laugh with us
We know, we know. Breast cancer is serious. Definitely not a laughing matter. But we are those little girls giggling in church when we're supposed to be praying. We just can't help it. Please forgive us.
THE SENILITY PRAYER: Grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked anyway, the good fortune to run into the ones I do, and the eyesight to tell the difference.
"Go Susan!!"
(mary's mom)
"One thing they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child's name and how old he or she is."
Erma Bombeck
Subbin'
January 2011
Yes, I did work in a school. But now I do not. Now, I am the Church Lady. And my husband has just stopped working for Pfizer and has started working in a school. I know it’s hard to keep up. Believe me. I know. Just remember this, the ONE constant: Just like always, I still suffer as I squeeze into my khaki pants each morning.
Yes. Mr. Wonderful has just become Clinton High School’s newest (and, God help us all, the world’s most enthusiastic) math teacher, bless his heart. He’s been dreaming of this very thing for over eighteen years. Can you imagine? Teaching high school math. The very thought of it breaks me out in hives. But for eighteen years I have listened to him describe this dream of becoming a math teacher. (So bless my heart, too.)
I taught once. At Clinton High School. As a substitute. For nine whole weeks. And I can assure you that teaching high school anything is not my dream. Let me share my journal from that time to illustrate just how much it is NOT my dream:
THE JOURNAL OF A SUBSTITUTE TEACHER -
Well, they searched all over town and became absolutely bottom-of-the-barrel desperate for a substitute teacher, so guess who they called? They asked if I’d leave my “stay-at-home mom” gig and come play American Literature Teacher for nine weeks in a class full of eleventh graders. How hard could it be, right?
Day one.
Since when do high school kids have beards? And...excuse me… but does that girl’s t-shirt say ‘Gold Digger’ across the chest?
My khaki pants are too tight. I miss my sweatpants. I yearn for them so badly I think I’m gonna cry. I’ve worn ‘em for the past eight years. Why would ANYONE want to wear these stupid khaki pants?! Why? I wanna go home.
Ah, thank goodness, here’s a not-so-scary beardless young man with a bright smile… “Are you Coach Whitman’s wife?” Yes, I am. “I’m Kelton. It’s nice to meet you. Did you know that football players go to lunch ten minutes before the other students?” Why, no, I didn’t, Kelton, but that makes perfect sense. (My husband has preached to me about this teamwork stuff for years. I’m thinking that the Red Devil football players must go set up the lunchroom for their fellow students and then eat together as a team.) I definitely don’t wanna get in trouble. I think I’ll start a list of notes for myself.
Note #1: Remind football players to leave class ten minutes before the lunch bell.
Day two.
The khaki pants are killin me. But I fight back the tears. I’m not a quitter. I must trick them into thinkin’ I’m a real substitute teacher.
Bless their little hearts, these kids have stress. They tell me so. They have too much homework and too many responsibilities. They look like grown-ups but they are just big ole babies.
Note #2: The students need mental health breaks. I’ll bake ‘em cookies. I’ll set up a creativity center with crayons and coloring books so they can express themselves artistically. And of course, homework is out of the question.
Day three.
Hacky-sack in the hall! Am I havin’ a 1980s flashback? They’re playing hacky-sack in the hall! Dear Lord, I’ve been here three days and I’m gonna get fired. And I’ve just bought all these damn khaki pants. Brad Shepard and his friends are playin’ hacky-sack in the hall. Surely that’s not allowed. Is it?
Note #3: No hacky-sack allowed in the hall. I think. Check on this one.
Day four
I need to use the bathroom. I really really need to use the bathroom. The khaki pants are squeezing me to death. I tell them to behave. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna WET my khaki pants if I don’t go. I must go. I hope I can trust them not to go completely crazy. I’ll just be a minute.
Note #4: Never EVER go to the bathroom again.
Day five.
Jeans on Friday! Turns out teachers (and, yes, even pretend teachers!) can wear jeans on Friday! This is the best day of my life.
Oh look. The assistant principal is at the door. I hurry over to shush her – moving fast as a flash in my jeans - several students are napping. Welcome, I whisper, so nice to see you, Dr. Brothers….
