See you later, toast.

My husband Mike has cancer. Nasty MF @#$%&! esophageal cancer. Are you clear on what the initials MF stand for? Not My Favorite. Not Mon Frere. The other one. The one that feels so good to say. So appropriate. It deserves it for doing it's nasty work inside his body before announcing itself via a little fatigue, pain and weight loss. Clever bastard.

If you could lift the lid off my head an inch or so just to take a peek inside, the sound of my screaming voice would knock you off your feet. But that's on the inside.

Outside I'm managing the kids, the house, the dogs, work, volunteer gigs and trying to support my dear hubby. I'm showering, dressing and getting things done. Mike's raging too when he feels well enough, usually on the inside and sometimes on the outside like when we cook something that smells bad, like toast.

Toast is now an indulgence reserved for dry days when we can plug our toaster in on the deck to do it's job al fresco because Mike's nauseous all the time from the chemotherapy and radiation that are attacking and poisoning the MF @#$%&! cancer cells. And food smells send him to the moon.

Ideally, I'd be cooking him wholesome, healing, antioxidant foods that would nourish him, boost his immune system and detoxify his poor stressed organs. But he doesn't want to eat anything. He can barely choke down the protein and calorie laden shakes I make several times a day. So I say, "does anything sound good?" and then I make that or get that (mashed potatoes, plain sauteed chicken, bratwurst, pudding) and he takes a bite and then struggles to eat it. Strangely enough he's enjoying watching food TV, Diners Drive ins and Dives and Anthony Bourdain. Can't figure that out but maybe he's storing up ideas for when his appetite returns. And it will return because he will beat this MF @#$%&! cancer. We're about halfway along his journey to recovery but we'll get there.

Because we have to.


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