I have this whole Barbie world going on in my mind right now. Care to join me? There’s Ken, the kids, the penthouse, Winnebago, convertible, swimming pool, and there’s even a grill, too.

In Australia, barbie with a lower case b is short for barbeque. But in my mind, put a capital on it, and Barbie becomes the blond-hair, plastic doll that I loved to play with when I was little.

I babysat for these kids who had the whole Barbie town. The kids never would play with it, though I begged them. Even my girls never played with the Barbie stuff I bought to entertain them (I mean me).

What’s up with all these kids? They were too old for her. Ahem, I’ll be living proof soon enough; we’re never too old for fake hair and plastic.

Even Alex collected Barbies (before we met). He figured he’d save them and sell them at a higher price someday. (Or else he secretly wanted to play with them, too). They stayed in their original, untouched boxes in my closet in my old bedroom of my parent’s house until the place went up in flames, and they melted.

So it’s time to see this for what it is. When we say firing up the barbie, we’re not talking about real fire or Australian barbeque, for that matter. We’re talking about me.

I still haven’t rebuilt myself from chemo. It killed off most of my left brain cells, but lucky for me, I didn’t need much rational thought back then. I had my right brain, and it’s been on fire.

But colors, patterns, shapes, and wordplay (Romper Room) isn’t so great planning for a bilateral mastectomy come Tuesday.

That involved firing up a near-dead left brain on a deadline. And, as I said, I’m living more in the Barbie world than the real one these days.

So let’s do as the Aussies do, American style. Let’s fire up the Barbie.

Top 10 Ways “to fire up the barbie” (before Barbie surgery):

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1. Plan: Compile a list out of the thousands of pages of scrap notes I’ve placed all over the house. Bring the list to the store and leave it in the car; remember to bring it inside and forget to look at it, or look at it and still forget something.

2. Prepare for a deadline: Alex tells me we have to leave in 5 minutes when I have 20 minutes to get out of the house. I’m still late. Note to self: there’s no such thing as deadlines in Barbie’s world.

3. Remember things again, or don’t: the other day, I told Alex the same story six times. I said, “What’s wrong with hearing it a seventh?” But do remember to see if insurance covers a nurse to come to the house. If I don’t need her, I’ll tell her to leave. If I need her, she’ll be there until I don’t want to remember her again. Once she’s gone, I’ll never accidentally bump into her in the store or have a glass of wine with her socially. Not that I’ve been in prison, but my friend gave the analogy, “If you got out of prison would you want to go back and visit?”

4. Research: Because I’m so anxious and the doctor won’t tell me anything except to relax, ha. Instead, spend hours doing what the pediatrician once forbade me to do when the girls were young: google and read what every Tom, Dick, and Harry says about bilateral mastectomies. We Barbies call this research–a sure-fire way to bring on the anxiety.

5. Predict the worst: Leaving the nest of the chemo bubble where nothing could go wrong except what’s happening to me, I need to join the real world again. Face it: everyone else is suffering, too, and we’re all going to die (most likely because Alex can’t get the Covid vaccine). And that so does relate to my operation. Suppose he gets sick with Covid while I’m incapacitated? Just saying!

6. Organize: Clear out my closet (equals throw everything I own all over every surface of the bedroom). Then, decide if I’ll be able to wear it post-surgery (most likely not), fold it, and put it away again—no telling what will happen after surgery except all those bad things (see #5). Also, open all Christmas cards (it’s almost Easter, girlfriend!)

7. Shop: Don’t give me a credit card or money. Period. One girl came up with a mastectomy registry (not that I read that on one of my internet searches or anything). And, not to speak for her or rationalize my purchases, but she probably needed to buy a lot, too.

8. Make Decisions: Try to decide what you’ll need and what should go back–in the condition that I’m in, I dare you. The same goes for packing for the hospital. Without an internet search about what to bring, I’d be just a Barbie with a plastic pea brain packing a plastic suitcase filled with plastic shoes.

9. Rebuild Physical Stamina: Try to regain my strength, ha! Try doing that when you’re brain forgot to tell your arm how to move. Luckily that came back pretty quick.

10. Don’t Forget To Write: Writing got us through this, and writing will bring us to the other side–even looped up on anxiety, anesthesia, and painkillers. There’s no telling what’s in store for us next week.

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“You’re not as bad off as you think you are,” you say. “You write such great blogs.” (Fingers crossed you’re saying that).

Yes, my right brain, writing, and drugs got me through chemo; it’ll have to get me through a bilateral mastectomy, too.

And, just in case your Alex or my crazy, dear friend with the prison quote, they always want to point out my left brain wasn’t functioning all that well before chemo.

Want proof?

My same friend had to remind me when we went white water rafting on a group trip in Costa Rica, and she couldn’t swim, but that didn’t stop her. If you could believe it, she fell out of the raft and started yelling at me for help.

I did what anyone would do who wanted to lend a helping hand to a friend in need. I threw her an oar. Yes, you heard me correctly. She was wearing a lifejacket–it’s not like I could throw her one of those.

You know the saying, up the creek without a paddle. Well, thanks to me, that wasn’t her problem.

Of course, she ends the story by reminding me how she couldn’t wait for someone to get her back in that raft so she could kill me.

Reverse psychology. Way to take her mind off of the fear and danger at hand. Plus, she wore a lifejacket, and others on the boat knew what to do. Okay, okay. It was a Barbie moment–pre-chemo.

But that’s not going to get me through surgery come Tuesday. Please keep praying for me. I have prayers being said worldwide and from multiple religions, including people who don’t pray. I wish I could put pins on a map to remind myself of all the love I’m receiving.

As you pray for me, I pray for you. Fall out of your boat, and I’ll throw you an oar. We’re talking about firing up the Barbie, after all.