“Mrs. Whitman, can you please tell me why four of your students have been seen wandering the halls prior to the lunch bell each day this week?”
Gosh, she’s loud. Well, they’re football players.
“And….?”
Jeesh. She’s gonna wake them up if she doesn’t hold it down. ….and…so…they go to lunch ten minutes early. They told me so…. (You’d think she would know this.)
“Oh, Mrs. Whitman. Bless your heart. They saw you comin’.”
So, what you’re saying is that they should NOT go to lunch ten minutes early? Poor Kelton. He must’ve been confused. Yes M’am. No problem. I’ll make a note of it. And since you’re here… would you mind sharing your policy regarding hacky sack?
Note #5: Jeans on Fridays! Jeans on Fridays! La la la!!!
Day six
Monday morning. The khaki pants are cutting off my circulation. Stupidly, we ate bunches and bunches of pizza over the weekend to celebrate my survival of week one. So that’s what I get. I am a sausage-stuffed-khaki pants nightmare.
And you can forget about tuckin’ in my shirt. Impossible. So that’s that. Fire me.
Oh. Here come the darlings. They tell me they aren’t interested in doing any American Literature today. What would you like to do, darlings?
They spent the next ninety minutes giving me helpful lessons on how to A) bypass the internet safety restrictions placed upon them by the oh-so-lame school district office and B) set up my very own MySpace account.
Note #6: No more pizza.
Day seven
After a brief check of our MySpace accounts, we get down to business. Who will bring what to the class party? is the question of the day. And I didn’t even know there WAS a class party! What would I do without their help, I ask you?
One of my students teaches me a cool trick she learned during her last pregnancy with a rubber band - extending the waistband of my khaki torture pants by two whole inches! I love these children. Our future is in good hands, people.
Note #7: I’m responsible for bringing a vast assortment of home-baked items to the class party. Sweet and salty. Also the soft drinks. And the paper products.
Day eight
Time to mix it up. I wear some navy blue pants and a lovely white button-down oxford. Tucked in. Things are a little snug, but I’m goin’ for scholarly. They’re gonna take me seriously today for sure.
“Can my boyfriend hang out in here with us today, Mrs. Whitman?” one of my little treasures asks.
Fine by me. As long as y’all are sure it’s ok with HIS teacher.
They assure me that it is, indeed, ok, so we welcome our new classmate, hit the lights, pop in a DVD, and embark on yet another educational adventure.
Note #8: Do NOT turn off the lights. Oh boy. Definitely do not turn off the lights. Ever, ever again. No matter how “movie theater" the idea seems at the time.
Note #9: Navy blue pants and lovely white button-down oxford looks more like “hey waitress lady, will you bring me some popcorn” than I might have realized.
The next seven weeks wizzed right by. They learned a little bit about Mark Twain, Edgar Allen Poe, and even a little about breast cancer fightin', courtesy of Susan. And me? Well, I learned a TON about teenagers. By the time we all hugged goodbye at the Christmas party, I made my confession.
I told them I wasn’t actually a real substitute teacher, just a fashion-challenged mom. In a moment of weakness, I’d agreed to wear khaki pants for nine whole weeks, and in a moment of clarity during a hacky sack game, I realized that the smile on my face had come from deep in my heart. I promised them that’s where all of them would stay forever.
Turns out they weren’t exactly surprised.
She's BAAAACK......
Mary - August 2009
She’s BACK!! Susan’s back!! I’ve missed her so much! Well, ok. Not so much. But definitely some. I noticed she was gone and I missed her some.
I mean, she went all the way to Indiana! That certainly gets my attention. Home of Peyton Manning! Home of Terri and Brenda! Home of Debbie and Michelle and a bunch more of our people! That’s where she went. Home to Indiana. Loaded up her SUV with her kids and all their kid stuff, kissed Jeff and the dogs goodbye, and hit the road!
It’s really far. We’re talkin’ hours and hours and hours. (I assume it doesn’t feel like quite as long of a haul when you aren’t throwin’ up every five minutes, but I wouldn’t know.) Still. This was a major road trip. With three kids. Whoa.
