Alarm

You'd think the two large Vicodin that I took would have knocked me out for a good eight hours.

At 4:57 I woke to the sound of Alice in her bed . . . slurping and licking . . . something on her back end.  I poked her with my toe.  Whatever was there is gone or drowned, so let's wrap this up, shall we?  She stopped and went back to sleep. 

I couldn't.

I laid there thinking . . . of Christmas presents . . . pathology . . . going back to work . . . money.  Suddenly, I had a lot of things to do at 5am.  I also had a very warm bed, gray light outside my window, the lingering grogginess of prescription pain killers and nowhere to be. 

Pathology: not much I can do to change that, and I will learn more about a second round of radiation at my next doctor's appointment.  Let it go.

Going back to work: not until Monday.  Three more days off, and UCLA seems to have survived just fine without me.  Let it go.

Money: not where I want to be, but I'm fine.  Contemplating Christmas presents, so it's a first-world problem.  Let it go.

*slurp, slurp, slurp*

Clearly my toe did not get its point across. 

I scooped Alice out of her bed and put her in ours.  She pawed and nudged her way between me and D.R and snorted smugly as she settled her warm nose by my neck, right next to my new incision.  (Dogs know.  Oh, they know).  She was already snoring as I draped my arm over D.R.'s chest and his feet and knees intertwined with mine. 

The chilly morning is turning pink outside and I am warm and happy.  There is some serious stank breath between the three of us and Alice's head smells musky and--geeze, is that onion?! Where this creature sticks her head, I cannot say.

And it occurs to me that perhaps it was not worry and the Unknown that woke me early this morning. 

Perhaps it was gratitude.

I'm Dreaming of a . . .

Christmas has finally come to the Dunn/Edmonds Alliance.

D.R. LOVES Christmas--like, silly-clapping-school-boy loves Christmas.  It's pretty cute.  I certainly have my ideas of how decorations should go up (organization and order, maybe?), but I have learned over 5 years of co-hab that Christmas is D.R.'s domain.  My Martha Stewart-y visions have been replaced by glitter garland, fake cotton "icicles", and random Santa figurines (Harley Santa!) placed on any empty flat surface.   I cannot control it; I can only hope that our little apartment can contain the merriment.

A few things that make our Christmas village complete.

Denver Broncos candy canes.

Our tree is jam-packed with ornaments.  Some branches have two or three, but we can't stop ourselves from buying more.  We probably should create some sort of ornament database to prevent repeat purchases (there are a lot of cake ornaments), but the end product is always a twinkly catalog of our childhoods, travels and memories.  These are our Christmas stories. 

Lord Vader and the Holiday Armadillo always make an appearance. 

We tape all of the Christmas cards we get to our front door.  We had a pretty impressive collection last year, which serves as a reminder of how loved we are even from afar.  Wonderful.

Holiday window gels.

Finally--finally!--I convinced D.R. that we had to pare down our collection (do you think Martha has window gels?) when I showed him this collection of random winter objects and creature parts that looks more like an autopsy than a winter wonderland.  He agreed under the condition that more would be purchased to replace them.  I'm fighting a losing battle here, folks.

Not just Santa's village, giant cross-country skiing Santa's village.  Santa smash!

Besides the tree, I think this is my favorite bit.  I wasn't kidding about those random Santa figurines all over everything. 

Hope you are all enjoying the season.  If you're not, come on over and D.R. will make you enjoy it.

Zut Alors!

I fell all over myself when I had Ladurée macaroons ("macarons", depending on how French you're feeling) in Paris last year.  Initially, I was cynical, because I thought it was just a cookie--butter, flour, sugar, eggs--with a flavored filling sandwiched in the middle.  Uhhhhhh, thanks France.  I'm holdin' it down in the sandwich cookie department with my Oreos.  You can't mess with my Double Stuf. 

Oh, how good it is to be wrong.

Get them in my mouth!

French Macarons are actually tiny meringues made mostly from egg whites and almond flour.  Crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, they are like cake, a cookie and candy all in one.  The colors and flavors are amazing (salted caramel just about made my brains fall out) and they can be popped into your mouth with a ridiculous ease.  Your eyes will cross.  You'll probably moan and grunt with delight.  And before you even know what's happening, you're scheming ways to move to Paris with nothing but your pastry bag and a smile.

