PENSIEVE

Thief of memories

Breast cancer doesn't just plunder body, it is a thief of memories.  I have good reason to hate it, too: 

The memory album of my mother is too small. 

Blank pages are haunted with wonderings of "what might have been, if only."  If only.  If only.... They aren't words heart-whispered often anymore, but I'm acutely aware cancer robbed me of more memories, especially more good memories of Mama.

Flashback to 1971, Athens, Georgia, approaching the intersection of Milledge Avenue and Baxter Drive.  I don't remember where we had been but I do know we were headed to our apartment less than a mile away.  In her fourth year of battling cancer, Mama felt bad and needed to get home. 

In my eight-year-old way of thinking, I wanted to do something (anything) to make her feel better.  Children use whatever tactic they can conjure to stall bedtime, so I decided my gift to her would be going straight to bed without argument or "one more glass of water" as soon as we got home.

My intent was to let her know what she had to look forward to.  Subtle-as-a jackhammer in the sleepiest voice I could muster, I yawned, "I can't wait to get home and go to bed," and continuing my Academy Award-winning charade, "I'm almost falling asleep..." 

Stopped at the red light before my sentence was complete, Mama's car door suddenly opened.  The sound of violent retching followed by vomited splatter echoed throughout our sedan.  As she wiped her mouth and closed the door, her beleaguered voice took aim and fired over the back seat in my direction, "Well, just don't fall asleep in the car...!"

Stunned, I recoiled from her verbal dagger; my ears may have done the hearing of her barbed words, but it was my little girl's heart that felt them.  

I imagine it's why I still remember this scene.

I wanted to cry, but I knew that would just upset Mama more, and even then I knew she meant no harm.  Holding back tears, I mumbled something to reassure her I was fine and wouldn't be falling asleep in the car after all.

I don't remember anything after the light turned green.

Mama died the following Spring.

No wonder I h.a.t.e. cancer.

No wonder I'm grateful for the lessons Mama taught me in the nine years we shared.

No wonder I've walked in the Race for the Cure since I discovered it.

No wonder I celebrate and praise God my sister is a 12+ year survivor!

And because with all my heart I believe a cure exists in our future...and because I don't want children to grow up with ANY sad and too few good memories of their moms, it's with boldness I ask you to...

Click through to the Breast Cancer Site daily to provide FREE mammograms to those in need (it costs you nothing but a second of time!).  They'll even send you a daily reminder if you're prone to forgetfulness.

and

Make a contribution to National Breast Cancer Foundation or a similar organization. 

Stop that damnable thief from robbing any more memories from children; help stop it from stealing years from the lives of women.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

If at any time this month you've blogged about Breast Cancer Awareness, I invite you to share your link in comments; I'll add it below as I'm able.  And thank you for using your voice on behalf of others.  Your words are making a difference.  :)

Your stories ~
"Seventeen Years," The Gypsy Mama

"Grab Your Boobies," The Diaper Diaries

Click broken heart image to return to its original source.

"It hurts me more..."

My baby is in surgery right now, and though they’ve given me the update that “everything is going well and she’s doing fine,” my baby is in surgery right now.

I inhale fully and hold the breath.

It’s not because of illness or disease, it’s just routine oral surgery; impacted wisdom teeth and bone grafts for future dental implants (she’s missing three permanent teeth and requires additional bone to sustain the titanium rods that will one day set off airport metal detectors). 

But when you’re a mama and your 17-year-old first born is scared because of the needles and pain and oozing blood and stitches, is there anything “just routine” about it? 

If I could, I’d do it for her.  I’d like nothing more than to insulate all my children from the pain life can bring—physical or emotional.  But that wouldn’t serve them well at all, so I’m glad not to be given the option. 

While we waited for her procedure to begin—delayed close to an hour because her surgeon was called away for hospital trauma consults—I tried to occupy time and space with stories of my own childhood experiences.  When my wisdom teeth were extracted, I remember a framed latch-work duck on the wall.  It was late 70s ugly, tangerine and pea green, and it should’ve been replaced years before my surgery.  It was the last thing I saw before nodding off to “sleep,” and I distinctly recall asking “How long will it take...” because I was worried the anesthesia wasn’t going to work for me and I’d be awake and aware during the entire procedure.

