Despite your indiscriminate efforts to invade my organs, your sick, twisted ability to grow and morph, multiply and attack my cells sending my lymphacites into crisis mode, I had a beer. I took a road trip. I slept in a cushy hotel bed. Despite your plots to destroy my good cells and corrupt my lymph nodes with your creepy cancerness, I slow danced with my husband. I fast danced with the girls. I celebrated, laughed and smiled as my friends danced their first dance. Looks like you're not so bad ass after all. Just try to break my spirit. You've got a impenetrable fortress of good friends, good vibes and a whole lot of determination to contend with. So this weekend was for you Mr. Hodgkin's ... and it felt good to spite you.
If you asked me a week ago if I'd make it to Sarah and Adam's wedding my answer wouldn't have been too certain, but we made the trip and it felt amazing. Like three amigos, Melissa, Craig and I piled into the Corolla for the long ride to Rochester, NY to see Craig's childhood friend (who has grown to be a dear friend of mine for as long as I've known Craig ... and that's a long time) say her "I Dos." At the advice of Dr. Dailey, I was cleared (and encouraged) to go, with the orders for many stops along the way to stretch and walk and get my blood flowing. Following doctors orders, we made the trip in six hours each way. I sprawled and napped in the back for the majority of it so for me, it was a breeze!
The wedding was beautiful. They said their vows in the warm sun by a country club lake. Sitting there watching them beam at each other flooded me with all the memories of our own wedding and how lucky I am to have this amazing man right be my side through all of this. Don't weddings make everyone sappy?
Most know how much I love an open bar and not being able to take advantage felt a bit foreign, but I made do with Shirley Temples (a forgotten favorite) which in fact are also included in an open bar setting. Who knew? But the doctor told me that I could have the "occasional
glass of wine or beer." I haven't had a drink in about a month so I figured this would be the time to cash in my one alloted adult beverage. But what would I choose? With much deliberating among the crew of us it was decided that mixed drinks have too many variables and the wine glasses were too small to make my one drink worth it. So beer it was. Ah, but what kind? I opted for something with flavor and girth. Something that I could sip over the next few hours so I wasn't the odd man out without a drink in my hand. I went with Killian's Irish Red and it was glorious. It lasted me through dinner after which I switched to the real hard stuff ... the Shirley Temples, extra cherries.
I did the YMCA, my newly minted biopsy scar beaming in my underarm. I did the Twist with three hilarious and always-a-good-time ballerinas. I sang the Sandy parts in "Summer Lovin.'" I even bumped to Sir Mix-A-Lot. This baby's still got back. We laughed over prime rib and wedding cake and smiled and hugged with the newlyweds and their fam.
But I knew my limits. The clock struck 10 p.m. and I felt like I would actually turn into a pumpkin. It was time. My body doesn't give me much room for questioning anymore so we left the dance floor just as the ties were coming undone and the party really getting down. Craig and I said our goodbyes and thanks and retired to the hotel where Tylenol PM and a luscious King sized bed were the perfect remedy to my tired, achy bones.
I do feel bad for the housekeeping crew left to clean up the wads of hair I left in the bed, in the shower, on the bathroom floor. I did my best to gather it but it's becoming a losing battle. It's now coming out in baby pony tail-sized chunks. I'm afraid they'll think a scalping took place. But I felt pretty that night.
I felt happy. I felt satisfied and proud that no matter what, when there's a dance floor to tear up, passed hors d'oeuvres to demolish and the chance to sway with Craig to mushy love songs involved, you can't keep this girl away. 
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