Married, pregnant, living with ma and pa

Since my mom was diagnosed with stage 4 esophageal cancer, her friends have been wonderful, I think, and have said and done all the right things. I thought I’d round up the things they’re doing right.

1. Diversion is good. Make plans. Let them know you’re thinking about them. Isolation is the worst thing someone with cancer can endure, besides mentally and physically coping with the cancer and the treatment. I think friendship is more important than ever at this point.
2. Don’t be afraid to call, but don’t be offended if the person isn’t up for it. In my mom’s case, when it’s right after chemo, she’s not up for talking. But do call family members to check in.
3. Things like “I’m really sorry this is happening to you” are OK when you first hear the news. Followed by a hug. But do everything you can to stop your waterworks from going all Niagra, and don’t go on and on about how terrible it is in front of the person! My mom and I like to pretend she doesn’t have cancer.
4. Little gifts and cards really help lift my ma’s spirits.

That’s all. I’m in a list mood today.

1. “Congrats!”
Because you can’t go wrong with this classic.
2. “You’re glowing”
I don’t care if it’s a lie. I don’t care if it’s a cliche. Bring it on.
3. “You look beautiful!”
I don’t care if it’s a lie. I don’t care if it’s a cliche. It’s a lovely thing to say.
4. “When is the baby due?”
Neutral and nice.
5. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
It’s another classic. And we really don’t mind answering it.

And I’ve heard them all.

1. “Get sleep now, while you can!”
Yeah, I get it. I’m going to be a zombie woman with a baby permanently affixed to her boob. Now please go away.
2. “Do things you like now, while you still can! “
Oh, the baby’s going to ruin my life? Thanks for the advice. That’s really helpful.
3. “Those jeans look a little tight.”
Don’t. Just don’t.
4. “Just wait!”
What the hell does that even mean?
5. “Everything is so much harder with kids.”
Again, thank you for trying to ruin any semblance of happiness I have about giving birth.
6. “Oh, you’re naming her that? Meh”
Frack you, I like the name!

Why are women so condescending? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

I’m a journalist. And this week, in the course of doing my work, I was told I was “deceitful” and that I was “posturing,” Two separate stories, one insult for each! In each case I responded, “I just ask questions.” Sounds like I’m doing my job. And I love my job. Because last year I worked for a pervert geneticist who stared at my boobs, talked about naked beaches in Argentina and told me about the women besides his wife he’d like to frack. When not being a pervert, he killed babies.

Let’s not forget the stint at a grocery store where I was told to clean up the mess caused by the screaming little frack frack in isle 4. This month I pressed the governor of this downtrodden-yet-marvelous state to explain herself, please. And I shoved my pocket digital camera in her face. That’s why I love being a journalist. Someone’s got to ask the questions.

I woke up just before my husband’s alarm went off, at 5:19 a.m., tried to sleep in a bit more, gave up on that, and now I’m writing. Writing in the morning. I may try it! Let’s see how far I can get on my other blog in the next half hour.

I thought I’d had it easy and the barf boat had sailed. The first three months of my pregnancy, I was queasy, sure, but I didn’t puke and had almost no aversions to food and smells. I’m five months pregnant. And out of nowhere, smells make me spew.

This morning, I opened the pantry at my parents’ home. My mom sat at the kitchen table typing on her lap top, either on Facebook or researching European cancer treatments. A cute fuzzy fuschia cap covered her cute fuzzy head. My mom can’t smell. That’s another story. I can. Pregnancy has left this sense, shall we say, a bit over-developed? In the pantry, an onion was rotting. I got one whiff and gagged, ran to the trash can nearby, and hurled. My mom didn’t look up. Facebook has her engrossed these days. She is skipping this round of chemo, because it makes her sick, and she’ll put that on Facebook. And she is researching treatments for late stage esophageal cancer that don’t involve chemo. She’ll put that on Facebook, too.

“I just puked,” I announced.

“Oh, you just spit up,” she said, not looking up.

“No, ma, look in the trashcan! I puked!” I said, desperate for a mother’s sympathy.

Unlikely. I think she laughed.

“Hey, why’d you puke in my trash can? Don’t do that! It’s new.” Yes, she has bigger fish to fry. Like, oh, curing an impossible cancer. “Puke in the toilet.”

I returned to the pantry to continue making my lunch. I thought the episode of morning sickness was a fluke. I opened the door, was again hit by rotten onion, and ran to the bathroom, this time, losing the whole breakfast, but at least I made the toilet.

My husband wandered upstairs, stirred by my melodious gag reflex, no doubt.

“I puked!” I announced.

“Oh, poor Ju.” He hugged me. Sympathy. At last!

I really don’t know what I was thinking trying to turn this site into some kind of advice portal. I am the *last* person you want to listen to regarding matters financial. Frack that idea. Ignore everything I’ve ever written. Mark and I had a shizer-ly year financially since we got hitched. Hell if I know how to save when the economy muffles your earnings like woah. I mean, all these financial gurus assume you actually have some kind of sustainable income.

All I know is this:
Baby-four months away
Me-employed
Husband-somewhat employed, going back to school
Housing-parents’ basement.

Yes, my mom fussed at me this a.m. for leaving my plate on the kitchen table. Yes, I’m too old for this. Yes, I drive my dead grandmother’s Park Avenue Buick. Yes, this house feels a lot smaller than it did when I grew up here.

But at least we don’t pay rent to the man, and I don’t pay car payment to the man. And we don’t have cockroaches. And we can’t hear our neighbors put quarters in the basement laundry machine. Or yelling/fracking/crying/playing Nintendo Wii. And there aren’t sirens screaming at night. Actually, strike that, I miss the sirens.

And I like being with my ma. She’s sick and has no hair. But I can make her put on her wig and make her laugh. And when laughs while she wears hair, it’s a good day.

Due much in part to our lack of incomes in the spring, Mark and I did what a lot of poor people do who have very little else to entertain themselves: it. As a result, we are expecting a baby girl this spring. It was one in a string of surprises that led us to our current situation. A short timeline:
April: Mom has cancer
May: scramble to find jobs closer to home
June: Despair! Sex! Fighting! Make up sex!
July: find journalism job in Michigan by a miracle
• Move into parents’ basement
• Sister has wedding. Drink too much.
August: I’m pregnant. @#$@#$@
•Mark moves our stuff to Michigan
September: Mark unemployed and in my parents’ basement
October: Mark substitute teaching
• Parents run off to Italy for 3 weeks
November: We’re still in my parents’ basement
• Mom continues chemo
• Emotions toggle between happiness and terror every day.

Despite a lot of good things happening-my ma’s good response to chemo, my baby, my job, my supportive husband-I’ve been unhappy. I’ve been blaming it all on my living situation, my hormones, the fact that my mom’s sick at all- but I had a moment on a walk today when I realized those are just scapegoats. True, I’m almost 30, I live my parents’ basement, and I all I do at night is watch Battlestar Gallactica reruns with my unemployed husband. But all this stuff is happening around me, good stuff too, and I’m actually miserable, because I’m in a creative void. And it’s my fault. I stopped writing on this blog, in journals, with other writers-my hobby died. I vowed on my walk to self to make book of essays online, on another blog. To just start. And hopefully finish. Will blog on Cheap and Married about this new blog about progress. Four months to baby. And I want a draft to be born with her. We like Leila June.