The Doughnut

I sit in the corner of the couch that I've appropriated since I came home from the hospital. (I've appropriated mainly the corner. But, yes, occasionally, I do, I admit it freely, I sometimes appropriate the entire couch.) Naps are a beautiful thing and now I've every excuse to take them. "Franny, have you taken your nap today?""Well, of course you're tired. You didn't nap today."C'mon y'all, keep it coming... It has become a real conversation piece in the Sleeper/Lipman household. It is an improvement over the discussions about gastroenterological issues which had been a family favorite for years on end. We always wanted to find out how much we'd have to give to Penn to get a small plaque on one of the bathroom stalls: "The Lipman Lavatory." (Still on the "To Do List.") There's only one source of contention with regard to the couch. Everyone has graciously relinquished that corner (my corner) except for one large cat.

When I got home from the hospital, I was all sticks and atrophied muscles. I had no idea that skin pulled taut over bones with a few organs here and there would weigh about 85 pounds. I'm not sure whether I was shocked that I still weighed that much. (Hell, during this whole escapade- or as my mother would say to me about something nonsensical and needed someone at whom to point a finger: "You mean that thing you pulled" while looking especially grim and full of anger. Oy. Well "during this thing I pulled," I did lose about 25 to 30 pounds.) Or was it a shock that this thing I'd become (skin taut on top of bones) weighed so little? We should ask the Baby Bear. It was probably just right. But Baby Bear, his parents, nor Goldilocks were lucky enough to have hair that looked like Buckwheat's. Except mine had the texture of extremely dry straw. Chip shaved the sides of my head (per my direction), so I had something that resembled hair that stood straight at attention. Like the Queen's Guard. I bet there are women who spend hundreds of dollars to get this look. Mine cost about a million and a half. Dollars. Not forints or rupees of bahts. Dollars, American. That's one hell of a haircut. Plus a fool-proof diet plan. Such a deal!

But without flesh on my bones, it actually hurt to sit. "Chi-ip, (fyi, indicates whining) could you get me a doughnut?"So Chip went to a medical supply store and bought me a doughnut. I love my doughnut. I don't need it anymore, because Lipmans have always been amply butted. It just feels good. The cat has figured this out too. Man, does that boy love that doughnut. And in his little cat brain he must be thinking, this is exactly like the cat bed you bought me except this one is on the couch. Why can't I have this one too. Or better yet, "Fran, please feel free to use my old bed. That nice green one you bought especially for me, and I'll just use this one if that's okay." So we play this game. He curls up on the doughnut. (That damned doughnut really fits him to a T.) He pretends to be deeply asleep. He makes sure you can't see his eyes. And to get him out, you have lift a completely limp, 14-pound cat who damn well isn't going to help you remove him from HIS spot. Once removed, he gives you this plaintive, yet dirty, look. Fuck it. when he sleeps with us, he manages to take up the entire bed, and we don't complain. Hey Conway, why not go sleep on the damned doughnut?

But I adore Conway, and he knows I hate to, god forbid, disturb him. It's simply a crime how these damned little mammals just take over your home. And we invite these in.

The photo above is my boy Conway loving on his doughnut. (Hey, I know who wears the pants in this family, and it sure ain't me.)

Hey Yo

Yes, I will dress up this blog and make it real purty sometime when I damn well feel like it. But 'taint going to be now. I have so much left to do, and too little time to do it. Isn't that everyone's problem? But it shouldn't be for me. I sit like a Buddha and LOLL about on the couch for the greater part of every day. (FYI, bathroom breaks are allowed.) Oh, and sleep for an inordinate amount of time.

So what up with dat? I'm 48 years old, in pretty good shape... (with "abs of steel" says my chiropractor. God bless you Laurie. Oh if you (the universal ye) ever need a terrific chiropractor let me know. The only trouble is is that she's in Washington Heights. But she's worth every mile and the hideous amount of Bridge traffic. I love her.) All right, so I'm in pretty good shape and not all that long ago, I was dubbed by someone as the most well-preserved chick in NYC. (God, do I eat that shit up. Or rather, I used to.)

What turned me into Captain Pike (if you don't know, please google him yourself), was a cascading series of events. Individually, perhaps not life changing, but together, a nightmare.

Okay (deep breath- wait a minute, that's actually pretty funny in a cold, dark way), in late fall 2006, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease (Lymphoma) the best cancer a girl could ever ask for. Ridiculously treatable. All pretesting showed a body in perfect condition and ready to go. Hey my boy Mario Lemieux had Hodgkin's. He's doing just fine. So I begin chemo, buzz off my nice long hair, and begin what was to be six months (two treatments per month) of chemo. Then all done.

After one treatment (ONE!!! Woohoo, am I home free or what?) there is no longer any evidence of cancer. I react weirdly to the chemo...but who doesn't...??? and The Fifth Element while stoned is simply incredible. I'll do Milla myself; she's so hot. And weed eats up nausea instantly. That's what I call a miracle drug.

Well, during the second week after chemo, I'm feeling much more normal, so I work out, blah, blah, blah. Then I get a fever, late February, early March. I had been given my order: if I have a fever over 100 degrees, call doc, anytime day of night. This went on for several days. Chip (mein husband) left for a business trip. "Honey, what could possibly happen in a couple of days?" says I. So he left. Doc calls late. Fever hasn't gone down. He said "I don't like the sound of this. Meet me in the emergency room at 10 a.m." Okay. I expect IV antibiotics as I was promised.

I go, tell the triage nurse lymphoma, fever...get to the head of the line. Fuck open sesame. "Lymphoma, fever" gets you instant gratification. Trust me, I know. And we all love instant gratification, don't we? (Well I do.) I meet the doctor, give my girlfriend my phone. And the next thing I know, it's May. Yeah, I went in March 7 and became aware in May. (Sounds like a line from Tommy.) Seems I had a perfect storm of events...weird reactions to chemo drugs, pneumonia, fever such that my little lungs threw their hands up in despair (well they would have if they had them) and said, this is too fucking much! And those damned lungs hardened up so bad, I was on a ventilator for 8 weeks in medically-induced coma. I was supposed to die, because people who get this just don't live. My husband MADE me live. He made the doctors MAKE me live.

That's why I'm on disability with 24% lung function and there is no treatment for my condition. NOTHING. I think that's been the toughest thing to take. You get sick. then you get better. I had never heard, you're sick and we got nuthin'. Sorry.

Anyway, I'm on oxygen 24/7. I can't walk any further that the bathroom. Even with extra oxygen, I'm still out of breath. So it's the buddha or the wheelchair. I pretty much choose buddha and the couch.

But, since I can't do anything else, I've become a writing freak. I never said it was "good" writing, but it's writing nonetheless. My major opus has been a family history, and I think may end up being at least a good deal of the focus on this blog. But today, I just had to set the scene for what is. I just wish I could do it with fewer words.

So my next task, is to get a book published. It is called Since When and about my ancestors. Ha! Just to get an agent, you have to go through a ridiculous obstacle course. Fuck, if your margins aren't exactly as they want them, throw the whole damned proposal out. Do you think it gets any easier with publishers? They have you jumping through the same sorts of hoops. Now I can get margins right, but what about the query letter, the synopsis (sell! sell! sell!), the outline (who knew this was such a SINGULAR thing?) But what better things do I have to do? I'll tell you all about the book. If it piques any interest, I'll tell you more. We'll see if this piques anyone's interest. Period.

Hello, good night,' til we meet again