The Pope Races Cancer
So as you all know, the Pope came to Washington. But what you may not know is that yours truly sat roadside and received a papal blessing... of sorts.
You see, it all started a long, long time ago, back in the mid to late 1970s when our then pope -- the very Polish Pope John Paul II -- came to visit the very Polish city of Chicago (in case you didn't know, Chicago's got more polaks than the Bush family has idiots). My very Polish... er... Irish... er... German Lutheran mother decided to call us all in sick and sit down on the curb for 8 hours awaiting his arrival at the Polish Heritage Center. She sat with every Catholic medal, prayer book, rosary, and mass card ever gifted, inherited, stolen, or otherwise owned by anyone in our family for the last 17 generations (not all German Lutherans, of course) along with her two young children to whom she witheld drink, for there was no potty on the curb. There we thirsty three sat, yearning for the time when the pope would come by and give us Lutherans his blessing, freeing us to go home and once again drink to thirst.
In all seriousness, the moment that Pope JPII came upon the crowd, his head and torso popping out of the sunroof of some fancy car, I was awestruck. There were Polish dancers all around, music blaring, people screaming and waving, and yet for me it seemed silent and solemn and holy. He first turned and did a blessing to the center which was directly across from us. He then switched to face us, we three thirsty Lutherans along with about 40,000 Chicago Polish Catholics all crowded together on one city block. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed us. I got the goosebumps and tears filled my eyes. My hands shook and my heart pounded. It was a very powerful memory for me, one that remains to this day, 30 years later. I still have the medals my mom bought me for the occassion. I'll probably be buried with them.
So, when the new Pope showed up here in DC, I naturally didn't even remotely entertain the idea of dragging my three young children off into the city to fight the hoards of people clammering for a bit of papal love. Why, I'm not friggin' nuts here, folks! I am a busy mom with things to do and laundry to fold. I can't take time out of my day to make memories that last a lifetime... or... maybe... huh.
I sent out a message to my posse: the homeschool moms. I might be nuts enough to do this thing, but I am not crazy enough to go it alone. I'm dragging whomever I can down with me, dammit! And who do you think volunteers to come along with me? My dear friend Tami, a devout Mormon, of course. We latched our rag tag group onto another mother and her 8 children (Catholic converts!) and all of us trekked down to the District.
Much folly ensued that will be skipped over due to time and space constraints, but suffice it to say that my children weren't on a curb long enough to even get thirsty before the Pope came gliding by. Although, we did have a baggie filled with medals, a few crosses and crucifixes, a prayer book for each of the older children, and all the rosaries I had in the house. We were well weighted down as we raced to get there with only about 3 minutes to spare to secure a spot (which we did well!) and get our cameras out. Tami took this awesome picture.
It wasn't quite as magical as my childhood memories. I don't quite agree with the mother of 8 who said, it was the best "three and a half seconds of my life!" He was busy talking to the bishop as he drove by in his popemobile. But he did raise his hand in a gesture of papal salutation and I think that's the best we'll get from this pope. I'll take it. I take what I can get, after all.
The fact is that I'm not a big fan of this pope. I mean, I actually wasn't a big fan of the last pope, either. But as a child, I really had no opinion. I just knew he was the Pope, the head of the church, the heir of St Peter. As a child, that was enough. That was more than enough. That was awe inspiring.
On our way back home, I asked the kids what was more fun, seeing the pope or riding on the Metro. Unanimously they chorused, "Seeing the pope!" Even Tami's son Zack. So I guess I did manage to recapture that silent, solemn, holy moment, even if just for them.
My moment will come again someday... when once again I feel my skin prickle and my tears swell with pride. Someday, perhaps far into the future, when our pope is one who cycles with the moon. I gotta have something to pray for.
*************************************************************************************
About a month ago, while lying in bed fading into sleep, Mike informed me that we had been invited to go to a birthday party at the horse races. Did I want to go?
Yeah, sure, whatever was my noncommital type response and I forgot all about it.
Until.
Mike tells me that when he responded to the Evite, there was a lot of talk about women in hats and dresses and even a Lady's Hat contest. And that's when I knew. Mike hadn't gotten us into going to some dude's drunken birthday bash as the race track. Oh, no. He'd gotten us into some crazy southern ritual involving lace and chiffon and ascots.
Horse races, my white ass. These are not just horse races, people. These are Virginia horse races. And these aren't just any Virginia horse races. This is the Middleburg Spring Races. And this is the south. We couldn't just go in jeans and tshirts. Oh, no, no, no. We had to dress up. This is an EVENT. This is a social! This is a dress affair! To tail gate. And these tail gates are complete with table cloths and floral center pieces and catered food and all kinds of high heel insanity. You've never seen so much southern snobbery this far from Texas.
Iryna made a little friend, as you can see. She thought she was belle of the ball. But she's a Virginian, remember.
The kids had a blast, too, after they met up with a perfect stranger who allowed them to pick her horse and place her bets. Please note that Miss Jane (as she liked to be called) is a local Middleburg gal. They apparantly don't have to dress up. Or perhaps they just don't rate with the DC snobs that travel out to the country to walk in horse shit in heels. Hmmmm...
