For Ten Bucks I Need This Bullshit?

I'm standing in the kitchen cutting a broiled chicken breast into chunks for Stu's salad when the phone rings. I hate the phone and do everything within my power not to answer it. But during the day, when the kids are at school, I at least check the caller ID on the off chance it might be either Casey or Cuyler or, God forbid, their principals.

Grabbing my readers, because I'm beyond blind without them, I peer at the teeny screen. It reads "XYZ Company." I don't know anyone at XYZ, or at ABC for that matter, but for some reason, I answer it.

"Hello," I offer.

"Hello, my name is Stephanie and I'm with XYZ Company. May I please speak with Mr. McCrockingdale?"

The telltale mangling of our last name. This is either a sales call or a market research firm. Since Stu used to love participating in market research surveys, my gut goes "bingo!" and I prepare to politely say "sayonara" to Miss Stephanie.

"No, I'm sorry, he's very sick. But this is his wife. Can I help you?"

"May I have your name?" Miss Stephanie has haughty down pat.


"Susan," I reply. "Susan McCorkindale."

"Well, Mrs. McCrockingdale, your husband has an outstanding balance with Spectacularly Stupid Hospital."

An outstanding balance? On our MasterCard maybe. But not with Spectacularly Stupid. Trust me; Super Suzy's in charge of everything that pertains to Spectacularly Stupid.

"He does?" I pause, surprised, and think for a second. We've paid Spectacularly Stupid thousands, and I'm not even going to go into what Spectacularly Stupid's spectacular stupidity has cost my husband. "I paid another of their bills last week. It was for, like, a hundred bucks."

"I'm only calling about this bill. I don't know anything about that bill. This one is for ten dollars."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No. Your husband owes Spectacularly Stupid ten dollars."

I can't help it. I start to laugh, hard, into the phone. "Wow. That's way less than Spectacularly Stupid owes him. How 'bout we just deduct it from the bill we'll be sending your client?"

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." I take a deep breath and start stabbing the chicken breast in time with my words. "Just. Send. Me. A bill. Steph."

"We did."

"Then. Send. Another."

Silence. What, she doesn't think we'll pay the bill? She thinks we'd go deadbeat for ten dollars? Not a chance. I want a blemish free file for when we finally unleash our fire power on Spectacularly Stupid.

"Seriously, Steph, send a bill. Or, as you say, another bill. We're good for it, as you can see by all the other invoices we've paid."

"I don't have access to those records. I only have…"

"That's right. You only have this one. Well let me take a moment to clarify things for you, my friend. We've paid Spectacularly Stupid thousands of dollars. We've paid on time and in full. We've done what we were supposed to, which is a helluva a lot more than I can say for Spectacularly Stupid. So go ahead, generate another bill."

"How can we be sure you'll pay it?"

It's all I can do not to reach through the phone and disembowel this babe. "You can't be, now can you, Steph? You just have to have faith that we'll do the right thing. You know, sort of like we did when we went to Spectacularly Stupid. We had faith, and we got fucked. Oh, sorry, how unladylike of me. Screwed. I meant screwed."

"Let me take a moment to confirm your address."

"Oh you have our address, Stephanie. And we have Spectacularly Stupid's number. Send the bill, and we'll pay it."

And then it's gonna be Spectacularly Stupid's turn.

The Kids Are Alright

Kids are amazingly resilient. No matter how crazy things get around here, I can count on my sons to still not make their beds, eat their vegetables, or lower their voices so as not to wake their dad.


Maybe I should be ticked, but I'm not. They're doing their best to act like it's life as usual even as they learn to navigate our "new normal." And they're teaching me a few things in the process. Of course, I wish they weren't holding class at McDonald's, but I'll live. Even if it means subsisting on Pepcid Complete.


For my latest conversation with Professor Cuy, check out www.dcmetromoms.com/susan. I think you'll agree, the kid really is alright. And I will be, too.

The Gloves Are (Still) Off

There's much that sucks about cancer. For starters, there's the fact that it's, well, cancer, and it's having its way with someone you love.

But there are lots of other little, stupid things that suck about cancer, too.

Things like simple arguments between husband and wife. You can hardly have them. You know it's foolish to fight. One of you has CANCER, for God's sake. Why spend what little time you may have left locked in a battle over whether or not to restock your supply of egg layers? Or whether white or colored Christmas lights should hang on the porch this holiday. Or what you'd do if you hit the lottery.

Now that's one of our absolute favorite feuds. We pretend we just won fifty million dollars, then take turns describing how we'd spend it. Why his custom train layout trumps my three thousand square foot shoe closet, I don't know. But I do know we've agreed on at least one thing. We'd definitely build a brand new house.

The fact that I want it on a beach and he wants it on a lake is why things usually get a little loud.