I can imagine there was a parade of some sorts to welcome them. I can almost hear the jubilation in the voices of the crowd that greeted them. Probably lots of confetti and shouts of joy. Can you imagine? I’m thinkin’ they probably got mobbed with hugs and kisses. Mobbed! They probably needed bodyguards, the people up there love them so much. I mean, for cryin’ out loud. Nobody would like a headline that would read, “Susan and Her Kids: Kissed and Hugged to Death in Indiana”.
I’ve been up there. I’ve met those people. I have witnessed this stuff. I’m tellin’ ya: they are so very loved. And right now at this very moment, they are so very missed. And a little laughed at, maybe. But I’m just guessin’.
Why oh why would I assume that the Indiana people who love my friend laugh at her? Well… like Brenda says: “Susan, you give us SUCH good material!” Brenda, I couldn’t agree more.
After the first night in town, she headed over to her parent’s house. Shockingly, she’s a little turned around (we both agree you aren’t lost until you panic). She cranks up the GPS Navigation System and heads out. Alone with the kids. Drivin’ around Indiana. I bet it was nice outside. She probably had the sunroof open. I bet the radio was playing Keith Urban. I bet everything felt darn near perfect. Can you imagine?
So, our friend decides to give good Ole South Carolina a call. She’s been gone almost a whole day and she’s feelin’ a little homesick, I’m guessin’. Who should I call? She probably asked herself. Who should it be? She probably wondered. Then she decided this would be a nice time to practice her good manners. She makes a courtesy call to her daughter’s High School Volleyball Coach. Just to be nice. Just to be polite. Just to say, “hey!” from way up there in Indiana, and to let her know that she’s taken her young’uns on a big road-trip family vacation and they’ll be returning in about ten days or so.
Only too too bad for Susan. ‘Cuz Baby Girl’s Volleyball Coach didn’t apparently feel like shootin’ the breeze at the moment. She had another direction in mind for their lil’ chat. She advised Mrs. Gone-to-Indiana to U-turn her happy lil’ butt around and get back on down here for volleyball tryouts. Pronto, Tonto. (Susan continues to roam the neighborhoods of Indiana all bewildered as she takes in what Volleyball Coach is saying.) Are you kidding me? Susan probably asks. Nope. Volleyball Coach probably responds, “You get your precious lil’ wagon back down here before tryouts or Baby Girl won’t be on the team.”
So 36 hours later, she’s headed home. Her dad’s comment ringin’ in her ears, “Susan, you’d starve in a grocery store.” Well, she might, but lucky me she’s got her GPS and lots of volleyball games to go to this fall back down here where she belongs with me in Clinton, South Carolina!!
Where the Fun Is
Mary - February 2006
Your mom warned you to stay away from trouble-makers. But you didn’t, did you? No, of course you didn’t. If you had listened to her, you wouldn’t be here now, reading about unlawfulness, narcotics, and tattoos. This is where the fun is. Susan’s buddies. Extreme Friends.
While you were snuggled up safe and sound in your pajamas last Thursday night watching “My Name is Earl” on tv, Tracie and I were insurgents on a mission. We were blowin’ out of town, headed up to Greenville with a rock-solid plan to blatantly disregard official hospital rules.
Nothing would stand in our way. We drove through the pouring rain in the dead-of-night (8pm), stopping only once for nourishment to sustain us on our perilous journey (Quarter-Pounder with cheese for Tracie, Hot-fudge Sundae with nuts for me). We were unwavering. Determined to see our friend.
We peeked down the hall to the left. We peeked down the hall to the right. Then, we snuck into her hospital room just as official visiting hours were ending. We were gonna to see Susan, come hell or high-water. We are rule-breakers. Rebels.
The mere sight of us slipping through the door made Susan laugh. The laughter hurt her tummy. We contemplated that possibly this wasn’t the best plan we’d ever had.
After a call to the nurse and a quick shot of Morphine, she settled down and asked us the questions that were plaguing her: ‘How’s my kitchen floor shapin’ up, Mary?’, ‘Tracie, did you scrub in the corners of my bathroom?’ and ‘Did anybody think to run the steam-cleaner over my carpets…?’