Of course, the next thing I remember was groggily waking up in recovery.

Rachel asked the same thing, ready to get it started, but mostly over.  We’ve known for years implants were in her future, and this is one step in a series to restoring her smile.  I wonder 30 years from now what she'll remember about today.

We were shocked to learn she was required to take a pregnancy test—what the heck does that have to do with your mouth???  (But of course, it deals with undergoing anesthesia.)  Anyone who knows my daughter understand why this was comic relief for both of us—Rachel has never dated.  The poor girl didn’t even know what was involved with a pregnancy test—she thought she was going to have to endure her first pelvic exam by a freakin’ oral surgeon!—so when she learned it was a urine test, her relief was audible.

My prayers for her have been less about wisdom and skill for the doctor, minimal pain and a speedy recovery, and more about her heart being calmed.  That surprised her, but I know this child, the things she fears.  She understands her mind is her battlefield; I didn’t learn that until my 30s.

Levity helped unrattle her nerves…we took pictures of her in hospital gown with thermo strip across her forehead and texted them to her friends; I freaked her out with my labor and delivery stories; I told her how loopy her dad was when he had his wisdom teeth out a few years ago and that I’d video her for our amusement. 

Laughter temporarily anesthetizes the nerves.

Every time the surgical suite door opens, I’m compelled to look up.  Minutes are no longer 60 seconds, I’m sure they’re closer to 300.  This has taken twice as long as they told us it would, and while reports keep coming back that “she’s fine…everything is okay…”

 …m.y. b.a.b.y. i.s. i.n. s.u.r.g.e.r.y. r.i.g.h.t. n.o.w. 

 And my lungs (and heart) won’t exhale until I can put my hands on my child again.

 

 

 

The music, the mystery, the terror of night

I stepped out my back door at 8:37 p.m. last night, swayed by last year's "shrinking" and unworn clothes in my closet, determined to counter age and metabolism and years of Chick-Fil-A nuggets and fries, to pursue health and fitness and that damnable, elusive fountain of youth.  My commitment to exercise surprisingly but delightfully unraveled into a poet's journey...until terror descended.

Treading day like water, my expectation was speed-walking a few miles of routine.  I didn't anticipate being perfectly sandwiched between sunset and moonrise, amazing orbs defining time and space, too often overlooked, forgotten because of their familiarity.

To my left the moon, a creamy fire haloed in misty slivers, nearly full, and I swear I saw it smiling.  To my right, dimming shades of pink, the sun reluctantly relinquishing its hold on day.  I love the long days of Summer but it occurred to me even on her brightest, cheeriest of days, the Sun doesn't smile; the moon is friendlier.

My neighborhood is not the quiet I imagined it would be at early evening.  To one neighbor tending her flower bed, I enthuse about the Creamsicle moon; she hadn't even noticed and that makes me a little sad for her.  Another trims his smallish yard's grass, he's perched atop a droning riding mower that, to me, makes no sense at all.  We wave and I inhale fresh and green and mission accomplished. 

I break into a short uphill run and while I feel the jar to my knees and gravity's cruel and greedy tug on lead-filled legs, I hear the night world coming to life.  My tired body loses its relevance amidst symphony...these are not white noises I can fall asleep to or ignore; they're sounds that awaken.

...like the soft coo of doves and the call of other birds I can't distinguish but long to.  I think about those kitschy bird clocks and I entertain the thought of buying one.  For some reason, in that moment, it's important to know "who" I'm listening to.

The steady hum of cicada penetrates shrouding darkness; crickets chirp agreeably in reply, and I realize I've assigned nonsensical gender to both--clearly, cicadas are all boys and crickets are girls.  Of course the guttural belch of bullfrogs signals the male gender.  Do I hear the buzz of a grasshopper's wing?  What is the night insect whose voice is a staccato, a stutter?  I feel like a child who should know his colors by now but gets stuck on violet--is it blue or purple for goodness sakes?