I know. We shouldn't fuss. But to us it's fun. We enjoy the verbal jousting. The running word circles around each other. The poking. The prodding. The "kiss me and I'll forgive you" expression Stu uses to cap each of our "energetic conversations" that makes me want to put a pillow over his face while he's sleeping.

Or while he's awake. Trust me, these days I could take Mr. Skinny.

Heated, passionate exchanges are just how we do things. Or at least it was until cancer came along and cramped our style. Now, just as we're making our approach to the rip roaring debate runway -- about, not to beat a dead decoration, the Christmas lights which I think should impart a lovely Tavern on the Green-like sophistication rather than a Ray's Pizzeria type ambience, Stu -- we both stop. Simultaneously. And apologize. And give in to the other's request.

Yick. Blech. Boring.

I won't do it, you know. We won't do it. We're going to let it rip and get rowdy over whether crunchy or smooth takes the gold in the peanut butter games, whether mashed potatoes beat French fries on the comfort food food chain, whether Dave Matthews should be killed or simply have his vocal chords cut out, or whether Marshall Faulk or Tiki Barber was a better running back. We're going to debate train layouts and lake houses, shoe closets and shore property and we are going to enjoy every single strident second of it.

We're not going to capitulate to cancer's crap. You hear me, CANCER? You can't have my husband's life, or one ounce of our way of life. And you're certainly not invited for Christmas. I don't care how much you like white lights.

Lest You Think It's All Sickness and Hospital Stays Around Here...

It's surprisingly not.

Somehow, amidst the weekly chemotherapy treatments, the days spent learning to "administer hydration," (a euphemism for "Suzy Gets to Stick Needles in Stu"), and the feeling I should put a cot in our pharmacy and simply sleep there, life goes on.

This month, Casey turns 18. Next month, Cuyler turns 11. And right this second, Stu's turned the corner and is no longer sleeping most of the day. Now he spends almost a full eight hours awake and making me insane. What's that pill? Why do I take it again? Are you sure you're not trying to kill me?

Really, it's ok. The badgering is so much better than being lonely.

Of course when Stu is asleep, I do my best to stay entertained and not spend too much money shopping online. I clean (yuck), I write (at this point I think I've got three books in various stages of completion on my computer), and I look for ways to better myself, improve as a person, and maybe even help pay the bills at some point.

Yes, you've got it. I've applied to grad school.

The package in the blurry picture above contains my transcript, several letters of recommendation that are SO good I simply must meet this Susan McCorkindale sometime, a copy of my book, a chapter from one of my next books, and an application for a Teaching Assistantship.

My hope? To go to George Mason University for an MFA in Creative Writing. My goal? To teach college someday.

If I get in, great. If I don't, I'll find something else to distract me. The point is that despite the fact that life's a little rough, it's still good, and it's still going forward. For all of us.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to drop Cuy at football and hit the pharmacy. And yeah, I may just bring my bed.

One gallbladder surgery, three ERCPs, an aborted Whipple, one round of Chemo, three kidney stones, and a dozen dead chickens later…

We're here, and we're hanging tough.

Ninety days ago today, my honey had his gallbladder removed. It was supposed to be a simple procedure. Just wham, bam, he's in the recovery room ma'am.

It turned out, quite simply, to be anything but.

Since that time, I've learned a few things. Nothing earth shattering. Mostly stuff like "shit happens," and "a friend with weed is a friend indeed," (for medicinal purposes, of course). To commemorate the three month mark, I thought I'd share some of what I've picked up. And sure, I hope you laugh. But I really hope you and those you love never need to know any of this nonsense.

The second the C-word is spoken…
You're promoted to Caregiver. There's no raise and no one absorbs your old responsibilities. In fact, the job comes without so much as a how-to pamphlet or a packet of NoDoz. To survive your new role as Super Spouse, remember two things: one, it's not a sprint, it's a marathon. And two, even caregivers need caregivers. (And those bearing wine are particularly welcome.)

Go home and have sex. Seriously. If I had known on July 26th how our lives would be turned upside down on July 27th, there'd have been a whole lot more adult fun on the farm. Think the kids are cool with M&Ms for dinner? Me too. You get the masks. I'll rustle up some rope!

Get your ducks in a row. If you think doing your wills while you're both healthy is hard, trust me: doing them when one of you is sick is excruciating. Don't wait. Do it now. Then go get good and drunk.

And on that note… Do your Power of Attorney and Advance Directives, too. You'll need another round of Woo Woos, but it's worth it.

Check your checking account. If your joint account hasn't been set up "with survivorship," fix it. Otherwise, if something happens to the main account holder, the bank will freeze your funds. And paying for that case of La Crema could pose a problem.

Your ten year-old will want a cap that says "Cancer Sucks." You'll say no, 'sucks' is not a nice word. He'll say 'My dad has cancer' are four even worse words. You will buy him the cap.

You will like the cap.

In fact, you will like the cap so much, when you get a second (as a gift!) you'll announce, Kids, it's time for your Christmas picture!