Is that just me?  Weird.

People go to culinary school for years to learn how to make these delightful things.  Nevertheless, I was inspired by my recent Christmas ornament purchase to attempt French macaroons in my own kitchen.

This will make my Christmas tree VERY happy.

So, uhhhhhhh . . . here's mine.

Almond orange with chocolate ganache filling.

There was no puffing and nary a frilly edge to be seen.  Honestly, this trio was the most photogenic of the bunch.  Safe to say that Ladurée will not be calling me anytime to soon.  That said, they are pretty scrumptious.  D.R. says they taste like a giant Froot Loop.

I'm OK with that.

The Blip Is Back

I delayed writing this post until I was a bit further along in the process.  Today, I met with the man who will splay open my neck for a second time and go hunting for some diabolical sons o' bitches--my lymph nodes.

That's right, the blip is back.

Actually, it probably never left.  I distinctly remember the look on my surgeon's face and the tone in his voice when I visited him for a check up after surgery.  As I explained that I was feeling well and adjusting to my hormones, he slowly nodded his head and made a face that, simultaneously, wrinkled his forehead, puckered his chin and made his lips disappear in a weird frown.  He nodded, sighed and slapped his knees as he stood up from the spinning exam stool.  "Well, I'll be interested to see what happens with you in the future."  At first, I was flattered.  I mean, it's not like I was going to see him again, right?  What a sweet guy to be interested in my recovery and subsequent trajectory to awesomeness.

But . . .

As days went by, there was something about his voice during that meeting that left me unsettled.  Something knowing.  Something he didn't know how to tell me.  Did I say something inappropriate while waking up from anesthesia?  Did I have a gown malfunction?  What did my mother say that I did not expressly authorize as acceptable mother/surgeon conversation?  Shit.

Now I know. 

Along with my thyroid, he took 20 lymph nodes, 8 of which were cancerous.  His "interest" in me was his way of saying I did the best I could.  I scraped out as much as I could find, but I can't guarantee I got it all.  

The good news is, there is not much left to get.  4 lymph nodes lodged in the right side of my neck that were probably too small to see the first time around.  I'll be in the hospital overnight and have a spiffy new neck scar for my collection.

The great news is, I now have the benefit of working for some of the best surgeons in Los Angeles.  I would be a jackass if I didn't use my resources, so I rolled into my boss's office and said, "Say a girl needs a good surgeon.  Any idea where I could rustle up one?"  As only someone who chooses to slice people open for a living can, he was down right gleeful to set me up with his favorite scalpel wielder.  In the time it took me to walk from his office back to mine, the email was written.  15 minutes later there was a reply, and 15 minutes after that I had an appointment.  Boom.

The really amazing news is D.R. will be there when I wake up.  Alice B. will rest her head on my chest while I recover on the couch.  My family will call incessantly to make sure I'm alright.  My friends will stop by, bring food, send messages and ask if I need anything. 

I am, and will be, love smothered. 

I just need to give my new surgeon fair warning about my mother.

Anniversary

Tomorrow, D.R. and I will celebrate 5 years together.  We wanted to do something special to commemorate the event but we just couldn't land on the quintessential thing that encapsulates 5 years of D.R. and Samantha Awesomeness.  A big blowout dinner?  A weekend away? 

Thankfully, Alice B. came to the rescue.

She had to have a lump removed from her side and D.R. and I scrambled the money together to make it happen.  She came home from the vet sporting a large, somewhat Frankenstein-ian incision, the dreaded plastic cone, and a week's supply of pain pills.  She was in the cone for a couple hours--whining, falling asleep standing up, running into walls--before we could stand it no longer.  We MacGyvered an old t-shirt into a bandage/kimono and Alice B. is officially on the mend.

Today, I looked at D.R. and said, "So, what are we doing for our anniversary?"
He glanced at Alice sitting lopsided on the floor, coming down from her latest dose of pain pills and giving us the big brown googley eyes.  "Uhhhhh, saving our dog's life."

At least our anniversary fund is adorable.

Do you think dogs get the munchies?