Hey gang,
I'm officially off the study. They asked for all the un-used medicine back on Tuesday. I start chemo this Friday at 10:30. I'm going on a medication called Doxil. It is apparently well tolerated by most people. I may need a ride to and from chemo if they plan on treating me with Benadryl. I get real goofy from that stuff.
I missed Knitter's Guild this week and I'm all broke up about that. Anyone want to sit and knit?
beth
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
No cute title for this one...
CT showed growth of a couple of lesions. Study is over. I will be starting chemo in the next week or so. It's not all bad, I don't have to commune with the commuters on the subway anymore.
(...who am I kidding? This sucks the big whazoo.)
b
(...who am I kidding? This sucks the big whazoo.)
b
Monday, March 9, 2009
The roller coaster goes up and down, up and down, up and down...
Hi,
I haven't had much new to report. Until last week when some bloodwork came back fairly nasty. I need to get a CT scan in NYC tomorrow. Very good chance I will be out of the study and back on the chemo train since it looks like the miracle drug isn't working any more. We'll see what the scan shows.
If you're wondering whether I think I can handle this with my usual witty aplomb. I think it sucks eggs.
We'll bring you more on this story as the details come in.
You're watching Dr. Bif News. Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I haven't had much new to report. Until last week when some bloodwork came back fairly nasty. I need to get a CT scan in NYC tomorrow. Very good chance I will be out of the study and back on the chemo train since it looks like the miracle drug isn't working any more. We'll see what the scan shows.
If you're wondering whether I think I can handle this with my usual witty aplomb. I think it sucks eggs.
We'll bring you more on this story as the details come in.
You're watching Dr. Bif News. Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I'm your kachina doll.
Well, so much for Judaism. I'm your Hopi Kachina doll now. The drug works. We have yet to determine exactly how much, but it works.
I went down to the subway this afternoon from the doctor's office and some guy was playing on a guitar and harmonica "ob la di, ob la da, life goes on la, la la how the life goes on..."
And so it does.
beth
I went down to the subway this afternoon from the doctor's office and some guy was playing on a guitar and harmonica "ob la di, ob la da, life goes on la, la la how the life goes on..."
And so it does.
beth
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
To Honor Kokopelli
Back when I was in medical school my parents returned from a trip out west with a gift for me. On my own trips I am wracked with guilt as I shop at the airport Discovery Channel store for a stupid stuffed animal remembering all the lovely jewelry and clothing my parents brought home from their trips. On this particular trip the gift was a pair of earrings. They were a little unusual in that one was an image of the Native American deity, Kokopelli, and the other was the inverse, the square of silver from which it was cut.
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
I loved those earrings and wore them often. Everyone else loved them too and I got many compliments. I knew I should put those little rubber things over the ends of the loops. They did not have clasps, just silver wire and were in danger of falling out each time I wore them. I had lots of earrings like that and I have indeed lost some but it never mattered much because then my earrings were cheap ones I had bought myself. When I was a girl my mother hadn’t really come around to the idea of earrings being a suitable gift. She wasn’t allowed to pierce her ears as a girl (only prostitutes did that) and never did. I wasn’t allowed to have mine pierced until I was 16; obviously she had gotten beyond the prostitute thing. Ooh what a rebel I was in college then, to pierce another hole into my ear lobe with a needle dipped in a candle flame and shoved through my lobe into the cut half of a potato. Remember that was in the 80’s and tongue piercing wasn’t a Bat Mitzvah gift yet.
Needless to say I lost one of the earrings and I ached with the disappointment of losing something truly valuable. I was rotating at the hospital and had some hope that a kind soul would turn it in. Who was I kidding? Lots of people had multiple piercings and the image of Kokopelli would have made a wonderful addition to the parades of earrings people had running up the sides of their ears. I kept the remaining earring in the hopes of finding its mate in a forgotten coat pocket.
Later that year I had the opportunity to do one of my medical school rotations on the Navajo/Hopi reservation in Arizona. In a nutshell, I hated it. It was cold and I was underdressed for eight full weeks. My fellow classmate and I were terminally bored. There was nothing to do. We were quite bitter about this because other students who had been on the rotation talked about it as if they had gone to Mecca. They had us believing that we would be invited to the doctors’ home regularly, that we would be invited on scenic hikes every weekend, that we would have wonderful cultural experiences. Perhaps after their experience with those students the local docs were less inclined to invite more students to their houses. It also turns out those students had a car.