Even the dogs will get in on the "get well" gift act. Because to dogs, nothing says, Cut the cancer crap like the bottom half of a dead chicken dropped at the front door.

Pack an overnight bag and put it in the car. It makes surprise stays at your sister-in-law's easier, and it'll stop you from stealing her stuff. About the sexy blue tee and the Chanel blush. You didn't want those back, did you? I mean, they're covered in Suzy cooties now …

It no longer matters if the Giants win or lose. Just that my kids get to watch the game with their dad. Ok, it would be nice if the nimwits would win…

Dinner in the hospital becomes the height of romance. So what it's mushy mystery chicken for him and a questionable Caesar salad for me. It's nothing short of the happiest, most romantic meal in the world. Particularly when he hasn't eaten one in eight weeks.

The ten year-old wearing the "Cancer Sucks" cap will want a cell phone. Why? Because the cell phone is the new security blanket. Necessary when Dad's in the hospital. The perfect paperweight when he's home.

You enter the wonderful world of prescription narcotics. Stu's stash of OxyContin has a street value of $9,000. Hmmm. Pain-free honey, or Manolo-heeled mommy? Of course I'm kidding. I can buy twice as many Kate Spade's with that kind of cash.

You develop a new appreciation for those annoying quotes girlfriends forward each other more frequently than Kohl's sale coupons. Not all of them, of course. Just this one:

Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery. Today is a gift.
That's why it's called the present.

Thank you for all your prayers, cards, and concern, help with the kids, and even your calls. (Eek! The phone!) Stu starts his second round of chemo on Friday. God bless him, he's still got his sense of humor (not to mention his gorgeous hair), and that's half the battle.

Of course I'll keep you posted. Just try and stop me.

Love, Susan

You know you're overtired when...

You discover the dogs disemboweling a chicken and think, Thank God. Now I don’t have to lug that damn big bag of dog food.

You give the remaining Kibbles 'n Bits to the cats 'cause you're out of Little Friskies and you just can't count on your two pacifist pussies to go kill their own grub.

Your son asks if you miss the goats and you respond, what goats? Because you really, truly can’t recall Ever. Having. Them.

Your kids want cake for dinner and not only do you say yes, you – the fitness freak – go get three forks.

You go to put the handle of your Schick Slim Twin in your mouth so you can use both hands to lather your legs, and you bite down on the blade.

It’s five o'clock in the morning, you’re half way to the hospital with your husband who's sick with pain from, what you'll soon learn, are kidney stones of all goddamn things, and you’re wondering why Rte 66 is so dark. Hmm. Might help if you turned your headlights on.

The message light blinking on the kitchen phone makes you cry.

The messages themselves, from folks worried you're as overtired as they think you are, also make you cry.

A cop pulls you over for writing this list. While driving. He thinks you're texting and isn't relieved to learn you're "just good ole fashioned paper and penciling." He lets you off with a warning and a stern, "Lady, go home and get some sleep." Which you intend to do. Right after you post this silly piece.

Top 20 Things I've Learned in the Last Three Weeks

1. If you have to be sick, and I hope you never do, Fauquier County is the place to be. Our friends are incredible. And the friends we’ve never met and didn’t know we had are, too.

2. Just because a hospital looks good doesn’t mean it is good. Georgetown’s décor is Early Iron Lung. But the medical care and staff is four-star.

3. My sons will eat baked ziti. But only if my friend Denise makes it.

4. A “Whipple” has nothing to do with toilet paper.

5. When your kid says, “Mom, dad’s laying on the bed funny,” you’re going to the hospital.

6. You can make a 90-minute trip in 45-minutes. But only if you’ve had enough chardonnay.

7. The only thing tougher than being told your husband is sick is telling your kids. (And breaking the news to your folks is no fun either. Trust me, you will say “I’m so sorry for having to tell you this,” at least six times in the course of the conversation.)

8. If you can run out of pain medication over the weekend, you will. On Sunday. During the Giants game. When not a single pharmacy in the free world is open.

9. Four Tylenol PM will buy you six hours of peace. And one hour of vomiting.

10. People who tell me my husband looks good are lying. But it’s only because they love me. And I love them, too.

11. Verizon voice mail can hold over 100 messages.

12. “It must be tough taking care of dad 24/7” is code for “I need you too, mom.”

13. Three thirty in the afternoon is a perfectly good time to start drinking.

14. You can actually forget which friend has your child. That’s why God invented cell phones.

15. I am a terrible deletagor. Thank God my friends Ellen, Trisha, and Wendy are not.

16. There are angels among us. They masquerade as pancreatic disease program coordinators, and they keep their wings and halos hidden, but they’re there…

17. Single parents deserve big props.

18. Nurses rock.

19. The medical personnel coming in and out of my husband’s room saying cancer this, and cancer that, really are talking to us.

20. When all else fails, laugh.