Self amused, lost in thought, and thoroughly entertained by nature's song, headlights rouse my walking somnolence.  Uninvited guest, they momentarily distract me and remind me to call my four-legged companion to my side; unleashed and also uninvited, she must've caught wind of my escape earlier and decided I needed company.  Now, I'm her guardian and protecter, dim-witted, road-wanderer that she is.  That's not what I signed up for.

Darkness has chased away daylight, and I resent the hair on my neck now standing at attention.  There are no streetlights in my neighborhood, though some houses illumine their driveways or lawns.  Childish fears creep into my mind and seep onto the street and I feel the eyes of a monster lurking in the shadows.  My pace quickens--good for heart, good for body, but not so great for the head.

My dog has abandoned me--traitor!  She has an insistent need to be the line leader and I shake my head yet again, amused by the thought I find safety in her.  She's scared of her shadow (unlike our killer rottweiler waiting at home).  

I'm 3/10 of a mile from my house when visions of Thriller start looping in my mind--the fowlest stench is in the air, the funk of 40,000 years...!  Zombies aren't real I tell myself, but Very Bad People are, and they're all now hiding in the woods of nearby vacant lots.  Their breaths grow heavy and obscene.

A beloved welcome sight, my house now is in view.  At steady jog I pass the last thick of woods to my left when I hear a crackling of dead leaves, the swish and crunch of a machete thrashing through brush!  My feet leave the ground and I break Olympic speed.  I didn't know I could actually run.

As my pounding heart threatens to escape the captivity of my chest, my feet hit the line of our steep-inclined drive.  Suddenly, the monster I can't shake speaks.  He's hungry and demanding and absolutely incredulous I would exercise before filling his dish.

Stupid cat.  He'll probably leave a "gift" for me later....

Small wonder I began my day with a morning walk; reluctantly I give up the beauty and coolness of night to avoid another monster-induced heart attack.

Be a hero

Until 1983, I could actually blame it on being too thin*; for the next 25 years, it was nothing short of selfish cowardice.  In February of last year, there was a moment of redemption, but just two months after that, exclusion returned.  This time it wasn't self-imposed but rather due to health concerns:  bad blood.

My hemoglobin was too low and I wasn't allowed to give blood.

I was less concerned about being anemic and much more disappointed I couldn't be a super hero, saving lives, or at a minimum, helping others.  Up to four people in need, every other month...24 people a year!  Now that I understood how a) easy and painless it was, b) how quickly it could be done (45 minutes, paperwork-start to needle-removal finish), and c) as a universal donor I NEEDED to donate blood, it was disheartening not to be able to.  

Following Blood Assurance's initial rejection, a more substantive health scare ensued and I wasn't able to give blood again (if you have time, go back and skim those posts...I can laugh about it now).

Until this morning :).  My blood is behavin' again.  Good blood, goooood blood!

About the time I publish this post, my teen daughter will be donating for the first time.  She just barely meets the weight requirement and she's scared to death.  I couldn't be more proud of her for facing her fear and sincerely considering others more highly than she regards her own discomfort.  She made this decision almost 30 years before I did...w o w.

Anyways...call me peculiar, but I have FUN going through this process!  Maybe I was simply thrilled because I finally could donate again, but it wasn't just me--other students, teachers and parents waiting to donate seemed just as eager!   Kudos to the Blood Assurance staff, their professionalism is noteworthy.

Please call your local provider now and schedule time to give blood.  You'll be so glad you did.  Not only will you get to be a super hero for the day, less than an hour of your time will be used to help up to four other people...and might just save a life!  Consider these facts about donating blood (and if you aren't disqualified from giving, how can you say no after reading??):

• of all eligible donors, only 5% actually donate
• you stand a 95% chance of needing blood by age 72
• someone needs blood every three seconds in the United States
• donated whole blood must be used within 35 days; red blood cells must be used within 42 days
• around 40,000 units of blood are used every day in the U.S.
• A sickle cell patient can use more than 4 units of blood a week

To help alleviate your fears, here are a few pictures from my morning ~

Four small test tubes collect a small sample for testing; they're so pretty with their color-coded tops, I barely noticed when my blood bubbled and squirted into them!

