A few Ingrid-isms for posterity

I warned you about these. I'm a mom. I think everything my kid does is publishable material. Also, I had chemo today, so I'm protecting you from what would essentially be an incoherent acid-trip-esque jumble of a post. Easier to just copy some sassy Ingrid quotes from my journal. Life is better this way.

A few nights ago I was reading Ingrid a bedtime story. Mid-sentence, she clutches my thigh and blurts out with alarming enunciation: "You. Are. Fat." Paul is still stunned I have yet to embrace a strict diet of iceberg lettuce and water. 

Then this: In an unprovoked fit of rage, my delicate rose of a daughter threatened Paul with, "I'm going to kill you with boo-boos!" Probably, he was trying to change her diaper. Or give her dessert. Toddlers never make sense. 

This morning: Ingrid struts into the bathroom with all the pomp that her 2-year-old self can muster. "Hey mommy. Remember me? I'm Ingrid."

"Um, yes. I remember you. You're the little devil who shattered my eyeshadow. Thanks for that, btw."
"Hey mommy. What's your deal?!?"

Things we say. 

A circuitous post about gratitude (and why I'm decidedly NOT grateful for cancer)

Leave it to me to put off blogging until I'm practically finished with my chemo regimen. But do you hear that, friends?? It's true: we are reaching the end of phase 1 for Liz! Just two more weeks of Taxol (the friendlier of chemo chums) and I am done! When I scheduled my last two infusions, the receptionist asked if I would be throwing a party. To which I, in a benedryl/zofran/steroid/chemo haze, most enthusiastically replied, "ALL OF JULY is going to be one enormous party!!!"
It's true, to a point. As my neurotic super-organized planner reveals, next month is filled to the rafters with celebratory good times. "For life is short, but sweet for certain." (it's already been said: I'm the 90's biggest fan.)

I feel a little bit braggy when people ask me how I'm feeling. Most of the time, I feel good. So much so, that I literally forget I'm sick. I'm still working (very part-time), and I still do normal mom things. Like forget to take things out of the freezer.

To that end, I really have our extended network of support to thank. If it weren't for such selfless, loving, prayerful people lifting our family up every single day, I wouldn't have the time or energy to keep up with so many things. I certainly wouldn't be writing. (Sorry if that one bums you out.)

Life happens very quickly when you're going by the cancer-clock, especially when it's multiplied by 2 (so many appointments, so much paperwork to deal with, a toddler who's still in diapers). It's easy to get swept up in the chaos and forget to send out the trillion thank you notes to the trillion people who are, in the end, really holding you together.

So. Today is about thanks. Because gratitude changes everything.

First, I'm not going to tell you that I'm grateful I got cancer. Or that my husband's Mesothelioma has been a "blessing in disguise" because it brought our family closer together, and it ignited our Faith. Give me a break.

People say they're "happy" they were diagnosed with cancer for a number of reasons, and I sort of get what they're saying...but I also think they're loco, and I wholeheartedly disagree. Cancer is not a fun part of my life. You can leave the "journey" metaphor at the door, too. I get it, but no. If calling it a blessing or a journey makes you feel better about your crummy disease, that's terrific. I won't be using those terms because they grossly oversimplify something that is abominably savage and ruins peoples' lives. Those terms also imply that I should be Sister Mary Sunshine all the time. I'm not. Most definitely.

With that stirring preface out of the way, let's bring the happy back to this post, shall we? I'm not grateful for cancer, we've covered that much. What I am grateful for is pretty much everything else in my life. Sorry for being a cheeseball, but it's true! Sometimes it's way too easy for me to forget how impossibly beautiful my life is, and shame on me for that. I ought to keep a running list of things that, oh my goodness, set my heart on fire with gratitude. Like:

1. My freezer is jam-packed with homemade, heat-and-eat meals from some of the most gracious, wonderful souls on the planet. Some of these people are complete strangers to me, but they have such selfless hearts that they want to feed my little family when I just can't. What a gift.

