All around the mulberry bush

Apparently we have a mulberry tree bush tree in our backyard. Two of them in fact. I didn't know, which means I didn't do anything to cultivate them, which means that I can say that the fruit they bear is totally organic, which I think means that I have to charge you extra because you know about my organic mulberry bushes trees bushes.

It wasn't my fault that we found out, it just took Liz's eagle eye sister Brenda to venture out back. She's quite the cook. She picked a bunch then made fresh mulberry cobbler with the assistance of sous chef Cohen. Results?

"I love Brenda's food. All of it." - Cohen

"Aunt Brenda, that is the best dinner ever." - Jensen

"Nomnomnom..." - Me

All actual quotes. 

Last day of chemo #5 today. Liz has been able to be more active than at any point since this nightmare began. Gives us hope going into round 6 tomorrow.

Eli is crawling now. And by crawling I mean he goes for 6-8 moves then plops on his face to take a break. Liz says it is exhausting to move those chunky thighs around. I think he moves just fine: he pulled himself up to stand yesterday and now it's his favorite thing. I am lying on the floor and he was standing in front of me, holding my hair. He just threw up all over my head. Awesome.

See below for the most recent four entries into the Team Liz Worldwide Photos contest.

Go Team Liz.

Things I am good at

I'm at Midway airport waiting for Liz's parents and sister to arrive from their lengthy weather-delayed journey. It will be great to have them here for a few days before and after chemo #6 (coming up Monday). Busy day at work tomorrow with negotiation-o-rama and presentations. I just have to hold it together until I can crash tomorrow night.

Liz is doing better at this stage of the chemo cycle than she has during any of the first 4 treatments. She has pushed herself to be more physically active, so maybe that has helped with the pain and sick feelings, though she remains understandably exhausted. I would even say that today was a "cancer good" day. Here's hoping she has a few more before the next round.

Big boys are in Vacation Bible School this week. Jensen hornswoggled the leaders today and convinced them that he messed his pants. So they called Liz and she trekked to VBS on her own (no easy task yet) to pick him up. Psych. He totally faked them out so he could go home. I won't let on that I'm proud of his influencing skills.

It is fascinating to watch the amazing balancing tricks people do in the airport while carting way too much luggage. If I were that mom traveling without help and with a baby and toddler and bags and carseats, I would have accepted my offer to assist. But maybe I have my creepy face on, in which case, the rebuffing of my offer would be totally rational. Judge for yourself:

Yeah, creepy. I can't blame her.

I am impressed with the skills of these traveling people. Especially so late at night. I think I have some skills too. A few examples:

Things I'm good at

• Using prepositions at the ends of sentences.
• Getting the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.
• Shaking only one pill out of a medicine bottle. 
• Nighttime diaper changes. For the diapered kids of course.
• Doing the robot. Just with one arm below the elbow. But I'm awesome at it with one arm below the elbow.
• Singing like Aaron Neville.
• Unclogging toilets with a plunger. Note that this is the sole entry within the handyman category. But Cohen likes to tell people "my dad and I are the best fixer guys." Gotta break it to him gently at some point...

Now for the flip side:

Things I'm not good at

• Opening packages of macaroni and cheese.
• Snaps. On baby clothes, not snapping fingers. Come to think of it, I'm not very good at that either.
• Blogging coherently while exhausted.
• Lots of other stuff.

The party has landed! Off to baggage claim.

Go Team Liz.

The ice hockey contest

I don't know anything about hockey. But I could tell something awesome happened when drunk Chicagolanders launched fireworks and screamed "Woooooooooo!" (along with a lot of celebratory curse words) last night. Way to go, Blackhawks. Even MJ is in a celebratory mood.

Photo courtesy of Keri

What to say to someone who has cancer

After worrying for the better part of a week which obscure sport needed its rules explained for my writing class (final paper topic #17), I realized I should focus on something I actually care about. So I wrote a speech about how to talk to and support someone with cancer (final paper topic #19). Here we go. But just so you know, I think the first page of the Camel Wrestling paper was awesome.

Other people have great ideas and tips on this topic (cancer support, not camel wrestling). Previous posts:
          Avoiding the Stupid Comments List (3/14/13)
          How not to say the wrong thing (4/9/13)

I hope this can help someone who reads it as much as it helped me to write it.

Go Team Liz.