We assured our girl that her house was spic-and-span, listened to the detailed blow-by-blow of humiliations endured in the morning’s surgery “prep”, and inquired about her pain, her plans, and where her new nipples would come from. (In case you’re wondering, this is where the tattoo part comes in. I told you we are bad, bad girls.)
Only when totally satisfied that Susan had indeed come through the day in an acceptable fashion, bigger-breasted than us with a smile on her face, did we sneak back down the elevator, load up the car, and return to our families in the wee hours of the night (10pm).
Your mom warned you about trouble-makers like us, and you didn’t listen. We’re glad you didn’t, because take it from me, this where the fun is.
Susan's Sermon
Mary - December 2005
I really wish y'all could've been there for Susan’s sermon.
Yep. That’s right. Susan’s sermon. Reverend Tallman.
One day last week, Susan called me up and asked that I help her write her sermon. Your sermon? “Yes, my sermon. For PC. The students, faculty and staff.” Good God in heaven, she’s gonna preach.
Now, don’t get me wrong. PLEASE don’t get me wrong. Susan has a message. I know that Susan has a message. You don’t have to tell me that. It’s just that, well, occasionally my friend waits till the last minute before planning such an event. And this is Presbyterian College. Faculty. Students. And staff.
What will you say?
“Oh, I dunno. I thought maybe you’d wanna help with that,” she admitted.
How much time do we have to prepare?
“Ummm, let me see, where’s that piece of paper…. oh, here it is, under the cat. Ah, lookee here, it’s tomorrow morning,” she confessed.
And I assume they’d be opposed to us drinkin’ several beers beforehand…?
“Look, it’s no big deal,” she said, “I’ll just talk – about whatever. And probably play a video.”
My heart palpitations began in earnest at that point. Susan and I have played our little “videos” several times in the past. It has NEVER EVER gone off without a hitch. Equipment malfunctions, CDs misbehave, you name it. Let the prayers begin.
Fast forward through the sleepless night and the “what was I THINKING?s”. Bright and early the next morning, there she was. At her pulpit. Preachin’.
She stood there behind her podium underneath the hot lights for about two seconds before promptly flinging her wig off her head and onto a nearby chair. That’s our girl.
She spoke about her feelings. She spoke about what she’s learning and how she’s laughing while dealing with cancer. And of course, she spoke about our boyfriend Keith.
Most miraculous of all, however, was that the video (which is a heartfelt tribute to the people of our hometown who’ve been such a blessin’ to her family) went off without a hitch. The congregation clapped, laughed, and cried. It was really somethin’.
Susan’s sermon. I really wish y'all could've been there.
If Ya Give a Mom a Microphone…
Mary – October 23, 2005
While back, I decided to stop asking permission to be myself. ‘Round about that time, I painted my kitchen purple, abandoned my South-Beach diet plan, and started writin’ up our local newspaper down here in Clinton, SC. My buddy Susan already was herself. We joined forces and conspired to use our powers for good versus evil.
Breast cancer showed up on a beautiful spring day in 2005. Before the chicken casseroles started rollin’ in, before the Hallmark greeting cards overflowed her mailbox, and before the drugs wore off from her lumpectomy, Susan gave me a call. True to form, my friend was already looking for the bright side.
“Well, look at it this way,” she reasoned, “maybe now we’ll get on Oprah.” She’s said it a zillion times before, but this time, I was thinkin’ she might be right. I mean, it is an extraordinary situation – my healthy thirty-six year old friend facing breast cancer. I was shocked. Maybe it’d shock the rest of the world – and that's what ratings are made of, right?
She went on, “or at least meet Keith”. Keith Urban is our boyfriend. He just doesn’t know it. When we’re feeling generous, we share him with our friends Tracie and Laura – but the rest of y’all can forget it. We like you, but we don’t like you that much.
The lumpectomy was lots and lots of fun, as you might expect. But the hematoma to follow was a real live party in downtown Disneyworld. (My spell-check keeps getting stuck on ‘hematoma’ – but let me assure you that it is a real live thing. A monster of a thing. A big, fat, real, pain-in-the-rear, monster of a thing – and Susan got a bad one – right there on her right boobie.)
