Paleo Fail-eo

I've been telling my friend Whit I was going to do the Whole 30/Paleo thing for, oh who knows, somewhere around the past 2 years?

So after a brief string of multiple migraines(which I'm pretty sure I can attribute to both the lung and the ex, but who's keeping tabs) I decided I was finally going to take the plunge. She was so pumped, and even said she'd do it with me.

I read a bunch of blogs, scoured the internet for recipe ideas, loaded up a grocery cart with kale and spaghetti squash and coconut oil, the whole shebang. I was a little hesitant, because frankly a world without Goldfish crackers or bourbon isn't exactly a world I want to live in. But I committed.

I was kicking ass and taking names for two whole days, until this gorgeous sunny day happened upon central Indy and I just HAD to meet a friend at a local brewhouse patio for an afterwork wind-down.

I opted for a steak salad and tequila, the most paleo-friendly of liquors. One thing led to another and somehow the waiter decided to bring us shots of Jack and as I stared into that little brown vessel of amber whiskey I realized there was a very slim chance I could go another 28 days on this super strict plan that told you no cocktails were allowed, and so I lifted her high and took her down in one swig.

The night quickly snowballed into cucumber vodka lemonades, lobster mac & cheese and halfbaked cookies. We did however make some lovely new friends who felt it necessary to pick up our tab at the end of the night, which counteracts the guilt I had for only lasting 2 days.

At least I came out of that little experiment with a newfound love of spaghetti squash. And a heavy appreciation for anyone who can commit to something like that. That's gotta count for something right.

Another year, another Kenny in the books

I can't recall the last summer that didn't involve a Kenny concert. What do you say about a Kenny concert? They're always a good time, that's a given. So we'll just let this be a photojournalastic approach. (I'll go ahead and acknowledge that I have the most gorgeous friends, hands down)

This post could also be titled: the time I rerouted an oncoming migraine with 3 sequential shots of Jack.

 

Last one.

I remember getting the texts from my brother that day and my heart dropping. I had screenshotted it for some reason. Still to this day I can't read it without fighting back tears.

It was supposed to just be a normal follow up visit for Liv, except it wasn't.

I begged him to tell me. He wouldn't. My parents were hosting their annual Halloween bash that night, he "didn't want to dampen our spirits". Finally, he called and my world crashed down.

Brandin begged me not to tell my mom. There was nothing that could be done at that point, and he just wanted her to enjoy her night. So I put on my best fake smile and didn't say a word that night. The next day Brandin called and asked if we all would go get family pictures taken with them and Olivia. That's when my mom started questioning what was going on.

And he told her. Standing on the sidewalk outside the photography studio, on that cold October afternoon. All the doctors really said was that things didn't look good. That it came back. That it had spread.

Except, she's got the same blood that my grandfather has, her papaw, who has fought countless heart attacks, the same stubborn blood that pumps through all our veins.

And here we are another eight months and countless chemotherapy and radiation treatments later, with hearts full of hope. Because today, today is the day she starts her very last (God willing, EVER) chemo treatment.

Every doctors visit will bring clinched hands and tense thoughts, but there's no doubt in my mind this little kiddo is a fighter. She is my niece after all, and if someone tells us we don't want to hear, we're going to fight it with all our might!
 

Memorial'izing.

Memorial Day always seems to have a way of snapping life back on track.

A few months past the popped lung, single again, and an open agenda led me into the long weekend this year.

With some of my best girlfriends at my side, we embarked on Indianapolis during the weekend of the "greatest spectacle in racing".

New friends were made, cocktails were enjoyed, parties were thrown, shenanigans were had.
It was seriously the most I have laughed in months. I was genuinely having the kind of carefree fun I had been lacking for far too long.

And as I laid my head down on the pillow last night, I just smiled. Because at that point, everything in my life was exactly as it was supposed to be.

 

Pop Goes My Lung: The Biggest Struggle

I was so eager to get out of the confines of the hospital I never once considered that I would no longer be on constant pain medication, complements of my IV, nor would I have a handful of people at my beckon call any time I needed something.

I also didn't consider the fact that without that pain medication, the two incisions through my rib cage and the fact that my lung had been purposefully beaten and bruised would actually hurt a LOT more.


[ Pop Goes My Lung Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 ] 


It was somewhere around a week before I literally left my parents recliner. I literally couldn't get out myself if it was reclined, because I just could not use any of my core muscles without crying in pain. I had to have my mom or dad help me get up out of a chair any time I needed to go use the restroom, or eat. I slept in the recliner just because a bed was SO uncomfortable.

Even worse than the physical pain though, was the emotional side. It wasn't until I was back home at my parents house that it really hit me what I had just been through. I mean I woke up on a Friday morning just like every other week before that except my lung was no longer functioning. And then I had a weeklong rollercoaster of emotions when I thought I was recovering, and then learned I was getting worse, and visa versa. And then in one fell swoop I was being taken to a different hospital and rushed into surgery in the lingering hours of the night. And then... THEN.... after being constantly watched, monitored, cared for, they up and sent me home to handle it all on my own. (Granted, I wasn't on my own, my mom once again rearranged her work schedule so I was rarely left alone at their home, and my dad and LT put in their fair share of babysitting time)

So I spent somewhere around an entire week or two in tears. I was in pain. Coughing would hurt, breathing would hurt, moving would hurt. And to top it off the pain medication they had me on was making it worse. I couldn't sleep. I would get an hour or two at night. And when I did doze off, I was having the most vivid, outlandish dreams that would wake me up. I was struggling with the mental aspect where I knew my lung was well enough to go home, but my body wasn't recovered enough to be normal again. I was mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. And it was scary.

People would crack jokes about "oh aren't you back at work yet? Slacker!" and it would send me off the edge into a crying fit.

It was a few weeks before I ventured out of their house. At least four or five weeks before I was able to be up walking around in a semi-pain free state. Six weeks before I even made it back to work. Over six weeks before I even returned to my own house, and even then I had my mom or LT staying with me.

Truth be told, as I sit here writing this today, two months to the date of my spontaneous pneumothorax, I still struggle with it.

I still get SO frustrated that I am not back to "normal". I don't have the physical capabilities I did. I'm still not able to be completely independent. I can't even mow my own grass for god's sake. And for the girl who has always been too stubborn to ask for help, this isn't an easy thing to face.