Wrong place, wrong time

a tale of eye tumors, police lockdowns, and more

Our day started at 5:00am today, and it’s 10:15pm and I’m still awake.

What a day.

Clark had his first major follow-up appointment at Mass Eye and Ear Infirmary today, for his ocular melanoma tumor check-up. His form of cancer has various layers of medical intervention to it, but today was about two issues: 1) did the radiation from December shrink his tumor? and 2) getting an injection IN HIS FREAKING EYEBALL that will help preserve his vision.

We knew all this would happen. That he’d get an eye exam. Have his eyes dilated. Get an eye ultrasound, have other tests done - then see the doctor for the results, followed by The Dreaded Needle.

What we didn’t expect was a police lockdown of half a mile in front of the hospital and a shooting.

So.

X marks the spot over his tumor eye. As for why we even have this picture, a staff member loved my bag, then saw Clark’s bag, and insisted on taking our picture. She offered to take one using my phone, so we’d have one, because we were “cute.” She’s right. We’re so stinkin’ cute LOL.

At no point were we unsafe, but for about 10 minutes, as we waited in Pod 1 of the 12th floor of MEEI, we watched “Breaking News” on the television, with images of the street below us blasted all over the screen.

“Police activity” at MGH that shut down a half mile of Cambridge Street made me immediately worry about a bomb. Visions of 2013 Boston went through my mind.

And when you’re on the 12th floor of a building with that floating through your head, waiting for news ain’t fun.

I am a “worst case scenario” person. It’s my default. Meanwhile, Clark, WHO WAS ABOUT TO HAVE A NEEDLE IN HIS EYE, calmly said, “If there’s a problem, someone in charge will tell us what to do.”

Hah. AHAHAHAHAHAHA, ok. Sure, hon.

Some of us have a “trust the universe” approach to life (Clark) and some of us have a “the universe hasn’t earned my trust yet” (me).

Clark was right, though. If you’re curious about the news story from today in Boston, you can read it here.

The good news: Clark’s tumor shrank! (Shrunk? Has shrunk? Geschrunken? Whatever… it got smaller!). That’s FANTASTIC news. Buh-bye, tumor! Keep getting smaller. It will eventually (assuming more positive news) turn into a scar, never disappearing, but the radiation kills it. We want that outcome!

He also has zero complications, which is fabulous news as well.

Then, though, came the needle. I have zero needle phobia, but I do have a “things in my eye” phobia. I can barely put eye drops in my own eyes. Contact lenses are a huge NOPE! So when they numbed poor Clark’s with drops, then put this weird thing under the eyelid (called a pledget) soaked in numbing solution, with a long string attached, I closed my eyes and thought about the fact that I’d rather go through a 28-hour unmedicated labor with 15 of those hours on Pitocin, and have an acynclytic head presentation than go through what Clark was going through.

See? Eye phobia.

(For the record, I actually did have that 28-hour labor with my 15 year old, so…).

The injections help to preserve his vision, because retinopathy after radiation treatment is common, and his tumor was super close to the retina. But for now, he’s done with this part of his cancer follow-up.

Of course, when we left the hospital, I drove. And, of course, because of the massive police presence and a half-mile stretch of city streets still shut down, traffic was a nightmare. At one point, I shut off the engine to our car for 15 minutes IN the street, because 10 light cycles went by without an inch of movement.

Finally, it thinned out, and we drove home. Went back to work. Took our son to baseball practice. Filled our adult kids in on Dad’s good news. Planned an upcoming camping trip with friends (we’re currently unpacking all our camping equipment, cleaning the cots, setting up the tents, and hoping it’s all still good!).

Because we have to live, right? Take what we have while we have it and soak it in, moment by gifted moment.

And I want every moment with this man. I will settle for no less.

In late June, he gets CT scans and an MRI and sees his medical oncologist, who monitors for metastasis. For the next ten years, we’ll live in 6-month chunks, holding our breath with each new consultation.

And hoping to exhale easily.

May you breathe easy today. <3

May every moment matter.

---

Hamish and Amy Are in Edits

Over the next day or two, Shopping for a Booty Call will be released. It will be a “live” release (no preorder buttons), and will be 0.99. Watch for it shortly!

And Shopping for a Highlander’s Elopement is a 300-page extravaganza of fun. Here’s an excerpt:

She’s been going through one of my duffel bags, one I left here after my last away match in Spain. She offered to help me sort through it, tossing out ancient protein bars, stray socks, and, unfortunately, a used shin guard that smells like Satan’s laundry.