A nurse friend fixed the problem with gauze and other yucky nurse stuff. Bless her heart, at one point Susan referred to the medical freak show taking over her life as ‘normal’. I promptly e-mailed Oprah to inform her staff that Susan should be a guest on the next show dedicated to ‘bravery in the face of having yucky things done to your boobs”, then commenced to hitting ‘refresh’ while awaiting her reply. Oprah didn’t call.
Then a bilateral mastectomy, followed by chemo. Susan felt sick, lost her hair, and comforted those around her. She talked me into paintin' a local beauty parlor (which was in need of an extreme make-over), and stealin' a doghouse, paintin' it pink, and ploppin' it down smack dab in the heart of downtown. Another e-mail to Oprah - Susan would be the PERFECT guest for the next "my friend is not only boobless, she's also selfless and a little bit wreckless with a paintbrush" show! Still, Oprah didn't call.
Rhonda did.
Rhonda? Who is Rhonda? Well, she’s our new best friend, and she owns an actual radio station right here in the big city of Clinton!! It was her doghouse we stole and wouldn't ya know, she was gung-ho for the little prank! (Now don’t go gettin’ any bright ideas, Missy. We’d be more likely to share Keith with you than Rhonda right now!)
When Rhonda wondered aloud one night if Susan and I might be interested in coming on down to the station one morning and talking live on the air about breast cancer and such, we whipped out our calendars so fast we almost hurt ourselves. Us? Live on the radio? Talkin’? Are you kiddin’ me!? What could be more fun? What could possibly go wrong?
We put on our lipstick (so we'd look pretty on the air), solemnly promised each other to remain friends even if we accidentally ruined the reputations of our families live on the radio, grabbed two cups of coffee and the microphone – and went for it.
How did it go? What did we say? We have absolutely no idea. The adrenaline rush carried us through all thirty minutes that morning. All I know is that we were ourselves, and we used our powers for good that day.
Everything is Normal - Spring 2005
by Mary
Oh Dear Lord – you have GOT to be kidding me. When I said I’d do “anything”, of course I didn’t think she’d actually take me up on it! Nobody ever takes you up on it!!
“I’ll rush right over with a chicken casserole,” I said as soon as the diagnosis came in. My friend said, “Thanks, but I’ve got enough chicken casserole in the freezer to feed my family and yours until all the kids graduate from college.”
“OK, then, we can brew a pot of tea and I’ll say supportive things to you while nodding my head sympathetically as we chat cross-legged over little china teacups,” I said. “I am not a hundred,” said my friend.
“I know!! I’ll send you a Hallmark greeting card! They have them for every occasion and I’ll zoom up to Simpsonville, grab one and get it in the mail this afternoon,” I said. Hallmark cards always say what I’m trying to say, but so much better. “Phony-baloney greeting cards make me nuts,” she replied.
People are impossible, ya know? I mean I have offered her every possible thoughtful, comforting thing I can think of. Bless her heart, she has BREAST CANCER for cryin’ out loud!! She’s got a husband, three daughters, a dog, and a couple of psychotic cats depending on her! I’ve got to help! What, exactly, am I supposed to do!?
“Just be normal,” came her reply. Normal? Me? Well, that’s asking too much. She obviously hasn’t been paying attention. I’m the nutbrain who risks my own reputation every month by spouting off in the Clinton Chronicle about the joys of motherhood. I don’t have a clue how to be normal.
“Not normal normal, you moron! Just your version of normal will do,” she said, “Come over, hang out with me, don’t practice what you’ll say, don’t overthink me. Just be you - be my friend.”
Good grief. Fine. I’ll try to be “normal” while my friend fights breast cancer, hangs out with doctors, loses her hair and everything in life seems anything but what it should be.
I sure was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and a trip to the Hallmark store. But I’ll stay here and try to be normal. For her, I’ll do anything.
Susan and Mary. Tryin' to figure out what to do with all this free time...
So, Susan, what are you doing today besides takin' the sick young 'un to the doctor, doin' the laundry, drivin' the carpool, runnin' the PTO, fightin' the cancer, updatin' the FaceBook, goin' to the grocery store, fixin' the dinner and cleanin' the house?