Cancer Needs a Hug

     When I was four years old my family went camping in the Colorado mountains. My dad took a photo when my seasonal allergies where at their worst. No tissues were available—and who has time for Kleenex when gallivanting in the woods—so I used the next best thing: my unwashed, muddy, sappy right hand. Filthy face and an especially black smeared nose. My ironic pale yellow shirt read hug me.

     My wife, Liz, has advanced stage breast cancer. Like the mountain muck on my childhood face, you can see the worries and pain and frustrations on hers. She is missing her hair, eyelashes, and fingernails. All outward appearances emphasize the exhaustion and discomfort caused by chemotherapy. She is one of many in the United States who are feeling the effects of this disease: nearly 300,000 women are diagnosed with breast cancer each year, and another 40,000 women die from it.

     When someone is diagnosed with cancer, most people don’t know what to say to the patient: they instinctively respond to the grime they see and neglect giving the hug that she needs. Saying the right thing, or avoiding the wrong one, may be more difficult if this is the first time they have encountered someone with cancer. What seem like natural or helpful questions and comments may actually be hurtful. Here are some of the best ways to engage a friend or family member in crisis, based on what we have experienced.

     First, say something. You may be uncomfortable facing the realities of cancer, but the patient needs to know that you are still there for her. If you don’t know what to say, start with that: I just don’t know what to say or how to say it, but it is terrible that you have cancer, and I am here for you. Sometimes the most helpful things are questions: Is this a good time for you to talk? Do you want to talk about it? What is weighing on your mind today?

     You might not want to bother her, or you might not know how to start the conversation. But feeling abandoned by friends can be worse than any imperfect comment. Pick up the phone, send an email, or stop by. It means more than anything. Try not to ask if it is terminal, how long she has, if chemo is hard, if it is one of the bad kinds of cancer. Remember that the patient is constantly thinking about the what-ifs, and she thinks about her own frailty each day. She needs you to speak up and be a friend, more now than ever.

     Second, show support. Contrary to what you might think, overused cheery statements are neither helpful nor supportive (it will all work out, you will be fine, keep your chin up, hang in there). These imply that a positive attitude will overcome any physical challenges. Likewise, lamenting on how bad things are (this is so unfair) only serves to bring her into a deeper funk. Cancer ain’t a barrel of laughs. And the patient might not actually get better. So find a way to be there for her and listen.

     She does not always want to hear that she is brave, she is a fighter, she is strong. She is brave simply because she is sick? So what was she before cancer? And what is the alternative to trying to fight? Be careful not to place more emotional burdens on her than she already bears.

     Asking what you can do to help is not enough. Let me know if you need anything is an invitation to never receive a call back. Be specific and direct: I am bringing dinner tomorrow night, what will you eat? Can I take your kids to the zoo this afternoon? I’m on my way to your house to do your laundry. I’ve been watching you. (Never mind that last one, that was creepy.) She already feels guilty for not being there for everyone else, especially since she has so little control over this aspect of her life. Do her a favor and allow her not to worry about some things for a while.

     Third, acknowledge that the patient’s situation is unique. It is natural to seek common ground, to share life experiences and talk about what you have learned through others. But do not tell her about someone you know who experienced something similar. If that person is fine, then the patient will wonder what his situation has to do with hers (hint: nothing). If he died, she does not want to hear about it anyway.

     Instead of saying I know how you feel, try this: I imagine this is difficult for you, I don’t presume to know how you feel, and I know everyone’s experiences are different. Do not talk about Lance Armstrong, other famous survivors, or talk about all of the people who “beat it.” And never, ever talk about anyone who died: You have breast cancer? My 84-year old aunt had throat cancer. She really hung in there until she passed away. Doh.

     Fourth, be sincere. A quick you look great can either be good or bad, depending on your relationship with the patient and how earnest you are. She knows if she does not look good. But if she is feeling unusually great, a well-placed comment can help lift her spirits. Or if she looks tired and ill, focus on something you can sincerely complement: her eyes, her smile, her hair, the grace with which she deals with her challenges.

     Chemotherapy cycles come and go. When a cycle ends, the patient will be glad to be “done” but knows that the rest of her life will include tests and scans and treatments to keep the cancer at bay. There is not really a light at the end of the tunnel, and congratulations are not really in order. All she wants is to feel well, to be there for her family, to enjoy life. But she will need you if the cancer returns. So celebrate the wins, but do not assume that her cancer fighting journey is over. She needs your ongoing friendship and support, especially when things get tough again.