It's almost like a spa vacation.  They give you cookies and juice or a soda to drink, then make you lie back in a comfortable chair and take a load off.  They're concerned about your fitness, though, so they give you a little ball to squeeze for exercise.

The blood nurses don't mind much what you look like.  They'll take you with sunglasses sitting cock-eyed on top of your obviously unbrushed hair and they're grateful if you brushed your teeth before you come.  (note to my children:  IF YOU LET ME LEAVE THE HOUSE LOOKING LIKE THIS AGAIN, YOU SHALL SLEEP IN THE GARAGE WITH THE CAT!)

Just look at me (but not too closely!)--I'm all smiles.  That is most certainly due to the fact a) I'm holding an insulated cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, b) I hadn't yet seen the rolls? extra chins?? that mysteriously photoshopped themselves into the picture, c) IT DOESN'T HURT A BIT TO GIVE BLOOD!  

Afterwards, they even let you choose a pretty color of medical tape to hold a wad of cotton in place so you don't bloody your clothes or bleed to death.  Thoughtful with a side of whimsy, yes?  I chose purple to match the outline of the letters on my sweatshirt (Go Tigers!).

Sooo, please...unless you have a medical condition prohibiting your participation (and that was me since last April...not guilting those who can't, just those who can ;) ), make plans to donate as soon as possible.

Someone's life depends on it.

*Dear God, can you please help me get back to within 10 pounds of that?  Thank you and amen.

Blessing or curse: McDreamy-Steamy for your anesthesiologist?

Yesterday I was treated to a procedure for which I didn't think I'd have the pleasure til AT LEAST 50.  Interestingly, the majority of people in my sphere--real life and make believe--have already had the procedure, and what they say is true:

The Day Of is a walk in the park compared to The Day Before.

I'm pretty sure The Day Of would've been Dante's tenth circle of hell if he could've counted that high. 

Let's recount The Day Before:

• If you're a coffee drinker who REQUIRES cream (<--me), you're out of luck. 
• Mountain Dew does NOT "do" for me what coffee & cream does; it has neither the warmth, aroma or narcotic effect.  I don't think I reached "human" status all day.
• Canned chicken broth?  By itself??  Not so good.
• You CAN eat Jello, which I like. 
• I was deeply distraught when I realized ALL THE JELLO FLAVORS I LIKE (Strawberry, Black Cherry, Cherry, Peach, Orange) have red dye.  Red dye is a no-no the day before your procedure.
• Headache commences mid-morning and will not end until after your procedure.  Stress?  Hunger?  Caffeine deprivation?  Does it really matter why?
• Actually, the headache was probably prompted from the bizarro traffic snarl which held me captive TWO FREAKIN' HOURS after school drop-off.  I seriously praised God for not already taking the "stuff" that was supposed to get "things started".  Oh, dear...just the thought of THAT is enough to unravel me!
• When husband gets home from work, keeps offering to get me "something" that will make me feel better.  "A cheeseburger?  Fries?  Ice Cream?" 
• First time I recall ever losing my sense of humor.  Now that, my friends, is a dark day.
• At 5:00 begin drinking the agent that will soon catapult digestive track into global anatomical war on a personal level (does that even make sense??). 
• First 16 ounces, you think "I can do this...it's not so bad."
• Somewhere between 24-32 ounces, you wonder "When is it gonna hit?".
• It hits. 
• Then, it pummels.
• It's daggum relentless.
• The last 16 ounces were the most difficult to swallow.  By that point, I was green.  And tired.  And defeated.  And felt like the Kool-aid guy with enough liquid sloshin' around inside to fill Hoover Dam...but the dam's getting ready to burst.
• There's a sense of victory...of accomplishment when I finished.  Perhaps scaling Mt. Vesuvius?  Or is that imitating Mt. Vesuvius?
• Sleep is pretty good; it made me forget both hunger and the procedure. 