2. I still have health insurance! My diagnosis landed about 10 days before my husband's short-term disability was supposed to run dry. Stress like you wouldn't believe. I scrambled to get on Medicaid, but I haven't even needed to use it because Paul's job is still covering us, 8 months after he became disabled. Another hard-learned lesson for me to just chill and trust the Big G.

3. My daughter has reached the age where she goes to bed minus all the theatrics and tears of a few months ago. This is big. This makes me more grateful than a lot of amazing things. I'm a simple gal.

4. Astoundingly, we have enough money every month to keep the lights on and our hot water flowing. Magic.

5. I'm grateful for: our cozy little house on our cozy dead-end street that is in a (strangely) cozy part of the city.

6. I'm grateful for my dad who comes out and cuts my lawn every week. For my stepmom who watches Ingrid while I nap after chemo infusions. For my mom who listens while I grumble for 2+ hours about the hard stuff. For my unbelievably generous in-laws who flew us to Alabama for a sun-filled vacation in between treatments. I'm grateful for my next-door neighbor who snow-blowed our driveway. For my sisters who drive my drugged-up butt to and from chemotherapy. (Ohhh boy, I'm literally choking up as I write this. Get a grip!)

For my sweet Aunt, for my stepsisters, my brothers and sisters-in law, for my friends, my nurses and doctors...I'm so thankful for every single text, every Facebook message, every card, every prayer...I'm rambling now because my brain is zipping over all the ways God has made my life a complete joy. My heart could burst with gratitude for all the ways people have, to put it simply, kept us going. Kept us alive, really. That is a big deal.

7. My dear husband. He needs to be on this list. How can he not? It sucks, yeah, that we both have cancer. Sometimes I still can't believe it. But if I'm going to share this dumb disease with someone, I couldn't possibly ask for a better companion. I mean, he's been there done that, so he gets it (which makes it harder to play the "cancer card" on him, but I still try. Shamelessly.) He massages my bald head. He keeps me grounded by teasing me when I say dumb things on chemo. He let's me pick our nightly Netflix show (currently: Better Call Saul). He is the calm in my crazy. He kisses my forehead.

Maybe quotes are lazy, but I'm plunking this one here:

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow." - Melody Beattie

I apologize if this is sappy. I'm not always like this. I still have days where sadness makes my heart so heavy I feel like collapsing in a heap on my bed like a dramatic Disney Princess.Without the gorgeous head of hair, of course. I do have side effects I'd rather not be dealing with. I'll save those for a sad-day post. One where I'm extra salty and ornery. (Look-out!)

But today is a happy one. The sun is brilliant (after a hailstorm this morning. Buffalo.) I'm enjoying a latte, and Ingrid is occupied for 5 quiet minutes with play doh. Gratitude makes sense.

Why am I Spilling My Guts on the Internet?

There's a thing that happens when you get diagnosed with cancer. Or maybe I'm a total nutter and it's just me. Not sure, but it seems the further along I get in my treatment, the less actual hoots I give about what people think.

 Wow. 

That sounded horribly smug and self-righteous coming out...what I mean to say is - I've developed a (slightly) thicker skin about certain things. 

Like this blog, for instance. Under normal circumstances, I would NEVER have started a blog. Mostly because I'd fret incessantly over the possibility of coming across as snobbish. Or self-absorbed. Or insecure. I'd worry that my posts would trigger collective eye-rolls and Facebook friends unfollowing me en masse. 

I do care about people, they're lovely. I just don't have the energy to waste on worrying what they think about my false eyebrows. Or, more to the point, what they think about my ideas, my writing, or this silly blogging shtick. 

Which, hooray for me because I always used to worry about other peoples' opinions when it came to my writing. How can you not? When you write a blog, you're naturally writing with an audience in mind. It's not just "Hey Journal I did this today" anymore. There are others involved. 

But so what. I have cancer. (Fair warning - I will be pulling out the "cancer card" here as frequently and unabashedly as suits my fancy. Again: the not caring thing)

The biggest reason I initially dismissed blogging about our cancer, though, was my distress over the fact that it would look like some thinly veiled pity party. The absolute last thing I want people to think (hm, maybe I still care a little bit) is that I am in constant need of sympathy or that I spend my days in tearful victim-mode. Please, don't get the idea that I think for one second our family's situation (while difficult, sure) is really any more painful or challenging than anyone else's. 