     Finally, do not offer unsolicited advice. This one is hard, particularly when you are sure there is something that the patient has not considered, learned, or tried. Especially when she is first diagnosed, keep your advice to yourself, no matter how important you think it is. Mentioning that God has a plan for you or that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle just makes her feel worse for wishing things were different or that her road were easier.

     If you feel compelled to share your opinion, wait a day. Then if you still feel compelled, wait another. Still feel the same? Take a deep breath and first ask the patient if she would like to hear about the study, the article, the medication, the natural therapy, or the book. She might say no, and that’s okay: she needs you to support her decisions, even if you disagree with them. She is in charge, not you. She also needs to trust her treatment and her doctors, so any comments that make her question her doctors can cause more confusion and frustration when she really wants less.

     That was a lot of unsolicited advice. But it was free, and you get what you pay for. Just remember that the patient wants to have normal conversations, have friends she can count on, have time to laugh and enjoy life. When you have something to say, first ask yourself if it will help strengthen, support, and uplift her. If not, share it with someone else. Be there for her. Because no matter how messy things get, she will always need a hug.

Click for smiles

Here's our Cleavinger Family Video we just got from Blue Lily.
Turn the volume up to 11. (It might not work on a phone or mobile device but it works on Mac or PC.)

Awesome.

At least as awesome: Andrea's shirt she'll wear during her 7.5 mile uphill run, the first leg of the 200-mile Wasatch Back Ragnar Relay. Check out that unicorn:

Go Team Liz.

Goal disease

I'm done with ethics.

I should clarify. I'm done with the MBA ethics class. And by "done" I mean the class is over, not "I'm so done with the idea of ethics that I no longer want to have any." I still want to have ethics. Jeez, back off.

If nothing else, I learned a lot of really impressive words that other people smarter than I already knew. But I did a lot of thinking over the past few months, some of it intentional. I'm struck by a term: teleopathy. No, this is (unfortunately) not the ability to read people's minds, nor is it the ability of a U.S. government administration to spy on citizens' telephone records (like that would ever happen). Teleopathy is "the unbalanced pursuit of purpose or objectives by either individuals or organizations." It's also referred to as "goal disease" — focusing so much on achieving certain goals without considering the ethical or social impacts of such focus. BP, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, Arthur Andersen, Enron, Bernie... We can think of lots of business examples. People focus on a goal, rationalize inappropriate or unethical behavior, detach themselves from the situation, and make really bad decisions. Is it possible to see teleopathy in practice in our lives, even when we're focused on things that are good?

Yup.

When Liz was diagnosed with cancer I made a deal with myself: I wouldn't say "no" to my kids. Relax, I'm not talking about a parenting discipline edict. I mean that if they ask to do something with me, to spend time together, to play, throw a ball, ride a bike, anything that requires me to exert the little energy I have left, I'll say "yes."

Fail.

I've been rationalizing my laziness to play with the boys due to my exhaustion from helping out at home, watching out for Liz, getting up with the boys at night, working and studying. But even just sitting with the boys for a few minutes while Jensen plays cars and Cohen draws pictures means the world to them. They're happier, they listen better, they respond more grownuply when asked to help. And I've been missing out on these chances at quality time because of my own teleopathy: so focused on beating cancer that I'm missing out on many of the moments I can take advantage of. Time to say "yes" some more.

It was so good having Trudy at our home, and the boys miss her already. All of them do. She got Eli to talk to her (and beg...see photos below), and the big boys loved how active she kept them.

Liz isn't doing great, but one day at a time. It's a chore for her to even come downstairs once a day. But it's #5 now, and #6 is coming quickly... We're more hopeful than ever.

Go Team Liz.

Treatment plan coming into focus

We got the liver enzymes results back: nothing of concern, especially with the extra chemo workout that the lizliver is getting. Breast cancer markers results also came back, with all 3 still in normal range, and even lower than last time. Sweet <insert an obscene amount of exclamation points here>. Great news.

Liz is going into day 3 of the chemo cycle, when things typically start getting pretty rough for a couple of weeks. Aches and pains, nausea, insomnia, sore tongue and mouth, lack of appetite. Praying the good news and some higher levels of activity over the past few days will help her come out of the chemo funk faster. She's already lost some eyelashes, 7 fingernails, and she might lose some toenails as well. I figure that every nail she loses means another 10 years of survival. Gosh, I hope she doesn't lose any more, not sure we want to go much past 100. Super trooper.

