, a baby boy was born to Joseph and Mary Steinmetz of North Philadelphia. He would be their fourth boy and last baby. He was big, had bright blue eyes and the beginnings of a mischievous grin. He completed their family in every way. With three older brothers, he was always the butt of every joke, the tag-along play-mate, and the punching-bag. He constantly tried to win his brothers attention and respect. He was a show-off and excelled in almost everything he did. He played baseball in the spring, football in the fall, and boxed with his father every Saturday morning. He was a happy kid and his future seemed bright.

But life changed, as it did for many young boys, on December 7^th 1941.

Pearl Harbor. He was 19.

For five years, I’ve had the privilege of being the official autobiographer of Robert J. Steinmetz Sr. But for 28 years, I’ve had the bigger honor of being his granddaughter.

I’ve been asked a lot over the years about the beginnings of Pop’s book; what my process was, and how I was able to get him to tell me his stories. My answer has always been the same—I don’t really know, but it was always the same. I’d show up at my grandparents house in North Wales by late morning, I’d setup my tape recorder and writing materials, Pop would promptly offer me a shot of whiskey—which I never accepted but he always took for me—we’d sit down and Pop would start to talk. Usually for hours at a time, Pop would tell me story after story—going in chronological order according to a list he had from the War Department of everywhere he was in the Pacific. Usually by the end, he was hoarse and my fingers were numb from writing. It was truly astounding that he remembered so much. 70 years had gone by, but for him it could have been yesterday. He remembered everything. Names of his shipmates, and ships he saw, exact dates and events, what he was doing, specifics on what he welded and how bad the damage was, the emotions of the moment. Everything. He teared up quite a few times, recalling the deaths of friends or how hopeless the situation seemed to be. Other times he’d start a story by saying “Now I know I can tell you this because you’re older”—which I loved. I don’t think either of us wanted our “Book Dates” to end and he was always anxious and excited to set our next meeting. I got to know him in a way that every grandchild should.

I will remember those moments for the rest of my life.

Steiny was one of the youngest on his ship but he ran it like he was a seasoned veteran. He fought through 7 major invasions, saw the worst parts of humanity and war, but he never gave up. He never gave up on life and worked hard every day to get home. He was proud of all he did for his country. I asked him once if he had any regrets, he smiled and said “Regrets? Nah. I was born to beat the Japanese. That’s what these hands were made for.”

 

He found his manhood at sea, but his proudest moments he created in Philadelphia. These people sitting in front of me were his biggest achievement. To his children—Bee Bop Bobby and Jane, Lynny-Pie and Rick, Ween, Bake and Lisa—he was Daddy. No matter how tired he was from working long hours at PGW, he always made time to play with his children. He taught his sons the important things in life—that hardwork is paramount, and the only way to do something is to do it right the first time—and showered his daughters with affection and love. To his grandchildren—Carolina Moon, Wabe, Fire Engine Megan and Bob, Tweetybird, Crackers, Kitty-Cat Katie, AC Moore Lizzy, PeeWee, Cole Cole, Freihofer and his Prize Maggie Jane—he was Pop Pop. He had a special relationship with each and every one of us. He played games, pulled practical jokes, and gave us memories to last a lifetime. He sat us on his lap at 3 and let us drive his car, popped a cigars in my mouth at 5 and told me to take a puff, and gave me my first drink of beer at 8.

And to his wife Marion. His Mag. The love of his life. His anchor. The air he breathed. He told me he fell in love with her the moment he saw her—at the PGW Christmas Party. He chased her for weeks until she finally went on a date with him. Within 3 months, he had bought a ring. He spent the next 61 years at her side, and I’m pretty sure he fell more in love with her every day. The way he looked at her when she walked in a room always gave me chills. He loved you Mom-Mom. He spent his life loving you and still does.

What else can I say about Bob Steinmetz? He liked his whiskey straight and his beer cold. He put butter on everything and loved his sweets. He loved Casablanca and Yankee Doodle Dandy. He had movie star good-looks. He had a wicked sense of humor and a hearty laugh that I can still hear in my head. He was known to take 2 hour long baths because he loved it so much. He worked hard, but played harder—his antics are that of legend. He was a die-hard Philadelphia sports fan—especially the Phillies and Eagles, even when they were awful. He played baseball until he was 75. He loved going to the VFW. There was nothing he didn’t know how to fix. He loved when we all got together for holidays and never wanted the party to end—“Hey what you leavin’ for! We just started” he’d say. He was stubborn and could be pig-headed, but what German isn’t? He loved life and lived every second to its fullest. A moment was never wasted.

He was everything to us.

Thank you for the memories Pop. Thank you for your love and being here for 91 wonderful years. We love you.

“Top of the World Ma!”

My heart grieves for both Aunt Ann and Pop. I'm not sure I will ever be the same. But I think I'm stronger having gone through this back to back. It's made me a different person. It's made me appreciate my family more and try and live my life to the fullest--as they both had done.