But, there was beer. And so, Mama was happy. Enough. Anyway.
*************************************************************************************
And the final segment of today's blog post:
My baby girl Alyx.
Six years ago a friend of mine came to stay with us for a few days while packing up and leaving the island for the mainland. She had three dogs. One of which was a pitbull who took an instant disliking to my Alyx. Before we could separate them, the pit tried to take a chunk out of Alyx's side.
Not long after that, Alyx developed a lump on that side. Being the worry wart mommy that I am, I took her to the vet immediately. He felt it, squeezed it, rolled it between in thumb and forefinger and declared it a cyst and nothing to worry about.
The cyst would remain. As we moved around, I would have our new vet look at it, each one agreeing with the initial diagnosis. I once scheduled to have it removed during a teeth cleaning. The vet completely forgot, but once again I was assured it was absolutely nothing and not to worry. Not one of them even thought to aspirate it.
Finally, I decided to have the darn thing removed as it had recently been feeling a little bit bigger. Again, during a cleaning as an almost after thought, our current vet took it out. It was about the size of a large olive. A few days ago she called to give the results of the biopsy which I was kind of surprised that the vet herself was calling me.
"It's a mast cell tumor," she said.
"Uh huh," I mumbled as I chopped red pepper.
"Stage II," she continued.
"Okay," I managed while thinking about what I should eat with the red pepper.
"I was kind of surprised when I got the results. I really thought it was benign," she went on.
This, this stopped me dead in my chop.
"Huh? What? Ummm... can you... uhhhhh...." I searched the counter tops quickly for a paper and pen. "Can you repeat the name of that tumor again and the stage it is in?"
We went on from there to have a rather painful conversation on what Alyx may or may not have to endure from here on in.
I'm absolutely devastated. Crushed beyond reason.
We are meeting with the oncologist tomorrow. We'll know more then. Until then, my friends, family, strangers who just stalk my blog because you are a glutton for my freaky sense of humor and foul mouth, please send good vibes, positive energy, prayers to St. Francis, whatever you got. Send them to my sweet gal. This is the dog of a life time. You dog people out there know what I mean when I say this. She is the dog of a lifetime. She is not yet 11 years old and I am not in any way ready to let her go. Not now. Not yet. I can't.
She's gotta fight.
You see, it all started a long, long time ago, back in the mid to late 1970s when our then pope -- the very Polish Pope John Paul II -- came to visit the very Polish city of Chicago (in case you didn't know, Chicago's got more polaks than the Bush family has idiots). My very Polish... er... Irish... er... German Lutheran mother decided to call us all in sick and sit down on the curb for 8 hours awaiting his arrival at the Polish Heritage Center. She sat with every Catholic medal, prayer book, rosary, and mass card ever gifted, inherited, stolen, or otherwise owned by anyone in our family for the last 17 generations (not all German Lutherans, of course) along with her two young children to whom she witheld drink, for there was no potty on the curb. There we thirsty three sat, yearning for the time when the pope would come by and give us Lutherans his blessing, freeing us to go home and once again drink to thirst.
In all seriousness, the moment that Pope JPII came upon the crowd, his head and torso popping out of the sunroof of some fancy car, I was awestruck. There were Polish dancers all around, music blaring, people screaming and waving, and yet for me it seemed silent and solemn and holy. He first turned and did a blessing to the center which was directly across from us. He then switched to face us, we three thirsty Lutherans along with about 40,000 Chicago Polish Catholics all crowded together on one city block. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed us. I got the goosebumps and tears filled my eyes. My hands shook and my heart pounded. It was a very powerful memory for me, one that remains to this day, 30 years later. I still have the medals my mom bought me for the occassion. I'll probably be buried with them.
So, when the new Pope showed up here in DC, I naturally didn't even remotely entertain the idea of dragging my three young children off into the city to fight the hoards of people clammering for a bit of papal love. Why, I'm not friggin' nuts here, folks! I am a busy mom with things to do and laundry to fold. I can't take time out of my day to make memories that last a lifetime... or... maybe... huh.
I sent out a message to my posse: the homeschool moms. I might be nuts enough to do this thing, but I am not crazy enough to go it alone. I'm dragging whomever I can down with me, dammit! And who do you think volunteers to come along with me? My dear friend Tami, a devout Mormon, of course. We latched our rag tag group onto another mother and her 8 children (Catholic converts!) and all of us trekked down to the District.
Much folly ensued that will be skipped over due to time and space constraints, but suffice it to say that my children weren't on a curb long enough to even get thirsty before the Pope came gliding by. Although, we did have a baggie filled with medals, a few crosses and crucifixes, a prayer book for each of the older children, and all the rosaries I had in the house. We were well weighted down as we raced to get there with only about 3 minutes to spare to secure a spot (which we did well!) and get our cameras out. Tami took this awesome picture. It wasn't quite as magical as my childhood memories. I don't quite agree with the mother of 8 who said, it was the best "three and a half seconds of my life!" He was busy talking to the bishop as he drove by in his popemobile. But he did raise his hand in a gesture of papal salutation and I think that's the best we'll get from this pope. I'll take it. I take what I can get, after all.