We're doing what we can to try to keep things normal for our little men, but it still sometimes feels like we're spinning our wheels. The kids are doing remarkably well, though. They're funny boys, and I place a premium on a good joke. Cohen has a dry sense of humor and has mastered using a grin and an eye roll as his punchline. Jensen tries to think about what we expect him to say, then find something unexpected that makes us laugh. Case in point:

          Jensen:    I love you, Dad.

          Me:           I love you too, buddy. Do you know who else I love?

          Jensen:    Food.  (grin)

Indeed.

The treatment plan is coming into focus:

• Chemo #6 on July 1st
• CT scan 2-3 weeks later to calculate disease reduction from chemo
• If disease reduction is significant, then stop Taxotere, keep going on antibodies (Perjeta and Herceptin) every 3 weeks
• Surgery not currently anticipated/planned
• Continue kicking cancer in the shins

Thanks for all of the prayers, thoughts, service, and support. This is going to be a long battle, but one worth fighting. We're feeling optimistic today.

Go Team Liz.

At the Plainfield car show last night with Trudy, while Liz rested and Eli slept:

Chemo #5

The morning was actually really nice. Sunny and low 70's (the temperature, not the decade of fashion and music horrors). C and J had dentist appointments, neither one screamed or thrashed. No cavities. Whew. I love how excited they get for new toothbrushes.

Liz's sister Trudy came into town Saturday night for the week. She traveled in her "Team Liz" t-shirt (see Worldwide logos page). Her cowgirl and nursing skills have already paid off, as she wrangled all three boys and hung out with them in the front yard this morning. The boys love being outside, and they're already Trudy fans. So am I.

I'm still sore from riding my new bike around the neighborhood last night with Cohen. He has training wheels. I don't. Felt like it though. I won't even talk about the tiny seat and what it did or didn't do to me. Needless to say, I've already ordered a new one from Amazon.

Now we're at chemo #5. Got a private room again, can't wait to work and watch Family Feud. Blood counts look good, we'll get the liver enzyme and markers updates tomorrow when she gets her Neulasta shot. We'll try to do laps inside Target later if she can make it. She only had three "cancer good" days at the end of this last chemo cycle, so we want to push the activity levels as much as she can tolerate.

Here's hoping for a more restful, less painful, hungrier, and not-as-nauseating chemo cycle. Along with a few extra "cancer good" days. Here we go again...

Go Team Liz.

P.S. Here's Liz trying to make an angry face. She couldn't stop her eyes from smiling:

Three Stings

I've been reading Falling Up by Shel Silverstein with Cohen, just a few poems at a time. We talk about why they're funny, or thought-provoking, or ironic. Or gross. Tonight we read this, twice:

THREE STINGS

George got stung by a bee and said,

"I wouldn't have got stung if I'd stayed in bed."

Fred got stung and we heard him roar.

"What am I being punished for?"

Lew got stung and we heard him say,

"I learned somethin' about bees today."

I asked Cohen if he thought the bees could represent anything else. He paused, leaned into me, and said, "I think it's about Mom's cancer."

"What do you mean, buddy?"

"There's the guy who didn't want to do anything, the guy who thought he did something wrong, and the guy who didn't think the bad things. Mom doesn't think bad things. She decided to do everything to make the cancer go away so she can get better."

Exactly. Love that kid.

This cancer "bee" stings. It's the physical pain of the disease and the treatment. It's guilt, sadness, jealousy, fear, anxiety. It's embracing limitations and asking for help. It's a label, an asterisk. It's recognizing that close friends sometimes disappear when times get tough. And it's realizing that this is a long-term fight.

Life isn't fair. Fair is an f-word. We can't control the cancer. But we can control how we respond to it and how we allow it to affect our family. We can choose to be happy. I just need reminders every once in a while.

Go Team Liz.

90 days later

13 weeks ago Liz was diagnosed with breast cancer. What a ride so far: we started this journey with a lot of fear, and we're pushing through with hope and faith.

Liz is in the third week of the fourth chemo cycle. Two more to go before the all-important scans. If she's in remission, we'll ditch one of the three nasty chemo drugs and she'll hopefully start feeling much better later in July. She's feeling a little better each day of this third week, so I hope we'll be able to have a few more good days before the next chemo round. We're holding things together in the meantime with the strength from one another and with the help of many good people.

