What better way to celebrate a birthday–a new beginning– than taking off your shirt and exposing yourself? None!
Especially when the reason you are doing it is for a diagnostic mammogram.
A few weeks ago a noticed a lump in my right breast. One that I could not (though I really wanted to) ignore. Talk about terrified! I did not want to deal with anything like this. It has been a rough few weeks. Weeks where I could not do anything but panic. Weeks that I had to push back deadlines, reschedule appointments and try to just get through the day (not to mention the doctor’s appointments) without losing my mind.
Strangely, through it all, I didn’t want to talk about it. I told a grand total of 5 people– not counting my husband. And even with my husband I pulled the “I am not worried. All is well.” card. But then froze in panic when I thought about the “what-if’s”. Some people I talked to about it, I talked to because I really needed their shoulder to just let me say “I’m scared this lump is cancer and I need to tell someone that” and I knew they would listen and offer me a real shoulder. Some people I told out of obligation keeping it superficial and not expecting anything in return, but knowing I had to at least mention that something was up. And some I told because I respect them and they needed to know why I had to move some deadlines around. Otherwise, you got the “I am fine and dandy” speech, when I was terrified. I was scared that nothing was fine. The few people I leaned on, thank you. You know who you are.
So, for my birthday, I went in for my final round of mammo, sonno, etc. I took the girls out for some squishing, poking, and got them smashed. (I got my boobs smashed for my birthday instead of me getting smashed. Irony somewhere in there.)
I dodged the bullet this time.
They found no cancer in my lovely lady lumps. (Let us all release the breath I have been holding for over a month.) They did say cut back on caffeine as it makes the fibrocystic breast disease that they determined I do have even worse. That is what I was feeling.
I did feel a lump. And there was reason enough to look into it and make sure that I didn’t need to take further action. I was always worried that I was overreacting. That I was making something out of nothing. But I felt something. And I felt pain. And it had symptoms that scared the snot out of me. In the end, I got lucky.
Basically, I need to just have mammograms more often to make sure my normal stays my normal. Any lumps? Well, I have to be super careful and ensure that they don’t change in any way. If I get scared, I get them checked out. Period.
And here is where I get on my soap box.
Ladies, if you have been avoiding mammograms for fear of “oh I have heard how horrible it hurts”, knock that the hell off! It is so fast that you can endure it. I don’t care how sensitive you are. Honestly, discomfort is as far as I would take it. Now, the breast that was hurting in the first place and had the lump in it that sent me in to the doctor in the first place–the one that I will slap you if you touch– even that one was not the “writhing agony” that people had me fearing. Sure, that one hurt. Because it already hurt before they squished and twisted it. But it hurt for all of about 10 seconds. (I did over 36 hours of labor with well over half of that pitocin labor and no pain meds. I can handle 10 seconds of a boob squish!) And the side that had no pain to begin with–No Big Deal. Repeat that. No. Big. Deal. If you have not had a mammogram and you know you are due for one or should have one, do it. For heaven’s sake, just do it. Don’t you owe that much to yourself? Wouldn’t you want your best friend to keep herself in check? Take care of your ta-ta’s, ladies. Look at it this way. You get felt up courtesy of your insurance company. It isn’t like they don’t screw you over anyway!
This time I dodged a bullet. And I was terrified. But I am happy to say, my lovely lady lumps just enjoy having their own lovely lady lumps within and are not currently in danger.
Thank you, my friends I opened up to, for checking in, calling, emailing etc. It was good to know I was not alone if I needed someone.
And now, I am off to eat cake. And wear a really low cut shirt. Why? Because my lovely lady lumps are healthy. I am showing them off. So to speak.
You say it’s your birthday! It’s my birthday, too!
November 7, 2007
A “dear friend” of mine, sent this to me today and it totally cracked me up. I had to share it with you and all of my Scorpio friends who have had recent birthdays. (Ahem…Jen, my– soon to be partner in crime– in a super awesome project. And Mrs. Kinder.)
[Update: And I could never forget one of my good friends who celebrates tomorrow. Happy early birthday, Rob!]
I am off to shop and do other things. I will mention the other things later. Have a great day!
NaEvHaThMo (National Everything Happens This Month)
November 6, 2007
NaNoWriMo_ 6,000 words on my memoir. Go me!
NaBloPoMo- This counts, right?
NaNaTaMo (National Nap Taking Month)- 3 hours! Even better
NaPhoTaMo (National Phone Talking Month- less than an hour (So rare! See 1 and 3 above)
NaCelMyBirMo (National Celebrate My Birthday Month) - Countdown begins in 28 minutes. Oh yeah, baby. Tomorrow is my birthday so tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1969. (Meaning I am going to eat and sleep.)
I am sick and have too much on my plate, so for today’s NaBloPoMo, I am pulling out an old favorite. Since people just love to jump my case when I am not the June Cleaver of mother’s, I think they should love this one!