My classmate and I sat on our cold tushies most nights without enough to do. I missed my fiancé terribly. The docs didn’t seem terribly committed to the Navajo and Hopi and the Native Americans seemed not to care too much about them in return. They cared even less about us two. Why would they take any interest in a couple of white chicks assuaging their white guilt? It turns out the Navajo culture is extremely reserved and it is rude to look a stranger in the eye. I quickly realized my hopes of gibbering fluently in Navajo by the end of the rotation were blown away like the grains of red dust that blew under our screen door every morning. In addition to hating that red dust which also blew into my eyes, hair and nose, I grew to hate the image of Kokopelli. It was everywhere, a ubiquitous symbol of the Southwest. It was on jewelry but also on every chotcka you could buy at a souvenir stand. And those seemed to be spaced about every 15 feet. It seemed demeaning to me to put the image of a revered deity on a coffee mug and it came to represent everything I saw as wrong with reservation life. Well, you can buy coffee mugs with Jesus, the Star of David and “allah is great” on them too. What did I expect?
My fellow classmate and I bonded over the experience. She was the first deeply religious person I’d met who didn’t give me the creepy crawlies, probably because her faith was genuine. We had a lot of discussions about religion among other things and are friends to this day. Now hey, I loved ya girlfriend, but I wanted to be on that plane home more than I wanted to breathe.
Eventually we made our escape. My fiancé who greeted me with roses is now my husband. I won’t say our early married life was terribly difficult but we had a few obstacles to overcome. Our first child was diagnosed with autism and my husband was diagnosed with lymphoma just six weeks before our second son was born. It turned out after a lengthy workup to be an indolent form of the disease that just sits there for the most part. I hated St. Louis. There was no winter to speak of and summer was like living on the sun but with more humidity. And let’s just say, in case any of my old attendings are reading, that my allergy training program was “difficult.”
I felt just slightly beat up when we left St. Louis for Rochester and my first job as an allergist. After moving in to our new house I noticed the weathervane over the garage for the first time. It was an image of Kokopelli. What the hell was he doing there? Within a year of moving in I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. One day, looking out the window and feeling sorry for myself I noticed the weathervane again and another notion came to me. I think that little guy is mad at me. Then I remembered the earring. I still had the lone one. I am not a superstitious person but the idea occurred to me that it was lonely for its mate. To follow this twisted logic to its natural conclusion would lead one to believe that Kokopelli felt disrespected and perhaps I could make amends by restoring the two mirror images of each other.
I thought that was a cute idea for a while. Then as I waited to find out whether the cancer was back I took the lone earring to a jeweler and explained what I wanted. He told me he could do it but it would cost me more in labor than the silver was worth for him to special order such a small quantity of silver. That was fine.
The earring was made, the two were reunited. I wore them almost constantly. No, it didn’t prevent another recurrence of the cancer. In fact, not too long after the new earring came loose from its clasp and I just managed to catch it before it was lost too. Since then I’ve had yet another recurrence, the worst yet.
Then I began to think about whether this deity really had it in for me. You see at heart I’m a “glass half full” kind of gal. My mother once said when I was little that if I was put at Christmas time in a room full of horseshit I’d be happy because somewhere in there was sure to be a pony. Maybe Kokopelli has been protecting me all this time. Maybe I’ve been lucky. No I’m not kidding. Look, my husband could have had the stage four lymphoma they thought he had. My kids have autism but they are very high functioning and adorable. I’ve had ovarian cancer on and off for five years and I am still alive.
Earlier this week I had another clasp put on the earring and I am wearing them now. Tomorrow I go down to Sloan Kettering. I had a CT scan done last week and we will find out if the new drug is working. I guess I will find out whether Kokopelli feels honored or not.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
No pain, no strain just sit and...oh nevermind.
Best to leave that title alone whether you know how it finishes or not. I have received some awed congratulations since my surgery for how well I am coping with my new, um appliance. Those would be hastily withdrawn if you heard the decibel level at our house this morning. Luckily since today is my day off I was still in pajamas while I helped get the kids ready for school. Luckily I was also standing on the easily cleaned tile floor of the kitchen when the clip let go releasing a torrent down my leg.