Because we are NOT special, not in the life-is-hard category. Not one bit. Everyday I hear stories or read things about atrocities and tragedies my mind can barely work out. So no - we are not unique in our suffering. 

To be human is to suffer. Unless you're Kate Middleton and you get to marry a prince and stroll around London looking like a (classy) Barbie all day. But JK because she has two toddlers, so actually her life is more probably a holy terror, and my sentence about human suffering still stands. 

When I first considered writing out our story, I had to come up with concrete reasons to do so. As it stands, this is what I have:

1. On a practical level, I'm blogging to keep friends and family in-the-loop. I thought about weekly email updates, but that seemed way too '90's. (still, what a grand decade that was!)

2. A more selfish reason: I wanted to document our lives for our own personal "time capsule," so to speak. Something tangible that would remind us of that crazy year where mommy and daddy both lost their hair.

3. Lastly, I am telling our story with the hope that it might help a brother out. I can't say who is going to bother with this word-vomit, but if I'm able to reach even one person who is struggling with a similar situation, then that's the ticket!

Typically, I don't go for books with the label "self-help" printed near the ISBN code. But someone very smart gave me a copy of a memoir called On Fire by John O'Leary, a man who was burned as a child over 100% of his body and lived to tell the tale. His story is incredible. 

Anyway, he talks about the importance of embracing your own story and sharing it with the world. He says revealing our unique trials is not done to"seek sympathy, but to free you from longing for it...It's not [told] to perpetually remind others about your brutal childhood, lousy marriage, crummy health, shabby job, or rotten life. It's certainly not [used] as a crutch as to why you remain stuck in the rut today. Nope, we [tell] it proudly to learn the lessons within it, celebrate the scars resulting from it, and do even greater things because of it."

I'm an extremely private person. When conversing with acquaintances, I have a knack for steering the conversation away from myself. I'm weird, ok. I'm not comfortable talking about ME. But when big, hard, terrible things come tearing into your world, your walls start crumbling. 

Cancer, in particular, breaks down your sense of control. You literally LOSE CONTROL because there are things you can't do anymore. There are elements that can make you feel in control to some extent (watching your diet, researching your disease etc.) But cancer is gonna do what cancer is gonna do.

He's a sleezebag like that. 

Cancer breaks down our carefully constructed worlds. And my private-self still doesn't like talking about it. But this:

"In our own woundedness, we can become sources of life for others." - Henri J.M. Nouwen

I don't know if that applies to me. I just don't know. 

I'm definitely not jumping up and down shouting, "Look at me! Look at all these hard things I'm going through! My story is so sad and you should read about it and be INSPIRED! I'm awesome, BTW."

But I like to write. I like to write, and I want to remember this part of my life. So I'll tell my story. And if part of it brightens your day, well, then cool. At the end of the day, I do sort of want people to think I'm an alright person, and that I'm not a total blighter for starting another "cancer blog."

Buuuuut. If that's what you think, I'm also OK with it.

Paul's Treatment: 2016 - Now

One more post should just about bring Paul's treatment up-to-date. Frankly, I'm itching to get on with things. So I'll be editing ruthlessly here.

The thing about Meso is - it's incurable. We all hate that word. It signifies defeat. It suggests someone is going to die by the end of the story. It's something that, if I'm going to be perfectly honest here, took me some time to wrap my head around.
 I definitely didn't process that fact when Paul was first diagnosed. We'll be kind and call it innocence instead of ignorance, but at 25 I still thought everything was fixable. We have science, people! Haven't we made enough advances in medicine to make my otherwise healthy husband tumor-free?

But. We haven't.

By the fall of 2015, his tumors had diminished slightly in size, but they were still there. They will likely always be there. So, unless we wanted to drive ourselves mad with worry, we had to adopt a new approach to Paul's cancer. Instead of looking at his disease as something we can cure, we see it as a type of chronic illness that needs to be treated periodically. His treatments won't have a definitive end in sight like mine do. We do maintenance when it's required, and we manage symptoms as they surface. It's a beastly thing to sort out, but we've navigated things ok so far.