Grandma went home Saturday. We miss her very much. See photo below if you wonder why.

Cohen started swim lessons yesterday so he'll be ready for summer camp: a week-long camp for kids who have a parent with cancer. Jensen nervously watched his brother swim, with one hand on his pretzels and the other holding his backpack. When I asked him why he didn't play with his cars, he responded, "I didn't want them to get wet." So we sat. And watched. I'm looking forward to it again tonight. If the boys are awake and happy enough—I'll be the judge—then we'll go to this summer's first car show on our town's main street. They both love it, and it gives us some quality fun time together. It's party time, chumps.

Go Team Liz.

By Colette, inspiring cancer spouse, at mycomputerismycanvas.com

Stronger together

I don't feel strong today. Just tired. Only a few hours of sleep the last couple of nights, trying to keep sick boys in bed and keep them away from their mom. School yesterday and today, back home now.

I'm lying on the couch, seeking motivation to pay bills. No luck yet. But there's a Chopped marathon on the Porn for Fat People channel Food Network. So although it didn't help me send some checks, it provided me with an awesome quote. Made me think of me lady, and I also thought of our friends who just rejoined the cancer club:

"A man is only as strong as the woman who holds him. And I'm strong."  - Kent Rollins, chuckwagon chef

Great inspiration.

Go Team Liz.

Sick baby late last night at the urgent care. I also mean 'sick' as in 'awesome'.

Live greatly

Good reminder today:

"To live greatly, we must develop the capacity to face trouble with courage, disappointment with cheerfulness, and triumph with humility."  - Thomas S. Monson


The most recent entry in the Team Liz Worldwide Logo contest:

Trudy and her t-shirt creation at the Chesterfield 5K in Chesterfield, Idaho

Don't touch the baby

"Sometimes what you think is the harder road turns out to be the only one worth being on."       - Aristotle. Oh, wait, never mind. Panera Bread commercial. But could have been Aristotle. Or Toby Keith.

Howie Mandel and Theo Von punching cancer in the face for Team Liz:

Holly, you rule.

It's been a long few days with a whole lot of hand washing and 'encouragement' for the big boys to stop coughing in Eli's face. Time will tell if our attempts to prevent Liz from getting Jensen's (and then Cohen's) cold work out. We said that her room now has an imaginary red stop light at the door, so no one can go in without me. Jensen ran downstairs, drew a red almost-circle, and hung it on the door "so mom doesn't get our cold." At least he's good at coughing in his sleeve. He's also good at using it to blow his nose. But I digress.

Jensen's red light. And yellow. With just a little green.

In spite of the big boys' sickness, we've had a good few days with Grandma and Grandpa both at home. Grandpa (the baby whisperer) had to leave a couple of days ago. Jensen has made a few 'phone calls' on an old iPod to tell Grandpa to come back soon. Cohen had Grandpa and his big truck to himself at church. Eli had Grandma to himself. Or vice versa. Glad she's still here.

Chemo is cumulative, so this last week hasn't been fun for Liz. But she came outside with me last night for a short walk down the sidewalk and back, so maybe she'll be able to get up and about more this week and next. We change bandaids every day to cover her missing and soon-to-be-departed fingernails. Reminds me of wrapping a boxer's hands before a match. The fingernails will grow back, the hair will return. She's a fighter. She is strong.

Jensen snuggled up to me yesterday, looked me in the eyes, and said, "You know what, Dad? I love you." Cohen, not to be outdone, yelled across the room, "I love you too, Dad!" To which Jensen responded, "Dad, you're my best friend. And mom. And Cohen, and Eli, and Grandmas, and Grandpas."

That's what I'm talkin' about.

Go Team Liz.

P.S. We got our Blue Lily family photos back last week. You can't even tell that my gorgeous wife could hardly walk with neuropathy pain. Again, she's a fighter. I love this family.

Breast cancer markers update

A quick reminder of some reasons to fight: Cohen's bedtime book selection last night, and the big boys' interpretive dance on Grandpa's truck.

The chemo crud hit Liz today. Pain all over, feels sick constantly, no appetite. As she said tonight: "I think I'm obliterating cancer. It just doesn't feel good to do so."