The Day Of

• Remarkably, not as hungry or irritable as the evening before.  Still want to smack my hubby when he offers to get me a Hardee's biscuit.
• Considered snorting coffee or learning to drink it black before ultimately pouring it down the drain. 
• Then I cried.
• Finally get checked into the med center and called back for my turn. 
• Sweetest prep nurse EVAH, instantly put me at ease, which is saying a lot when you know THEY'RE GOING TO BE "ADVANCING" A GARDEN HOSE WHERE REALLYTRULY, THE SUN DON'T SHINE!
• It was slightly disturbing that I thought of Jack Nicholson in "Something's Gotta Give" when I put on my hospital gown.  The upside?  S u r e l y I pulled off the look better than him.
• And then they wheeled me into the procedure room, where Dr. M, nurses Marilyn and Jennifer...and OH-MY-WORD a made-for-TV anesthesiologist were waiting on me!  OF COURSE, he was the first to speak, and he said "Hi, I'm McDreamy  McSteamy Jason, I'll be taking care of you..." and I wanted to crawl under the hospital bed.  He was much too young and much too perky--and too in perfect keeping with Gray's Anatomy--to be taking care of ME! 
• Jennifer said, "Wow, is your blood pressure always low?" and I said, "Yes"; when Jason commented (to her), "It doesn't go lower than that," I asked, "Are y'all still talkin' about my blood pressure?" and they said yes, and I asked how low it was, and when they said "90/38" I was certain it was because I was about to die from embarrassment.  Jason fixed me up with a shot of fluids...what a thoughtful guy.
  
• About this time, Marilyn popped a bite guard in my mouth, Jennifer asked me to roll to my side and I wondered when things would get started.
• Right after that, Nikki (who's Nikki?) asked me if I was ready to wake up (I wasn't) and what did I want to drink?

Then, bless her heart, she brought me a Coke with pellet ice (I love that stuff) and I slurped THE SWEETEST DRINK KNOWN TO MAN!  Then I asked for a refill (I'm still trying to decide if Nikki was a waitress or a nurse).

They brought Tad back, reviewed my results with me (Dr. M had already brought Tad up to speed), and as it turns out, they didn't find anything "of concern".  Which is good, but I'm still workin' on that anemia thing....

If you're STILL reading (sorry...when I write this much stuff it's so I can remember details a year from now, or say, next week), I can't let opportunity pass without THANKING THOSE OF YOU who've commented to my recent posts or sent ecards/email.  Your concern, encouragement, kindness, and mostly prayers gave me a sense of peace throughout the ordeal.   I know you'll forgive me for not responding to every thought--I've been slightly occupied :).   For a words of encouragement girl, though, I couldn't appreciate you more...thank you.

More dreaded than the "Dreaded Apparatus"

Alternate titles:

• I'm just like Katie Couric (minus the $15,000,000 paycheck and mad journalism skills)
• I might as well swallow a garden hose and camera, save some cash and be done with it.
• Mountain Dew is NOT the same thing as coffee with cream in the morning.
• In one end and out the other
• I almost cried when I smelled Arby's curly fries
• Oh!  Sh*t!!
• Will someone PLEASE tell me what exploding fingers have to do with a doctor advancing a colonoscope through my large intestine?!

As part of the diagnostic testing to determine what was going on with me health wise a while back, my doctor had me take a Hemoccult test.  In spite of protesting due to the grossisity factor, I took the test...and failed. As a result, my comedian-wannabe doctor referred me to a G.I. specialist, who in turn will get to know me rillyrilly well--inside and out--in the morning.  He'll be treating me to two procedures before lunch time:  endoscopy and colonoscopy.

I can hardly wait.  Seriously--this thing has been hanging over my head all summer and I'm ready to get it over with! 

Today?  Today is known as "prep day".  Anyone who has had one of these procedures is feeling my pain right now.  Even as I type, I'm mid-way through a 64-ounce lemon-lime cocktail that is soon to be waging war against my intestinal tract.  I'm afraid this battle's already won; I've been on a clear liquid diet all day and for the first time ever, dog food looked appetizing to me.  Aussie actually guarded her bowl with a paw when I fed her tonight.

