Rapidly approaching is the much anticipated one year mark of being released from my daily chemo regiment. Essentially I was choosing to take poison – removed from the pesticide market due to it’s ill effects on humans, now repackaged as an alternative to death and marked up 5000%.
Perfect.
It’ll keep me here with my husband and children? Let’s head to the pharmacy. And step on it!

Symptoms of taking such a fabulous drug were extensive. However, dealing with confusion, memory loss, nausea, vomiting, and a host of other unpleasant side effects I’ll spare you from, far outweighed being dead.
(yes, heaven will be amazing, but every mom wants a chance to raise her precious babies!)

We were informed that the chemo tended to have lingering effects, remaining in my system for quite some time after ingesting my last dose. Perhaps a year, maybe more.
I’ve never received a clear answer – that I can recall – as to whether or not the brain damage could be permanent and have remained hopeful…most likely a drug-induced, fuzzy hope of regaining all my faculties.

Recently I have experienced a tremendous amount of false confidence, resulting in narrowly escaping an emergency room visit on more than one occasion.

These events of late, along with episodes of ‘what day is it?’ ‘how do you spell that common word?’ ‘what’s my birth date?’ occasionally send a panic through me that I may never be ‘the same’ again.
My family views my not being ‘the same’ largely as a blessing. I have learned to let things go that may have dragged me down in the past. I think I now have the ability to be a ‘fun’ mom because I am not capable of thinking through all the repercussions until they materialize…after the fact. I can read the same book twice and still be surprised at how it ends. This is a money saver!
It’s much harder to hold a grudge when you can’t remember the conversation.
I am certain each of them could add to my list.

I refuse to go into detail regarding what may go down in family history as ‘The Handstand Incident of 2011’, but let’s just say I didn’t realize how old I was nor how long it had been since performing such a stunt, but I really did leave a lasting impression on my children.
And Eric for that matter.
Thankfully no one died. Namely me.
Nor was there any damage to property.
Or picture to prove it ever happened.
End of story.

It did, however, raise the question regarding the All-American saying -‘it’s just like riding a bike’.
Implying that said activity is ‘a piece of cake’. EASY! Anyone can do it!
I can do it!
Eric has since mandated that I am not allowed to attempt riding a bicycle either.
Yes, even if I am wearing a helmet.
Refer back to my wanting to be here to raise my precious babies.
You would think I could connect the dots.
Even though I may remember the aforementioned ‘Handstand Incident of 2011’, I was incapable of correlating potential ill effects from other activities I deemed easy in my youth.
My youth – as in the the 70’s and 80’s.
Heck! Even the early 90’s!
Yikes!
As I age I don’t realize that there are now things that I have not done in decades.
DEC-ADES! Oh my goodness.

Periodically I require as much supervision as my children for my own safety. Unfortunately, one cannot begin to see into the future and pinpoint which outing may be undeniably unsafe. So on a warm June evening I set out to the playground with my two pumpkin-heads, Emily and Daniel.
The mission?
Let Daniel run off some energy at the playground, while Emily and I enjoy the warm day and play quiet games, such as tic-tac-toe and hangman at the picnic table. All in hopes that the fresh air and running around will lead to an efficient, pleasant bedtime routine.
We live in an apartment complex and typically there are other children on the playground for Daniel to interact with.
Any idea where this is headed??

After giving him an ‘obstacle course’ to run while I timed him, secret playground missions to go on, and several rounds of the ever-popular mom trick of ‘OOH! Let me see that AGAIN! It was SO cool!’, I was forced into interacting – for a few moments – with a healthy, active, five-year-old boy.
Oh dear.
At first he was the commander – he’s been General Washington for the last several weeks and I’m starting to have nightmares that ‘The Red Coats are Coming!’.
Alas! Here was my chance to fight for our freedom!
Before we could begin, I received detailed instruction on how to hold my imaginary rifle.
This was a painfully longer lesson that I had thought possible as he was very specific and I failed – repeatedly – to hold it correctly. He insisted it be held properly before we could engage in battle.
Later in life his desire to teach someone the proper and correct way to complete a task will definitely be in his favor and his students, employees, children, etc. will greatly benefit.
For now, his mommy just wants to be done playing soldier on the playground for all to see.
I still had a teensy bit a pride left.
If I had known what was to follow, I could have skipped the desire to clutch that last bit of pride so tightly, for it was to be yanked from me in just a few short moments.

After several painstaking lessons on how to properly handle my imaginary rifle, I was allowed onto the battlefield with said five-year-old. We outsmarted the enemy for quite some time and had a very successful victory over the British with no casualties.
Excellent.

I headed back to the safety of games to be played on paper with Emily.

Daniel’s thirst for a playmate had not been quenched by just one battle.
Bummer.
As soon as I was seated the pleas resumed and as the requests wafted over the wood-chip covered playground for someone to play with the poor, lonely little boy with the incredible imagination, I pondered what my next adventure may entail.
I had already determined I did not want to experience failing another rifle holding lesson. Now what?
And then…I had a brilliant idea!
I challenged Daniel (the healthy, energetic General) to a race across the monkey bars.
The monkey bars are easy.
Let’s go!

We climb to the platform.
We place our hands on the bars.
I shout ‘ready? set! GO!
We launch ourselves off the platform.
Daniel races across the monkey bars to the other side.

I.
Well.
There wasn’t much of a race to be had for me.
You see, as soon as I let my body drop from the platform, my arms were ripped from their sockets.
I was incapable of releasing my grip from the first bar as all nerves were now disconnected and no longer sending messages to my brain.

I hung there.
For a bit.
Not certain of my next move.
Perhaps I was in shock.
This was not good, for Daniel still thinks the emergency # for help is 9-9-1 and as much as I drill Emily, she does not know where we live.

This is where I determined that yes, I do still have chemo brain.
I also need to wear a slip of paper pinned to my shirt with my name and address and emergency contact information written on it in bold sharpie.

‘Release! Release!’ my fiery shoulders audibly scream to my now numb hands.
And down to the ground I drop.

Even without Emily’s proclamation of Daniel as the winner, I did realize that, clearly, my monkey bar racing days were over.
Perhaps they’ve been over for many moons longer than I could have guesstimated.
Also over were any days that may require the use of my arms.