2016 was a top-notch year for our family. First-class all around, really. Paul was feeling good, his disease was stable, and he was enjoying a break from treatments. He got himself a new job, I quit my old job, and we bought our first home. We had a terrific summer.

 

What? We like ice cream. 

I know the comparison has already been made, and I know how lame and cliched it sounds, but having Meso is very much like being on a never-ending roller coaster ride. Except that roller coasters are fun and awesome and Meso is...not. Anyway, we were up in the clouds for a while there, but by the fall of 2016 things started going downhill. Fast. Symptoms reappeared: weight loss, fatigue, night sweats. By October, we decided it was time to gear up for another treatment.

In November, Paul enrolled in a second clinical trial at the National Institute of Health in Bethesda, Maryland. We were hopeful, especially since he had responded so well to his last trial drug. But guys. This new chemo kicked his skinny butt. Actually, it very nearly killed him, so he wasn't even able to complete 2 full cycles (seriously.)

In February 2017, he tried an Immunotherapy called Keytruda here in Buffalo. Again, he had to stop after 2 rounds due to complications with his kidneys and liver (you know, nothing important.)

Which brings us up to speed! (phew - you still with me?)

Paul hasn't received any treatment since his last Keytruda infusion in April. (Unless you count his prescription drugs...which wouldn't be too far off the mark because, baby, that list runs for miles.)

He isn't able to work, and he does have a slew of symptoms that we're dealing with. But I think (and I'd suspect he'd agree), right now Paul is able to enjoy a mostly comfortable life with the people he loves. He can't go on long walks anymore without getting winded, his intestinal tract will never be the same (goodbye fried wonders of the world), and his brain function, well. That's up for discussion. (love you, Paul!)

There are things he can't do, and it's frustrating. Of course it is! But, given the circumstances, we're lucky there are still plenty of things he can do. Over the last 5 years, we've revised (with several rewrites) our version of what constitutes a normal, happy family. And anyway, forget "normal." It's a pointless adjective when it comes to family life. Just happy. That's what we aim for.

Post- HIPEC Treatment: 2012 - 2015

Life after Paul's HIPEC surgery was good. Real good. He was considered 'NED' (no evidence of disease) and required no further treatment beyond quarterly CT scans to make sure things stayed that way.
I'm likely romanticizing those first two years of marriage (there I go again), but most of my memories look like this:

Super Fantastic Explosion of FUN!!!

We camped and took roadtrips in my old Volvo wagon and met interesting hippie folks at festivals and visited vineyards and had lots of bar-b-ques and hiked and watched Dexter. We also made this exquisite creature:

Ingrid Philomena Coleman - born July 29, 2014

In August, with a proud, springy gait that is the hallmark of new fathers, Paul went in for his routine scan. That's what his CT scans had become to us: entirely ordinary, unremarkable check-ups. Just part of our routine. At that time I was, for some reason, extremely...I don't know. Naive? Yes. Silly and naive about what we were dealing with here.

Mesothelioma is a bear.

It's viciously aggressive and, in our case, brutally cruel with its timing.

"Liz. Something came up on the scan. They think it's back."

I was gutted. I hadn't even fully healed from the messy ordeal that is childbirth yet, and my husband was on the phone telling me he has cancer. Again.

A week or two later they did a biopsy, which confirmed their suspicions: it's the blasted Meso. Oh, Paul. Sweet, handsome, hilarious Paul. Just stop. Stop having this bloody cancer. Stop so we can be young and new and happy forever.

Sept-Nov 2014: Paul receives two (dreadful, awful, mean) chemotherapies - Alitma and Cisplatin. They don't work.

New Year's Eve, 2014: Dr. Kane attempts another debulking surgery. It doesn't work.

Ok, Meso. We get it: you're bigger than us and a bit of a bully. Can you just be cool for like one minute, dude, and give us a win? Just something small, to make us feel better about the world and stuff.