Sometimes in a family of 5, you need to sit the kids down and have a Very Serious Talk about attitude. (This week on a very special episode of Family of Five, the family pulls together for a Very Serious Talk about attitude. A must see episode for the entire family.) Of course for the children it is best if you can do this as a group. You are more likely to not be the only one taking the heat. We as parents know this. Which is why we did it one on one. Or rather two against one. (Seriously, did my parents derive this much giddiness from watching The Squirm that the kid on the hot seat does? Sick bastards we are!)
So we call in the oldest and start talking. We have this rule when we have these talks. You can say anything. As long as you are being constructive and not just trying to get some digs in and being ugly. If you are mad, let us know. If you feel like it is unfair, let us know. Say Anything. (Speaking of Say Anything, did you see that movie? At that time John Cusack rocked my world. He can hold up a boombox in my driveway and I’d Do Anything. He’s no Matthew, but who is. Ahhh, Matthew. My Matthew.) Ahem. Where was I?
So anyway, it can get tense when you have these talks. Especially when you are feeling like you are on the hot seat and getting the lecture. I am not one to do well with super tense scenes. My sarcasm and dry wit tend to overcome me before I am even aware of it happening. So I look at my son and say with a perfectly straight face, “So, would you like to talk about sex now? I know the word penis and I’m not afraid to use it.”
*Cue shocked and appalled look from my son. He replies to me in a very preteen, angsty way, “Mooommmmmm!”
Seeing that I have pushed a button, demon mom kicks in.
“Seriously. Shall we talk scrotum? Which, by the way, is the plural of scrotum scrotums? Scrotumeses? Scroti?…..”
*Shocked look from my son who is actually looking for something sharp to jam into his eardrums, but realizes he is stuck with nothing but his own fingernails that were trimmed that morning and would never work.*
“…I am sure it is probably scrotums. But don’t you think that scroti sounds more scientific? For example, ‘In our family we have a ratio or 3 boys to 2 girls. Therefore, we have a plethora of scroti in our home.‘ See? It just sounds more official and scientific.”
At this point my son is writhing in agony on the couch praying for death or a psychologically freaked out induced coma to get out of this situation and never have to hear his mother say the word scrotum again.
Then I get The Stare. A glazed over look was behind The Stare. But nevertheless I know that the stares means, “Mom. You’ve gone too far. You can no longer shock me. Give it your best shot.”
If you know me, you know that I just do not have the ability to walk away from such a challenge. Especially from one of my children. I stared back. Then, in my most perplexed and inquisitive manner, I looked at my son and asked, in all seriousness, “Speaking of this, I was wondering, since you are Mr Science, do flies have scrotum? I mean seriously. I guess that depends on whether they have a penis or not. Do you know?”
At that my son gets up, rolls his eyes and says, “I think this talk is over now, Mom. I mean really!” He walks out of the room. Only to hear his father scream from the living room, “Son, are you looking it up. Fly. Scrotum. Google it.”
Yeah, I am pretty sure we are going to parental hell for this one. But damn it was funny!
I know it is your job to teach those of us who are clueless about issues that we are…well, clueless about but I think you have a fear factor built into your algorithicalications. (That is totally a word if I say it is. Google it!) Anyway, this algorithicalication is just meant to scare the snot out of us lowly users who come to you for advice.
I Googled a thing or two this weekend about stuff and have come to realize I am suffering from a rare but serious condition that afflicts one in 7,364,986 people who are of Aborigine descent and were born on a small island off of the coast of Bermuda. It does not matter that NONE of those things are actually applicable in my situation. I read about the symptoms. I can do the math. I studied what you had to say. I went to the pages you sent me to. (I am not a hypochondriac. I am a Googlecondriac. It is the root of all things terrifying.)
I just want you to know that I am writing you out of my will, Google. Oh, yes, my friend, you were going to get great and glorious things from me. But now? Not so much. You and the Internet (Al Gore, you are written out of my will, too) have done nothing but scare me.
You are mean.
Next time I will just Google porn or Britney Spears parenting skills or even Dr. Phil naked. At least I know those will be horrifyingly scary.
When you are dealing with doctors and you are not feeling well at all, what is the best way to get your mind off of it? Why to perform surgery of course! Enter Trauma Center: Under the Knife. I mean, I might as well be the surgeon and get to do the dramatic cutting. (Have I mentioned how much I love my DS? I do so love my beautiful DS. She is all crimson and black and has own case. Sometimes, I sleep with her. It’s okay. I let the Wii have its own bed.)
So I thought it would be fun to unwind with this game. I wanted a challenge, but something fun. This is what I chose.
And now my head will proceed to explode with frustration and irritation. I thought I was just all that. Bring it! I watch ER. I watch Grey’s Anatomy. I can SO perform these “tough” surgeries.
HA! If I want these people to die, I can.