And then she pulls out something that makes me freeze mid-push-up.

“Oh, my God,” she says slowly. “Is this my scrunchie? I wondered what happened to it! I have been looking for this one forever! It's my favorite.” The hair thingie is emerald green and made of the softest fabric.

So soft.

So nice.

So–

“Dinna sniff it!” I pop up way too fast. Ouch.

Amy pauses, the cloth halfway to her face. She gives me a very skeptical look under her lashes.

"What do you mean? Why would that be your first reaction?"

"No reason," I lie. "It's just been buried in an athletic bag all these months. It has bacteria that can spelunk up your nose so far, it’ll squat in yer brain and you’ll never get it out."

She’s already smelling it, d@mn it. If you tell Amy not to do something, you might as well tell her to do it.

“Too late,” she says, frowning at it. “It smells like s3x.”

My face goes numb and I lose my words.

She turns to look at me. “Hamish?”

I don’t answer.

I have never not answered a question in my life. I’m highly social. Chatty, even. I over-share. I once told her that I prefer to put on my pants just as they come out of the dryer when I visit America, because the warm fabric is like a bollocks hug.

But right now?

I go silent.

Amy steps closer, scrunchie held between two fingers like she’s presenting forensic evidence on a crime show. I half expect her to find a Sharpie and write "Exhibit A" on the d@mn thing.

“Why does it smell like s3x, Hamish?”

Still quiet.

“Is this… mine?” she asks again.

I nod once.

“You took it?”

I nod again.

“For your hair?”

I shake my head.

She narrows her eyes. “For your hair or… someone else's hair?”

"It's a bit more complicated than that." Sweat breaks out all over my chest again.

"Scrunchies are designed to be used on hair, Hamish. It's a simple question."

"It was, well... it touched hair." My short-and-curlies start tingling.

"What the hell does that mean?"

I lift a brow. “Amy.” I open my mouth. I close my mouth. I try to form a sentence that doesn't sound like there should be a police file on me.

I fail.

"You're freaking me out. Where's Mr. Chill? You look like the next words out of your mouth are going to be 'I want a lawyer.'"

She’s onto something. But I can't tell her the truth–it's too embarrassing. Made sense when I was on the road, but now, after three months of living together, her being so wonderful to me and taking such good care of me, it feels stupid. Puerile.

Rank.

Then her eyes go to my crotch, then the scrunchie, and back to my crotch. She gets it.

“Oh. OH, MY GOD. Hair. It touched hair. Did–did you w@nk with this?”

Oh, sure. Finally, she absorbs a little Scottish slang, and that's the word we're starting with?

You can preorder the book now, which comes out June 10:

I didn’t expect to fall for a Scottish footballer so annoyingly sunny you need shades to be around him.

I didn’t expect to say yes to his heart-felt, if loopy, proposal while he lay injured on the pitch, blathering on about banana pudding and sparkly unicorns.

What I definitely didn’t expect?

For our engagement to explode into a paparazzi circus, our mothers to turn into wedding bulldozers, and for our wedding protector's perfectly reasonable elopement plan to spiral into a roadtrip escape.

So here we are.

In Love You, Maine, a town that celebrates Valentine’s Day every single day. We’re here to get married. Quietly. No drama. In disguise.

Although good luck hiding a 6’4” ginger Scottish striker wearing a knee brace and a perpetual extrovert smile.

Instead of being subtle and blending in? Our quiet escape is vibrating heart-shaped beds, mirrors on the ceilings, secret identities, interfering mothers, and one suspiciously enthusiastic moose that humps dumpsters.

This was supposed to be a simple wedding. Just me and Hamish. No fuss.

But nothing about us has ever been simple with us.

Still, this is what love is, right? It’s chaos. It’s compromise. It’s crying in a wedding planner’s office, then kissing in a hot spring.

It’s choosing each other again and again, even when everything goes sideways.

No matter what comes next... this is our comeback story, in more ways than one.

And no - that’s not a euphemism. :)

Shopping for a Highlander’s Elopement is a romantic comedy that blends the worlds of four bestselling series by New York Times bestselling author Julia Kent:

- Shopping for a Billionaire

- Shopping for a Highlander

- Whatever It Takes

- Love You, Maine

If you love sports romance, surprise proposals, grand gestures, chaotic weddings, Scottish footballers, golden retriever/black cat energy, and characters who love too hard, mess up spectacularly, and always find their way back to each other with plenty of laughter (and lovingly-used scrunchies) along the way, then this laugh-out-loud romantic comedy by Julia Kent is your book.