January 2015: Meso tells us to piss off, but our family and friends and total strangers won't take that for an answer. So they turn themselves into a massive safety net and make sure we are fed and loved and taken care of. They even throw us a huge benefit, raising funds to help us with the mounting debt that happens when you have stupid cancer. People are incredible. I can't even tell you.

February 2015: We look into clinical trials and start traveling to meet with Mesothelioma specialists. First stop: Chicago. Where we have deep dish pizza. And meet with Dr. Kindler. But pizza!

So: oversimplifying here, obviously. Even with our warm and fuzzy safety net and the life-altering experience of tasting Chicago deep dish for the first time, those were some rough months. Looking back, I can see very clearly that I had a severe case of post-partum depression that my stupidhead self ignored. Don't be like me. If you can't get through a day without ugly-crying 16 times, um, get help.

March 2015: We attend a Mesothelioma Symposium in Bethesda, Maryland. Major turning point. Major. We connect with Dr. Hassan's team at the National Institute of Heath. We meet, for the first time, other people fighting like Paul. Meso becomes less scary. Still a bully, yeah. But we discover this jerk does have weaknesses, and we are getting back in the ring. And this time, I am going to be the hot cheerleader wife my partner needs. Hey Meso! That's right, I'm talking to you! GO STICK IT.

April - May 2015: Paul enrolls in the SS1P clinical trial at the NIH. He makes it through two cycles, but is booted in June when his body develops an antibody to the drug. We're bummed, but just gotta keep on keepin' on.

September 2015: Paul receives the first bit of good news he's had in the last year: his tumors ARE SHRINKING!!!!! Wahoooo! Finally, his tumors had responded to something. We were overjoyed. 

Kayaking for Meso: 2015 - Raising funds for the Mesothelioma Foundation

The Beginning, Part 2: Two Surgeries and a Diagnosis

Honestly, I could kick myself for not having kept a better record of those first days. I mean, I write down everything. I have an obscenely heavy suitcase stashed in my bedroom closet that holds piles of old journals. Remember those plastic-bound diaries with the the mini locks on them that were just about the most glorious thing an 8-year-old could ever possess? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?


I was a strange bird.

Diaries were my lifeblood. Still are. Though, I no longer refer to my rabid, sometimes drunken, usually useless scribblings as diaries anymore. I'm a grownup now. And not one who's half as amusing as Bridget Jones, so we just call them "journals" now. Or even more to the point: "notebooks."

So forgive me if I can't recall much of the details surrounding the days leading up to Paul's first surgery. This was, after all, over 5 years ago.

Surgery # 1: Tumor Removal

What I do remember is how weak he looked. I remember how I cried every time I entered his hospital room: here was my big, burly, bearded fiance with 10,000 tubes coming out of him and machines beeping and lights blinking and it was just awful.

I remember how his face relaxed for a second when I gave him a sip of 7Up. I remember how much I had to haggle his nurse to let me give him a sip of 7Up (all done at the behest of my hugely persuasive mother-in-law. When Sally Coleman asks you to do something, you do it!) 

I remember falling asleep with my head in his lap. We had been up all night. It was night again, 11 pm, but his nurses didn't seem bothered that I was still hanging around. "Go home and rest," Paul insisted. "I'll be OK." So I did. And he was.

It would be a week before they could perform surgery. That's one full week without food. One week with a tube through his nose. One week of speculative self-diagnosing. (no bueno!)

The day before Paul's surgery was Valentine's Day. Naturally, I brought him a basket of chocolates he couldn't eat and candles he couldn't light. (In my defense, I had to economize my time, and someone was selling them at work.)

The day after his surgery was my birthday. Naturally, Paul seized every opportunity of coherence amidst intervals of drugged-up grogginess to apologize for "ruining my birthday." He was a much better fiance than I ever was.

In fact, I'd venture to say this ordeal proved Paul was an all-around better human being than I ever was. He handled the pain, the tortuous waiting, the occasional odorous hospital roommate like such a champ. I was the one who was supposed to be strong, positive, keeping it together. All I did was cry. Here was Paul, making fart jokes, and all I could do was CRY. I was actually quite a sissy back then.