Someone is going to need surgery if I cannot figure out how to get past Chapter 2: Awakening. I mean, this dude is all exploding aneurysms all the time. Get one fixed and two more show up and then five and then DEAD. I have killed this poor man about eleventy hundred times so far. I mean, you would think my beautiful DS that I love so much would just heal the dude so I can move on. But NO. It mocks me.
I am considering going back to the place I got the game, handing it over to the guy who convinced me I would enjoy it and make HIM get me through the level because try as I might, all I am doing is killing poor old Mario Kovac and his ginormous amounts of aneurysms. And really? That is just wrong.
Oh, and for the record, totally does get my mind of medical issues but totally does NOT relax me. Though, I have to admit, I am absolutely going to get this for the Wii. Maybe I can have better luck not killing him there. Or, if I do kill him, the blood will be way cooler on a bigger screen. (What? I am sick. And sick. So sue me.)
Maybe I should go get a soothing game like… Brain Age 2. (I am so dumb, it asked if I am too tired to play tonight.) Or Flash Focus. (”No, you idiot! That is NOT where the hidden ball is!“) I think I might be too slow for any of those tonight. (But I will tell you tomorrow how these games are making me dumber and slower. I am pretty sure that is not the point of them, but my brain? It is not normal.)
For now, I have to get to surgery. I am going to go try once again to not kill poor Mr. Kovac and his eleventy hundred aneurysms. (But I probably will. However, I have the perfect headstone for him!)
Clint took this picture while taking Gabrie out on Halloween. It is my favorite ever. I may have to use it on my own tombstone one day. That or have it embroidered on my jeans. What do you think?
As a woman–a mom– I tend to have this ability to try to carry the burden of others on my own shoulders.
My teen has already had a tough year. We have been ’round and ’round with that ridiculous administrator to the point where I am pretty sure I am going to have to either really go off or homeschool. Neither sounds good and both sound like trouble for me. The point is, my son and I talk. He shares with me when he has a problem. Being who I am, I tend to take a bit of that problem, hike it up onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My preteen. He is going through something right now that turns me inside out with my desire to fix it. Yet, I have to go against a lot of maternal instinct and let him figure some things out on his own. But when he hurts, I hurt. When he comes to me with a problem or worry, I listen. I try to help. I offer whatever words of advice or comfort that I can and pray that I have done enough to give him strength to stand strong and figure some things out on his own. However, every time he comes to me with a worry, before I know it, I have hiked a little bit of that worry onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My daughter. She is just now at that stage where she is learning that not everyone goes to all of the parties. Not everyone will say nice things to her. And the world just isn’t a perfect place. Oh, how I want to shield her and make the world the princess world of her imagination. Right now, when she comes crying to me over hurt feelings, I can wipe away her tears and have her feeling better in no time. Right now, it hasn’t become so heavy that I struggle with her worries. Yet. Though, with every tear drop that falls on my shoulder, I hike up a little bit of that pain onto my shoulders and try to carry some of her burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
My husband. He is the love of my life. We are partners in this journey of life. I do what I can to help him along in his career, but there isn’t much I can do. Being in management there are times he just comes home stressed and needs to unload. I listen. I offer what minimal perspective I have on the situation and do what I can to at least make his home feel less stressful. Even knowing there is nothing I can do to make anything that has to do with his work better or easier, before I realize it, have hiked a little bit of that worry onto my shoulders and try to carry some of his burden. It is what I do. It is who I am.
I have to be honest, sometimes it gets pretty heavy. My shoulders may sag a bit. My walk may slow down a bit. My energy lagging. It can take it’s toll on how I feel both physically and mentally. But it is what I do. And I know that given a choice, I will always take any burden I can and help carry it for any member of my family.
And then? Sometimes? Sometimes, I get my feet kicked out from under me with my own burdens. My own worries. My own fears. My own tears. My own stresses. Those things alone? Perhaps I could stand up against it, but the weight of all that I carry suddenly feels too heavy and I drop to my knees. Something that is probably nothing brings me to my knees and keeps me there. Immobile. Frozen. Something that may have been taken in stride suddenly scares the wits out me to a point that I shut down.
Share the burden? I can’t. I couldn’t. I won’t. It is silly. They would think I am ridiculous. My fear is unfounded. They have their own worries. My “probably nothing” is not worthy of anyone else’s time or concern. I wouldn’t know what to say. I am not going to bother anyone else with my worries or silliness. I am over reacting and they don’t need my drama. I can do this alone.
Me? Afraid? Of course I am. So much so. But I’d never tell. It is what I do. It is who I am.
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When you are dealing with doctors and you are not feeling well at all, what is the best way to get your mind off of it? Why to perform surgery of course! Enter 
Someone is going to need surgery if I cannot figure out how to get past Chapter 2: Awakening. I mean, this dude is all exploding aneurysms all the time. Get one fixed and two more show up and then five and then DEAD. I have killed this poor man about eleventy hundred times so far. I mean, you would think my beautiful DS that I love so much would just heal the dude so I can move on. But NO. It mocks me. 