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
As I tried to wrap the cuff of the pajama around my ankle to prevent further spillage I yelled at Sam to get me the kleenex I knew to be in the next room. He returned with one. Thanks, dude. I hobbled up the stairs holding onto my ankle and got in the shower, pajamas and all.
After sufficient decontamination and new clothes I made my way downstairs to reassure Adam who was a little freaked out by all my yelling. By now he was laughing and calling me "Poopy." Sam also christened me with a new nickname.
Mrs. Splatter.
I love all the comments on the blog. The last post is a new record. If you are wondering what my cousin is talking about she and my cousin Annie along with several of my aunts showed up at our gate to wish us farewell by staging an anti-war protest against F.R.O.G. (the Friedman liquid SWAT team). Still don't know what I'm talking about? You mean you DIDN'T READ THE LAST POST? YOU MEAN YOU HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO? C'mon, it's not that long, scroll down and read. They all carried signs and dressed up looking as if they were going to a Mardi Gras parade at a mental institution. Someone even wore the box that the cake came in as a hat. The best get-up was Aunt Nancy. Although my mother insists that it was Aunt Martha. So to back up for a second. When Nancy was about 12 she had very long hair that she wore in two braids. When she decided to cut them off she couldn't part with them and kept them. Later, years later they were given as a gift to Martha (or was it Sally?) who for also inexplicable reasons also kept them. One of these fine and dignified representatives of the "Original Eight" strung the two braids between a piece of string and donned the braids by running the string over the top of her head and walked through the airport to send us off.
We were in fact, speechless.
Dr. Bif
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
No news is good news...
I know, I haven't posted for a while. I'm back at work and doing fine. A little busy as you can imagine. Still knitting and hoping to publish a paper in an allergy journal soon. So if you have guessed that no news is good news, you would be right. I'm still flying back and forth to Sloan Kettering on a weekly basis. It's a drag. I'm a little bored with the JetBlue terminal. Maybe the corporate geniuses did focus groups which told them blasting Lionel Ritchie loud enough that I can't talk on my phone is somehow soothing to passengers but I'm not seeing it. Nor do I understand why a rock band of kids in the central hub seemed like a good idea around Christmas time. A bunch of ten year olds singing "I see a red door and I want to paint it black..." is just wrong. It's just...wrong.
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
And now the entertainment portion of our show (log off now if you just wanted the news):
Liquid Warfare (pre-approved by a Moran)
I'm going to tell you a little about my mother's family.
All of the Moran siblings appear quite pleasant and intelligent. Quite a handsome group. Of course appearances can be deceiving. They are fond of family gatherings and telling stories but they are even more fond of causing hotel staff, neighbors and complete strangers to wonder, “what the hell is wrong with those people?”
Pranks were frequent in the house of my mother and her seven siblings but nothing compared to their fierce devotion to liquid combat. This is because as children, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with having a full bore water fight involving buckets and hoses at their large Victorian house in Romeo, Michigan . Indoors.
The fights started outside with the hose and Annie did her best to keep the kids out of the house but to no avail. Children would race through the house with buckets while Annie mopped the kitchen floor. “He's over there, go get your brother!” she'd holler at a kid racing past her.
New members of the family's mettle were tested by seeing how they reacted to a dousing. Kind of a baptism into the family, if you will. Aunt Joyce was treated to a little liquid greeting as was my father. He came out of the bedroom he and my mother were staying in yelling “what the hell is going on!” That scared a few of my mother's sisters but not for long.
Since the Morans clearly had a weak definition of social boundaries it was only natural that water fights would break out at family functions. The only difference was that the owner of the house under siege usually got a little more concerned than Annie did about the trafficking of ammunition through the house. There were always a few people, most notably Uncle George's wife, Joyce who really seemed to think the whole thing was juvenile and tried to disappear during skirmishes. She became a cherished target and we loved her for it.
At my cousin John's wedding, his wife to be, Susan, was extremely anxious about any liquid combat breaking out. She seemed terrified that we'd all start leaping over the pews, SuperSoakers in hand to drench the couple while they said their vows. My mother and her sisters couldn't see what the fuss was about. Just as in The Highlander they'd never battled in a church before. I wouldn't call it sacred ground, I think no one ever thought of it. Several of the cousins were deployed to spread the word that no (squirt) guns were allowed in the church. It felt like noon at the OK corral. Have you figured out yet that this kind of paranoia only eggs the Morans on? My mother amused herself in the meantime by getting some of the toddlers to run through puddles.
