diagnosis: strep

Yeah. Just what I need, considering the completed version of my first chapter is due in a week and I'm scheduled to teach and be observed on Friday and my students have another paper coming up so they all want to meet with me. All I want is for someone to hold me. Oh, wait. That can't happen for another 24 hours because I'll be contagious til then.

cooking with mom

On Saturday, my mom and I made a giant coconut cream pie for the family dinner we were having later that evening. My mother's desserts are legendary, and I learned how to cook and entertain at her hand. True to Midwestern cooking, though, I didn't know any spices other than salt, pepper, and butter until my senior year of college. I think you won't be disappointed by the components of this pie if you're from that school:


First we toasted the coconut for the topping.

In the morning, mom made the crust, which is sort of like a shortbread with pecans in it, pressed into the bottom and up the sides of a 9X13:



The next step is mixing up a cream cheese layer that features cream cheese (duh), sugar, and more sugar in the form of that lovely modern creation, Cool Whip:



This is then spread on the cooled crust and put into the fridge to set a bit. Then I made the custard layer, which is 4 packets of vanilla pudding made with only enough milk for 3, which makes it thick and crazy. I guess the original recipe featured whole milk, but my mom improvised with half and half and 2%:



When the custard is cooked, I added shredded coconut. Mom only measured out a cup, but I snuck in a bunch more:



The custard is then chilled so it can set up, and then spread over the cream cheese layer. The final step is topping it all with more Cool Whip:



The finished product weighs several pounds, is far too decadent (I'd lighten it up with regular milk, light CW, and light cream cheese should I'd make it myself), and oh so yummy:



The clan snapped it right up.

at least they sometimes still have a sense of humor

(Picture me waiting to walk through the metal detector at MSN.)

TSA guy: You ready, ma'am? Whatcha waiting for? Come on through!
(I walk through and hand him my boarding pass)
TSA guy: I mean, unless you don't wanna leave us here...
Me: Well...
TSA guy: I could go for you, if you'd like! I'd be happy to do that.
Me: I think that would be against TSA regulations, sir. *winks*
TSA guy: (laughs) Have a good day!

assault

I was sitting on our porch this evening when the rains started. Rain falling in the desert is a total assault on the senses. The sky darkens in seconds. Often, the rain blows away as quickly as it blows in, soaking the ground, flooding streets and backyards until you can't remember whether there ever was asphalt and xeroscaping below that water. The drops are cold, cold, cold compared to the hot concrete beneath your feet and the warm ambient air. But oh, the scent. The scent is pungent and raw and forceful. It forces you to stop, to recognize that something around you has changed, is changing, will forever be changed.

I have avoided writing about this for four months. First, because things were uncertain (as if they still aren't). Then because there was news I needed to share with friends who might read it otherwise here. Then because every time I sat down to write this, I choked on my own tears. Then because the only way I knew how to talk about it without repeating that experience was cold and clinical and detached. Then because I just couldn't bring myself to add more finality to this situation.

My mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in June. At first, her doctors were hopeful that they could successfully remove her tumor; after all, her cancer had not metastasized and it was caught fairly early as far as this type of cancer goes. Surgery would buy her more time, maybe even a slim chance at cure. Pancreatic cancer is not a friendly kind of cancer, if there even is such a thing. It comes with all sorts of pain, all sorts of digestive and endocrine issues, and very little chance of survival. My mom underwent a round of chemotherapy and radiation to shrink her tumor away from vital blood vessels in order to prepare her for surgery; the chemicals pumped into her body did not work and surgery, according to two of the leading cancer centers in this country, is too dangerous to perform.

She started her second round of "life-prolonging chemotherapy" (probably one of the worst phrases I have ever heard, or uttered) today. After this round, and unless she enrolls in a clinical trial of some sort, there is nothing more that modern, Western medicine can do for her except hold her hand while we wait.

Knowing that my mother will die long before I ever expected her to be gone is a feeling I am still grappling with, and having a difficult time articulating. But like rain falling in the desert, it is a total assault on my senses, on my very sense of being.