I don't think I'm gonna like lemon-lime anything after today...all I've had to eat/drink is pictured above.  It did occur to me a few minutes ago tea was on the menu.

HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN SWEET TEA??

Perhaps I was just a wee bit discombobulated from waking up at 5:00 this morning, drifting back to sleep only to be awakened by a barking dog...then...getting stuck in a two-hour traffic jam before 10:00.  I tell ya, the nerves are frayed, people, the nerves are flat frizzled.

I thought about video blogging the whole thing tomorrow but apparently they don't allow cameras, just drugs.  Thank the Lord for happy-go-night-night drugs!  That's small recompense for Prep Day (I won't remember a thing!).

Interestingly, EVERY person whose path I cross lately has had one of these things.  They all say the same thing:  the day before is the worst part (I'll let you know if they're telling the truth).  If what I've heard is true, for me, the worst part might be right after the procedure when your body is "blowing off steam"--passing gas WITH PEOPLE AROUND????  Good googliemooglie, I don't even do THAT in private!! 

Swampwitch wrote a hilarious post about her experience (she DID take pictures!). 
A colonoscopy detected Lisa's cancer at age 38 and probably saved her life.
Laurie insists it's a piece of cake a breeze.

If you're putting off having a colonoscopy (or endocscopy)-- especially if you're 50 or older--DON'T WAIT!  I'm the world's biggest chicken, so if I can do it, anyone can.

It'd be such a shame to die from embarrassment instead...!

p.s.  Can anyone name the title reference?

My friend, my doctor...and apparently, a comedian

This time last week, I was in full freak out mode. In a moment of complete and utterly ridiculous melodrama, I wrote a post declaring (in between the lines) I had months...days...minutes to live.  After reading it and concerned our family might join my freak-outedness, my husband asked me to revise it.  I did.  The symptoms were numbness and burning in my hands and feet, severe swelling, and itching on my extremities; I barely noticed the latter because the former felt like mini firecrackers exploding out the ends of my fingers.  <--- not a melodramatic over-exaggeration...!

Anyways..............

On Sunday, because I don't have an internist or family doctor (don't judge me...when I moved to Tennessee EVERY confounded doctor I tried to make an appointment with was NOT taking new patients...so I've always relied on Docs in Boxes...), a friend/doctor insisted I come see him the next day.  He could see the fear in my eyes and my gargantuanly swollen hands and feet.  He couldn't see the itch.

I told him I'd come but I didn't need a physical exam and most certainly was NOT taking off any clothes or coming close to a hospital gown.  He rolled his eyes and gave me that sad, tired doctor line, "Honey, you don't have anything I haven't already seen...don't flatter yourself,"  but I held my ground. 

Okay, he didn't even come close to saying that, but I bet he was thinkin' it. 

It's important to know he was my FRIEND first, his wife is a friend, and he leads worship in our Sunday school class.   I figured if we needed to do anything "invasive", he'd refer me to one of his partners.

When I arrived for my appointment on Monday, he greeted me with a smile, introduced me to his nurse, casually motioned for me to go ahead of him to the exam room, and said he'd be in shortly.

As I walked into the room, it was clear he had "prepared" for my visit:

Nothin' breaks the ice like lu-bri-ca-shee-oooown, yes?   As the surprise wore off inside the room, I could hear him laughing outside the room.

Needless to say, I burned the gloves, gown and companion "tools" in effigy on his front lawn.

Oh, and my diagnosis?  Anemia...after testing for everything else on the planet, looks like I've just got a case of bad blood.

(Thanks to those of you who've continued to ask how I'm doing!  I like YOU best of all!!! ;) )

Revised...

If you saw the previous post in your reader (or visited early)...probably TMI too soon.    Rethinking my words relative to my family, I figured better judgment would have me not share my probable over-reaction with the masses.  Sorry...just me weirding out....

Suffice it to say I'm not feelin' great but I'll know what's up after a doctor's visit tomorrow. 

For those of you who've commented or emailed, thanks...just the kind of thing that encourages me :).