Rest assured, Susan and John were married peacefully although Uncle Bill's breast pocket was noted to be leaking. We were even fairly well behaved at the reception because Susan was worried about her dress. Her stern looks as she and John made the rounds of the tables seemed to quell us temporarily. However, next morning at the brunch several cousins were hunkered down behind buffet tables taking pot shots at late arriving diners. Wait staff had to be escorted out of the dining room with an armed escort. Eventually the fighting spread out into the parking lot. My mother complained that she was wearing a silk skirt and didn't want it water stained. Sally and Martha looked at her sadly, “well that was stupid.”
My sister was the first of the three Friedman children to get married off. Her wedding service was unremarkable except for being lightning quick. I don't know why, it was just fast. It might have had something to do with a sporting event that day. The pastor did announce the score of the Michigan game to the relief of my mother and the groom, Doug. The reception was held at the Hanover Inn. By this time the younger cousins had gone high tech bringing in elaborate SuperSoaker back packs to the dining room. I recall one of my very large cousins seated with his back to a wall, before him a very large plate of food taking pot shots at wedding goers. He nailed me right in the middle of my back. I was after all, the Maid of Honor.
The high powered riflery was a big hit but for subtlety The Squirting Pepsi Can ruled the evening. Another cousin brought them. Uncle Bill got his hands on one and made the rounds of the reception. Sadly, the wedding video was accidentally taped over with a Star Trek episode because someone didn't pull out the little tab...but on tit was a group of reception goers who the videographer, our friend Dr. Cimis, was quizzing about Kate and her new spouse, Doug. Into the shot walks Uncle Bill, smiling and holding a drink. He moves out of the shot just as the person next to him puts his hand slowly on his chest to feel it now soaking wet. I really have no idea how this behavior went down with the rest of the wedding goers. I think Doug's family mostly took it in stride. They are midwesterners too and are used to outlandish behavior. Surprised? Look, it's not the group of kids at a table in the back wearing black with everything pierced who are going to do something weird at a wedding reception. It's the group of straight-laced looking middle aged women who will start a game of “Chuckle Belly” right on the dance floor. Some of the guests were clearly fascinated. A colleague of my parents, Dr. Vince Memoli, was seen sneaking away from the reception with some of my cousins to score himself a Pepsi can.
Most water fights were spontaneous but one at least, was carefully planned. At Aunt Martha's reunion the Friedman contingent started preparing weeks in advance. We were all issued the latest in SuperSoaker technology. We had t-shirts made up with a watergun-toating frog on the front that I designed and the logo F.R.O.G. (Friedman Revolutionary Oceanic Group-or some such nonsense). I wore a bandana and shades and cut the sleeves off my T to complete the look. Kate and Ted did the same. Happy Hal wore khakis. Granny Franny wore a Michigan rally cap, shades and several fake tatoos. We parked down by the road and then surrounded the house. Franny (or Frankie as she is known by her siblings) burst into the living room and threatened to soak down the walls. We were rewarded by a prompt emptying of the house for a full on response to our covert operation. It don't get much better than that.
There have been many other water fights. It's hard to choose from them all. I know I'll get emails from relatives telling me what I should have recounted. And probably one from Susan who is a really good sport and will now just as soon soak you down as look at ya. However, I will add that no one loved those water fights more than Bill's wife Helen although she somehow managed to remain remarkably dry. She has the honor of inspiring a water fight where no Moran ever has before.
One reunion when the fighting had penetrated indoors, Uncle Bill got one of the little kid's rain coats, hat and a mop pretending to be his mother Annie. I remember my face hurting from laughing that night and even more the next morning when Helen recounted the resultant “shrinkage.” So in her memory I'm sure somebody besides my brother Ted was thinking it, but it was Ted who actually started the water fight at Helen's wake. He went next door to borrow the hose from a neighbor doing yardwork. “Aren't you having a wake for Helen?” “Uh huh.”
Helen would have loved it.
Next time I will either get around to the Legend of Uncle Bill and the Wedding Cakes, or Grandma Friedman and the Can of Tuna.
bif
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