The fact is that I'm not a big fan of this pope. I mean, I actually wasn't a big fan of the last pope, either. But as a child, I really had no opinion. I just knew he was the Pope, the head of the church, the heir of St Peter. As a child, that was enough. That was more than enough. That was awe inspiring.
On our way back home, I asked the kids what was more fun, seeing the pope or riding on the Metro. Unanimously they chorused, "Seeing the pope!" Even Tami's son Zack. So I guess I did manage to recapture that silent, solemn, holy moment, even if just for them.
My moment will come again someday... when once again I feel my skin prickle and my tears swell with pride. Someday, perhaps far into the future, when our pope is one who cycles with the moon. I gotta have something to pray for.
*************************************************************************************
About a month ago, while lying in bed fading into sleep, Mike informed me that we had been invited to go to a birthday party at the horse races. Did I want to go?
Yeah, sure, whatever was my noncommital type response and I forgot all about it.
Until.
Mike tells me that when he responded to the Evite, there was a lot of talk about women in hats and dresses and even a Lady's Hat contest. And that's when I knew. Mike hadn't gotten us into going to some dude's drunken birthday bash as the race track. Oh, no. He'd gotten us into some crazy southern ritual involving lace and chiffon and ascots.
Horse races, my white ass. These are not just horse races, people. These are Virginia horse races. And these aren't just any Virginia horse races. This is the Middleburg Spring Races. And this is the south. We couldn't just go in jeans and tshirts. Oh, no, no, no. We had to dress up. This is an EVENT. This is a social! This is a dress affair! To tail gate. And these tail gates are complete with table cloths and floral center pieces and catered food and all kinds of high heel insanity. You've never seen so much southern snobbery this far from Texas.
Iryna made a little friend, as you can see. She thought she was belle of the ball. But she's a Virginian, remember.
The kids had a blast, too, after they met up with a perfect stranger who allowed them to pick her horse and place her bets. Please note that Miss Jane (as she liked to be called) is a local Middleburg gal. They apparantly don't have to dress up. Or perhaps they just don't rate with the DC snobs that travel out to the country to walk in horse shit in heels. Hmmmm...But, there was beer. And so, Mama was happy. Enough. Anyway.
*************************************************************************************
And the final segment of today's blog post:
My baby girl Alyx.
Six years ago a friend of mine came to stay with us for a few days while packing up and leaving the island for the mainland. She had three dogs. One of which was a pitbull who took an instant disliking to my Alyx. Before we could separate them, the pit tried to take a chunk out of Alyx's side.
Not long after that, Alyx developed a lump on that side. Being the worry wart mommy that I am, I took her to the vet immediately. He felt it, squeezed it, rolled it between in thumb and forefinger and declared it a cyst and nothing to worry about.
The cyst would remain. As we moved around, I would have our new vet look at it, each one agreeing with the initial diagnosis. I once scheduled to have it removed during a teeth cleaning. The vet completely forgot, but once again I was assured it was absolutely nothing and not to worry. Not one of them even thought to aspirate it.
Finally, I decided to have the darn thing removed as it had recently been feeling a little bit bigger. Again, during a cleaning as an almost after thought, our current vet took it out. It was about the size of a large olive. A few days ago she called to give the results of the biopsy which I was kind of surprised that the vet herself was calling me.
"It's a mast cell tumor," she said.
"Uh huh," I mumbled as I chopped red pepper.
"Stage II," she continued.
"Okay," I managed while thinking about what I should eat with the red pepper.
"I was kind of surprised when I got the results. I really thought it was benign," she went on.
This, this stopped me dead in my chop.
"Huh? What? Ummm... can you... uhhhhh...." I searched the counter tops quickly for a paper and pen. "Can you repeat the name of that tumor again and the stage it is in?"
We went on from there to have a rather painful conversation on what Alyx may or may not have to endure from here on in.
I'm absolutely devastated. Crushed beyond reason.
We are meeting with the oncologist tomorrow. We'll know more then. Until then, my friends, family, strangers who just stalk my blog because you are a glutton for my freaky sense of humor and foul mouth, please send good vibes, positive energy, prayers to St. Francis, whatever you got. Send them to my sweet gal. This is the dog of a life time. You dog people out there know what I mean when I say this. She is the dog of a lifetime. She is not yet 11 years old and I am not in any way ready to let her go. Not now. Not yet. I can't.
She's gotta fight.
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 8:01 PM
4 Comments:
I'm so sorry to hear about cancer and your dog. It's such a devastating thing. We had a cat with cancer and it was so difficult, it was in an inoperable place and they told us basically to make her comfortable. You guys are in my thoughts. :(
okay I had all sorts of comments but now I'm sitting here crying.. I love Alyx!! She's my girl! She is the most gentle creature that has ever walked this earth!
anyway
anyway (I'm a moron) I was going to say that my sister, mother and I all still to this day have the metals that you, your brother, grandmother (I thought Irene was there too) and mother all held onto for us to get blessed. I recieved mine as a gift for my holy communion.
I'm so sorry to read about Alyx! We'll pray for her!
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