We learned on Monday that her blood work all looked good. We got even better news yesterday: ALL OF THE BREAST CANCER MARKERS ARE NOW IN NORMAL RANGE!!! Sorry I had to yell. But I'm that excited. Check these out:

Smiles. Hope. Fight another day.

Go Team Liz.

Cortney's photo of Notre Dame's Main Building with Team Liz logo added

Thunder rolls

Long day with doctor appointments and chemo #4. Blood tests all normal, breast cancer marker updates will come through tomorrow. Anticipated treatment plan is clearer now too:

• Chemo #5 on June 10th
• Chemo #6 on July 1st
• PET Scan
• Stop the Taxotere and Neulasta!
• Get her pretty hair and nails back, ditch the bad Taxotere side effects
• Keep going with Herceptin and Perjeta for as long as they keep working (average treatment time on this regiment is a year, but lots of people go for years before they change medications)

That's all good news!

Long night ahead so I can watch Ironman 2 on FX. Regular visits to boys' rooms when they wake up because of the thunder and lightning. We're thinking of the people and communities devastated by today's Oklahoma tornado. We're praying for those affected, along with our friends who are in need of their own medical miracles this week.

Liz is feeling okay. She can't sleep for the first 3 days of chemo treatment, so we'll hang out for a while tonight. We expect that the chemo crud will hit hard later this week and knock her down through next week. But we see light at the end of this treatment tunnel.

Grandma and Grandpa are a huge help right now, and we're so grateful for them and for so many others who give, serve, pray, and care.

Go Team Liz.

Graduation countdown

Just got back from a 15-hour door-to-door MBA day. 6 classes down, 3 in process until the end of first progression next month. Graduation exactly one year from now. Domer time.

Liz is awesome. But you knew that already. It's tough to see the chemo taking out her fingernails and sapping her energy, but she's doing relatively well otherwise...considering. She somehow finds the strength to be present, happy, together whenever our boys need her. Amazing.

My parents heroically rolled into town today, so I can rest easier while at school again tomorrow. Chemo treatment #4 this Monday (boo, hiss).

More Team Liz logo pics below, keep 'em coming!

Go Team Liz.

1.  TBS/TNT network executives, punching cancer in the face at the Upfront Announcements in New York (Holly, my Hackberry Hill Elementary buddy, is holding the logo)
2.  Comedian Deon Cole punching cancer in the face with Vince Vaughn's head blur behind him
3.  N and T, our niece Christy's awesome girls, with cancer fighting t-shirts
4.  Christy, Patrick, N and T
5.  N and T with their Team Liz signs
6.  My beloved 91-year old grandma's Old Faithful rendering since she couldn't travel there

First Second Opinion

We journeyed to The University of Chicago Medicine Comprehensive Cancer Center Duchossois Center for Advanced Medicine and Thinktank for Extra Long Hospital Names yesterday. Cattle call. But the facilities were top notch and the doctors knew their stuff. We first met with a Fellow who works with the head doc. She was great: appropriately empathetic, asked the right questions, obviously read Liz's file. Then we saw the big cheese.

The good news: we're on the right treatment plan and Liz is responding well. In fact, the doc wouldn't do anything differently. She couldn't even feel any obvious signs of the tumor (you know, the one that used to be 7cm). Awesome.

The bad news: it's still advanced metastatic breast cancer.

I thought I'd be relieved after this appointment, especially since we're doing the right things. But I was actually disappointed. As crazy as it sounds, I must have believed that the doc would find something else, would have some miracle idea or therapy or medication or study that would guarantee a lifelong cure. So it was valuable to get confirmation that our local oncologist is perfectly aligned with super doc. But part of me wishes that they disagreed.

The medical campus is just South of downtown Chicago. After a 3-hour appointment, we endured enjoyed yelled at drove in rush hour traffic to arrive for a late, spontaneous dinner at Outback Steakhouse. Crikey. Liz has eaten little over the past 2 weeks, and she finally had a craving for some real food. Her body was probably screaming for iron as well—the Taxotere is merciless on her nails. She got steak. And smiled. We talked a lot last night, which we rarely have time to do enough of. And we laughed. Not exactly the date we would have dreamed up, but it was really nice.

The doc used the magic word—"years"—to describe Liz's prognosis. So our world won't come crashing down in the short-term. It's the long-term outlook that's the problem. This cancer won't be cured, but we want to manage it for many, many, many years to come. I vote for at least 50 more. High quality of life, plenty of time to teach and raise our boys, more time for Liz to teach me too.

