This made me laugh right out loud.

From Buzzfeed.

Pens The Lotion Slut emailed me this morning

To point out that it's been a year.

I hadn't even thought about it until I got her email. I wasn't sure what to feel or think this morning, and I'm still not this afternoon. I had to go back and check the blog entries for this time last year to be sure.

A year ago I had, though I didn't know it for sure yet, cancer. Not a nasty sort of cancer, not an invasive sort, but cancer. Amanda The Amazing had found it during my routine tooth cleaning and had looked very solemn about it. So had the dentist, and the receptionist, and everybody else.

I remember feeling as though I'd been walking along on a treadmill that had suddenly sped up. I was barely keeping up, keeping my feet under me, as other people made phone calls and tried to find an oral surgeon that would accept an emergency appointment within a few days.

The next few weeks were like that all the time. I went from one oral surgeon to another to an ENT to CT and MRI and PET scans and had a lymph node biopsy (just thinking about it makes the right side of my neck hurt again) without really being aware of what was going on. I remember eating lunch with Nurse Ames, high on Valium, after the PET scan. I remember Abilene Rob coming to town the day that the biopsy came back positive, and trying to eat dinner with him. I watched him clean his plate--you have never met anybody who can eat like Rob can--while still feeling like I was in a film that had been speeded-up.

I remember it was the most beautiful fall I'd seen in years.

Today is a beautiful day, too. The quality of the light's the same, and the trees--those of them that are still green--are up against a perfect blue sky the same way that they were last year. Things have quit burning down to the extent that it's eerily familiar outside.

Max is still here. Pens and my Beloved Sister and Parents are still here, Rob is still here, my Brother In Beer is still here. The cats are still here. I yelled at Notamus today for stabbing me with one of his claws, a thing he knows he's not supposed to do, then felt bad for yelling at him, then felt incredibly grateful that things are normal enough that I can yell at him.

Part of my mouth is gone forever. It got cut out with a bone saw and ended up on a pathologist's counter, cut into frozen sections and analyzed. Somewhere at Dr. Elf's there's a mold of what used to be in my mouth, including a dent that marks the mirror image of where the tumor used to be. ("That's the tumor," he said, showing me the hollow on the alginate mold.)

I have three new friends, all "cancer buddies"--Lara, whose general pissed-offed-ness at the whole Cancer Mess made it okay for me to be pissed off too; Tashi, who provided comfort and love and concern even in the middle of her own hell; and Nikki, who didn't come along until after everything was over, but who provides some of the best on-going one-liners ever.

I have a lot more patience than I used to. I have a better understanding of what it means to be on the other side of my job--how little you remember from moment to moment when you're terrified, how huge even simple things seem, how hard it can be to get the hell out of bed. I missed a lot of work between diagnosis and surgery because, most days, it was just too damn hard to get out of bed.

Now, if something is going to hurt, I can tell my patients that honestly. I can also recommend Dilaudid wholeheartedly and without reservation. I know firsthand where to put an IV, how it feels to get up the first time after surgery, and what "tired" really means. I never want to see pureed anything ever again.

I have a lot of debts I can never pay. Lola and T-Bird, Carolita and James, Nick and Aud, Nurse Ames and Stoya and The Manhandler--all the nurses who took care of me inside the hospital and out--I want to buy them all dinner every night for a year. Beloved Sister made me a communication board because we didn't know if I'd be able to talk after surgery, and some of the magnets from it are still on my fridge, because they're hilarious. My folks were about as non-strange as it's possible for parents to be in that situation. My Uncle Jon came down and played housewife for a week, making it possible for me to go back to work. The Man of God and His Lovely Wife fed me, Beth and Matt buzzed my hair. . .I'd have to start a whole new blog just to say thanks.

And you guys: When I needed information, you sent me loads. When I doubled back and asked you please not to any more, you sent pictures of kittens instead. I got prayers and outpourings of love and good, solid ass-kicks when it was appropriate.

Some things have changed. Some things haven't. Some things changed for a while, then went back to the way they'd always been. It's been--and it seems weird to say this--a good year.

This picture is copyrighted by Deanna Roy

Austin skyline today.

I get all excited about the weather, and then everything catches fire.

I may be rather scarce for the next couple of days. The fires aren't near Casa Jo, but the air is horrible--smoky, hazy, awful--and I'm staying glued to the fire maps on the Innerwebs.

Pray for rain, Peeps. We need it, bad. It was enough that every stock tank was dry; now they're dry and ON FIRE.

OMG. It's supposed to be 80 here tomorrow.

And the low?

In the fifties.

I might just live long enough to go to California with Pens The Lotion Slut and see Beloved Sister.

In the meantime, the Universe reminded me that there's something worse than having a chunk gone out of your head: Joint Commission survey prep.

For those of you who are lucky enough never to have heard of the Joint Commission (the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations, aka "TJC," aka "JCAHO," aka "Our Benevolent Overlords"), it's a not-for-profit organization that sends out "Surveyors" every so often to your local hospital to determine whether or not people are charting, washing their hands, sterilizing instruments and changing lightbulbs--all the stuff that goes into running a hospital.

Surveys are usually unannounced. You can be sure that the middle manglement of every hospital in every city across this great land is on speed-dial to every other hospital the minute TJC shows up, to warn everybody that The Beast Is In The House. You don't want to be caught unprepared, without liners in your trashcans or with mops in the corners of the utility closets.

Accreditation is bullshit. When a survey's expected, the management of a hospital decrees that every chart will be audited for errors and omissions. Every bit of equipment that normally languishes in the hallways between uses gets taken away and stored somewhere. Things that are normally unlocked, like syringe drawers and storage room doors, are locked by the housekeeping staff, who usually have the only keys. Nurses are subject to surprise searches to be sure nobody's carrying meds in their pockets. Floors get polished and bathrooms get cleaned.

And then, once TJC has either not come or has come and gone, things go back to their usual comfortable, vaguely disorganized state. About the only thing that Joint Commission accreditation tells you is whether or not the management of a facility can handle having a bag of rabid weasels thrown into their midst unexpectedly, because that's what it looks like.

Prep is horrible. Everybody who shows more intelligence than your average turnip is handed a stack of charts to audit--in other words, you go back from day one of a patient's stay and look at everything everybody has written--and correct. Correction means hunting down the folks who made an error and sitting on them until they fix the error (or omission). Given that we move patients between Sunnydale and Holy Kamole all the time, chart prep means hours and hours of soul-destroying fiddly work, followed by the opportunity to have doctors and nurses from two hospitals and all the associated clinics pissed off at you, the auditor.

My job this week was auditing, along with precepting a new experienced nurse for the unit. Thankfully the nurse was sharp and with-it, or else I would've leapt out the window by nine ack emma. Chart audits are the worst thing I can think of to do at work.

But we're prepared! For the survey! And it'll be great!

Never mind that another hospital in Bigton got surveyed a couple of years ago and won accolades from the JC folks, only to return to having potato chips show up in supposedly-sterilized surgical kits. I'll bet their trash bin liners looked fantastic.