Paul's first surgery went off without a stitch. Well, lots of them, actually. (See. Jokes! No more tears!) It was performed by Dr. John Gibbs at Buffalo General. This gifted surgeon was able to remove Paul's tumor in its entirety. Praise!

But.

WHAT IN THE HECK WAS THIS GRAPEFRUIT-SIZED MASS AND WHAT WAS IT DOING IN PAUL'S BEAUTIFUL BODY?!?

They had some theories, all of them wrong. So they shipped the specimen off to Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston to be identified. It took a month (A MONTH) to figure it out. When they had the answer, they called Paul in for a consultation.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you have Peritoneal Mesothelioma."

I'm sorry, but what now?

So we did what everyone does when they receive a grim (and confusing) diagnosis: WEB MD, give us your wisdom!

We learned it's a rare (though the ubiquitous lawyer ads would have you believe otherwise) and particularly deadly form of cancer most commonly caused by asbestos exposure. Until recently, patients were given 1 year to live. New treatments are prolonging life expectancy, with about 50% of patients making it to 5 years.

I'm happy to report that Paul has joined the lucky 50% of survivors, having just made it to the 5-year mark in March!

So...what do we do next?

Surgery # 2: HIPEC Performed by Dr. John Kane at Roswell Park Cancer Institute

Paul was referred to an oncologist and surgeon at Roswell Park in Buffalo. They decided that Paul required a 2nd surgery called HIPEC. (hyperthermic intraperitoneal chemotherapy) To put it plainly, they were going to open him up again, remove any questionably cancerous lesions, and then deliver a concentrated, heated chemotherapy directly into his abdomen.

Fun times, wow!

The procedure took a whopping 9+ hours. Casualties included a large portion of intestine that had to be removed AND his belly button. (His surgeon apologized for the latter, hoping it wouldn't put a damper on our upcoming honeymoon.)

Paul spent at least a week in the hospital. (shorter than most HIPEC patients) After he was discharged, Paul recovered at a dear friend's home for the brief remainder of his bachelor days (8 weeks), and then we were married in June and lived happily. ever. after.

Not.

"Happily ever after" is for weenies. We DID, however, have the dopest wedding of all time. And we were happy. We moved into a tiny apartment in the country, got a kitten, traveled, and never passed on an opportunity to party like it was 1999.

But like seriously folks, what more can you ask for?

The Beginning, Part 1: ER Visit & The Heinous NG Tube

Let's do this properly and start from the beginning. Or the point in time that I'm now designating as the beginning:

Friday February 3, 2012 - 2 AM

My phone rings. "Liz I wouldn't ask, but the pain. It's not going away. Can you drive me to the hospital?"


I can't remember the last time I was in the ER. No, I can. My college roommate had gotten food poisoning from some bad meatballs. This will be like that. They'll hook Paul up with some fluids, prescribe him some meds, and send him on his merry way. 

But this is not like that, and he's not fine, and we won't be sent home anytime soon. And just like that he's draped in a too-small hospital gown, retching into an equally too-small receptacle.

When the puking stops we make ourselves comfortable and look forward to what has just become an extended weekend. Word! We laugh and take grainy photos with our flip phones. And then some doctor spoils our fun with the words "emergency surgery," and we both realize things are about to get real. 

He tells us there's a mass obstructing Paul's bowels. They need to remove it. Stat.

Luckily, they recognize that this type of procedure falls outside the realm of their expertise so they shuttle us off in an ambulance to Buffalo General. 

Unluckily, that hand-off will become just one stop along a lengthy string of experts, tests, and treatments. 

But in that moment, as we head downtown in what I remember to be chokingly awkward silence, we are still ignorant of how turbulent the ride is going to become. 

We, like most people in our age bracket, had never really considered the possibility that Paul's increasing abdominal discomfort could, in fact, be something life-threatening. That was unthinkable. No, like every previous sickness or broken bone we'd ever had, this was fixable. They'd look at Paul's scans and inform us with a knowing half-smile: "kids, go home. Pick up some Pepto. It's just gas." 