It's not all doom and gloom. She's fighting this! The treatments are working. Round 6 will be administered on July 1st, and we hope that's the last treatment she'll have to have for a long time. Your thoughts, prayers, and service give Liz strength and give us hope. We want to kick cancer on its ugly backside so it never comes back. But if it does, we pray that the most advanced treatments to keep cancer at bay will continue to be developed and approved.

We will not live with fear. But don't blame us if we let it visit every once in a while.

Go Team Liz.

Coping with cancer, al dente

Just made some perfect fettuccine for me lady. And...I'm pretty awesome at cooking pasta. It is a questionable skill, given my current state of robustness, but it turns out that this chemo carnival causes Liz to crave noodles that are cooked to be firm but not hard: al dente.

It turns out that al dente is good for cancer treatment as well. We're learning how much we can handle without allowing our hearts or our emotions to harden or overcook. Liz is doing much better at this than I am. She still amazes me with her resolute strength, given all we've been through together, especially to ultimately be blessed with our boys. She says she feels more like mushy pasta. I respectfully disagree.

These boys love their mom. Lots of 'Happy Mother's Day!' exclamations and hugs for her today. Even some shy head-tilt sideways glance flirting from 7-month old Eli, her biggest fan. The boys are resilient and understanding, especially considering the disruptions and changes they've been dealing with over the past year (bed rest, kindergarten, new baby, cancer diagnosis, chemo treatments...). They give us reason to push through.

Case in point:  Cohen giving zerberts to Eli

We're going for the first second opinion tomorrow at The University of Chicago Medicine Comprehensive Cancer Center Duchossois Center for Advanced Medicine and Thinktank for Extra Long Hospital Names. I think it's across the street from the Derek Zoolander Center For Children Who Can't Read Good And Wanna Learn To Do Other Stuff Good Too. The doc we'll visit is nationally ranked in the top 1% of her specialty (by a magazine that ranks doctors so they can sell magazines), and she is personally known and recommended by Liz's oncologist. She's the same doctor who confirmed in March that we're on the right treatment path.

I hope that she'll say it was a big mistake, that Liz simply has a lot of stress caused by mothering 3 active boys, no cancer anywhere. Ever. Chalk it up to a faulty diagnosis.

If that won't happen, I want her to say that the world's best cancer researchers guarantee that Liz will be completely healed by July, forever, on her current treatment plan.

If that won't happen, then it must be time to get a second second opinion.

We already received official governmental confirmation that all will be well. Jesse White, our beloved, narcissistic Secretary of State of Illinois, officially declares the disease temporary. Pictorial proof:

This whole cancer thing just has to be over soon. The chemo treatments are beating up my beautiful bride. But we'll keep working on getting stronger, firmer, without becoming too hardened. Al dente works for us, but there is one exception: we'll harden our resolve, and we'll become more firm in our commitment to do everything we can to fight this. As a ND friend said to Liz: fight like a girl!

Happy Mother's Day to the strongest, most intuitive, most patient, most caring mom our boys could have hoped for.

And a very grateful Mother's Day to those brave, selfless birth mothers and families who entrusted us to raise Cohen and Jensen and allowed them to become a natural part of our family.

Go Team Liz.

What it's like to have boys

Actual bath time exchange between Jensen (3) and Cohen (6). Pretty normal stuff around here.

J:   Hey Pirate? Hey, Pirate? Pirate? PIRATE?! Wisten to me!
C:  En guarde, you scalawag.
J:   Please help me find some food for me?
C:  Arrrr... The rotten fish be stinky. Let's fill our ducks up with water. Watarrrrrrrrrrr...
J:   Water fight!
C:  No no no I'm not a pirate any more. Stop it! Stop it! I said I'm not a pirate I'm not even kidding I promise. DAAAAAAD!
J:   The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round. The pirate on the tub goes splash splash splash, all froo the town.
C:  Take that! Walk the plank.
J:   Stop eating my water.
C:  No, you stop eating your water.
J:   Jingle bells, jingle bells, la la la la la.
C:  Your mom eats your water.

J:   Be quiet!
C:  Why?
J:   Cuv the sea monster is hiding, I can't find him.
C:  He ate all of your ducks.
J:   No, he's hiding. My ducks will get him and keep us safe.
C:  Whew.

And...scene.