Look. Paul was 27. Aside from a few grays that were probably brought on by my cajoling him into DIY wedding favors ("It'll be fun!"), Paul was the picture of perfect health. He ate vegetables. He didn't smoke. He had nice biceps. 

So cancer? No way, son.

But still. Something was not....right. Weird symptoms started popping up in the fall of 2011. He had sporadic bouts of intense stomach pain. He lost weight. (which we originally attributed to our cutback on beer consumption. yeahhhh) He had sheet-drenching night sweats. It was gross. And, perhaps, worst of all: when he lied down you could actually feel a slight protrusion in his gut. Just a tiny, maybe-I-feel-something kind of lump. Maybe.

In January of 2012 Paul's health insurance finally kicked in, and he tried to get to the bottom of things. He scheduled a sonogram. He scheduled an MRI. Things were moving too slowly. The stomach pain got worse. It became unbearable. And that's when I got my 2 AM wake up call in early February. 

Since that night, since that bumpy ambulance ride into downtown Buffalo, Paul has been through some pretty ugly things. But this. Sweet Jesus have mercy. THIS. IS. HORRIFIC.

A young, anxious nurse brings a sizable tube close to Paul's face. "I need to get this into your stomach," she says. "THROUGH YOUR NOSE."

She tells Paul to relax, which is exactly like telling a toddler to sit silently though The Tree of Life. (Don't try convincing me it's poetry on film. I don't care.) Impossible. Paul is not a wuss when it comes to pain, but with her first attempt to jam that tube up his nostril he instinctively (and forcefully, I might add) pushes her away. She tries again, same thing. He tells her, "I'm sorry, but there's no way this thing is happening. I can't do it." And I believe him. I imagine it's how some mothers feel during labor: nope, this thing is NOT gonna happen. Sorry, you'll have to figure out another way.

Of course, she does eventually work the tube down Paul's throat. Cue Liz breaking down. I'm really very helpful that way. At this point, Paul becomes...less Paul? We certainly aren't laughing about his hospital gown anymore. He's can't talk, he can't eat or drink, and he's in pain. The nurse leads us to another room, and I follow behind her like a lost and frightened child. We wait for a doctor. We wait for an answer.

What's The Story Morning Glory?

So I have this thing with amateur bloggers. Well, it's funny. I, um, hate them. Wait - no, no, bad Liz: we don't use the word "hate" in this household. (unless it's directed at food bloggers, and even then it's pushing things)


Get it together.

OK OK. I don't HATE them. Not even the food bloggers. (but ugh, they are just the worst) I just sort of a little bit think they're generally, sometimes, a touch, oh ah - pretentious AF? There! I said it! I said it, and you were thinking it, so now we're even, and we can all breathe and move on!

Down to business: the business, that is, of me introducing myself as (gag) yet another novice blogger schlepping her small words into the ether.

I hate it as much as you do.

It's just - you know. I kind of have this story I want to share. I've had this inner turmoil going on for months where one moment I'm like: "I need to write a book! A 12-part series! How do you self-publish on Amazon? Can I learn it on YouTube?" And the next moment I'm like: "Oh dear God, someone put me out of my misery and burn my laptop and permanently erase all memory of Wordpress from my brain!"

At the very least, I can promise you I will never, EVER make you scroll though reams of boring, mediocre musings on springtime just to get to a recipe with quinoa in it. I won't even mention quinoa in this blog.

I can't guarantee I'll hold back entirely on inspirational quotes or pictures of my kid....but I'll rein it in. And they'll only be the best of the best. No onslaught of lame cat photos, so rest easy there.

Things this blog will most probably involve:

1. tidbits about a toddler covered  from the neck-up in a 1-inch layer of Vaseline.
2. details of life as a husband-wife team battling cancer together. (we so romantic)

I mean if you're here, then you probably already know that's the gist of things in the Coleman household: Toddlers covered in Vaseline. Back-to-back chemo sessions.

Also, I'll throw in any gifs of Adam Scott I can get my hands on. You're welcome.