Seriously...guys, you don't want to waste your time reading this one. It's about boobs.
Wait.
That's not really going to stop you from reading this is it? How about this...it's about mammograms, hospitals, doctors and big ole needles.
There. The men are gone. They are such wimps when it comes to medical stuff. Now we can talk about boobs - and all that other stuff.
When I was 35, it was recommended that women who are 35 get a baseline mammogram. So I did. Naturally I was a bit nervous about the whole process. Some women claim that mammograms are no big deal, but others say that they are terribly painful. The idea of having my breasts squished flat as a pancake was kinda scary, but thankfully the machine didn't press me quite that thinly. I was happy to join the crew of "it's no big deal." Afterward I put mammograms out of my mind complete.
Until I turned 40. That's when my GYN informed me that it was time to start getting them annually. That was fine with me. My maternal grandmother and maternal aunt are both breast cancer survivors, so I easily accepted that following the official guideline was probably the best course of action. Of course, there was also this part of me that just KNEW that mammo's were a waste of time for me. After all, I had read often enough that pregnancy and breastfeeding both reduced the risk of breast cancer. Since I've been pregnant four time and have a cumulative total of seven YEARS of breastfeeding under my belt, I figured that the odds of staying breast cancer free were in my favor. Sure enough, my mammo came back "clean" that year.
Then something weird happened the next year. When the nurse called to give me my results, she told me that I had to go back for a more detailed mammogram. It had to be a mistake of course, but I followed the advice and went back for another round of squishing. This time, the tech warned me that the machine would be compressing me more than it did before. I was supposed to tell her when the pressure became unbearable. I kept my mouth shut. Okay, that hurt a bit, but I figure that it was worth the discomfort to get the best shot. After the machine did it's thing, the tech left for a bit. When she came back, she informed me that there was an area of concern. I went straight from mammo to ultrasound. There it was pronounced that I had "dense tissue." Whew. Umm...okay...whatever.
Another year passed, another mammogram was taken and another stress inducing phone call followed. I went through a repeat of the same steps once again with the same results. The only change was that I was informed that I was being put on a six months schedule..."just to be sure."
I was quickly moving from the "It's no big deal" to the "I hate mammograms" group.
Six month later, it happened all over again. And then again six months after that. And six months after that. The only thing they ever found was "dense tissue." I started to wonder if all that radiation wasn't just making things worse. Google searches both confirmed and refuted that idea. Then I found out that I was having thyroid issues. Once again I supplemented the information that I was getting from my doctor with whatever I could find via Google. The mere suggestion that radiation from mammograms might play a role in thyroid problems was enough to push me over the edge. I decided to put my foot down at my next GYN visit. I intended to DEMAND that the nonsense stop.
Well, that's not exactly how it went, but I did bring up my concerns and asked, politely of course, if I could be put back on an annual schedule. Thankfully, he agreed.
That was less than a year ago. I wasn't supposed to have another mammogram until March of 2013.
Then fate laughed at me.
I found a lump.
To be continued...
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Elf Antics
Christmas is a very merry time of year for many. I'm not usually among them. For me, Christmas means cold weather, shopping, and crowds. I'm not fond of any of those things.
I'm especially not fond of all of them happening at the time.
Of course there are some rather nice parts of the Christmas season too. This blog entry is about one of those wonderful parts.
My Anna is at an age where she knows that Santa isn’t “real,” but isn't 100% sure that she really knows what she thinks she knows. We had an interesting conversation about that very subject one day while walking through Hobby Lobby (yeah, I just said that I don't like shopping, but Hobby Lobby trips are different. Hobby Lobby is a wonderland.)
It all started over an elf. Y Last year, we had visits from an official “Elf on the Shelf." This year Anna decided that she wanted a GIRL elf. She found one at Hobby Lobby and wondered if the doll could somehow become a real elf. She caught the words just after they came out of her mouth and quickly reminded me that she was quite sure that there was no such thing as a real elf...but just in case there was...well, maybe there was a way for Santa (who, she pointed out, is also not real) to somehow make the girl elf... that she found on the shelf) just as magical as thecreepy official elf.
At that point, my confusion took over and I asked her why it mattered? She patiently educated me. You see, it doesn’t matter if Santa or elves are real. It’s just fun to pretend that they are.
Our "From the Store Shelf" elf was dubbed Petunia and it was decided that she would become a true Santa Elf, with full elf powers beginning on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and remain so until Christmas Eve.
Petunia wasn't nearly as naughty as certain other elves that I've seen pictures of, but she did have a few adventures.
I'm especially not fond of all of them happening at the time.
Of course there are some rather nice parts of the Christmas season too. This blog entry is about one of those wonderful parts.
My Anna is at an age where she knows that Santa isn’t “real,” but isn't 100% sure that she really knows what she thinks she knows. We had an interesting conversation about that very subject one day while walking through Hobby Lobby (yeah, I just said that I don't like shopping, but Hobby Lobby trips are different. Hobby Lobby is a wonderland.)
It all started over an elf. Y Last year, we had visits from an official “Elf on the Shelf." This year Anna decided that she wanted a GIRL elf. She found one at Hobby Lobby and wondered if the doll could somehow become a real elf. She caught the words just after they came out of her mouth and quickly reminded me that she was quite sure that there was no such thing as a real elf...but just in case there was...well, maybe there was a way for Santa (who, she pointed out, is also not real) to somehow make the girl elf... that she found on the shelf) just as magical as the
At that point, my confusion took over and I asked her why it mattered? She patiently educated me. You see, it doesn’t matter if Santa or elves are real. It’s just fun to pretend that they are.
Our "From the Store Shelf" elf was dubbed Petunia and it was decided that she would become a true Santa Elf, with full elf powers beginning on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and remain so until Christmas Eve.
Petunia wasn't nearly as naughty as certain other elves that I've seen pictures of, but she did have a few adventures.
On her very first night, she fueled up for fun. Then she took things easy for a while, hanging paper chain loop decorations and candy canes from various odd places.
She colored a picture and left a blank one for Anna.
Here it may look as though her artistic skills increased...and maybe that is what she told her little monkey pal (that Anna gave her) but we weren't fooled. The artist that painted that particular scene is my oldest daughter.
Marshmallow snowmen races!
What do you do with leftover marshmallows? Roast them over a campfire of course. Since she choose to build her "fire" on my stove, I was unable to cook that day. Yes, it was a terrible hardship.
Anna found Petunia reading to monkey and nutcracker.
Oh no! The night after Anna was dx'd with the flu, monkey apparently caught it too. Luckily Petunia knew just what to do!
On the night before Christmas Eve, Petunia built a graham cracker house and then put another together for Anna to decorate.
And here is Anna's finished graham cracker church. She told me that she wanted to turn it into a church so that Santa would see that she remembered that it was Jesus' birthday.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Little Boy Lost
Everyone has a story. Do you ever find yourself wondering about
the chronicles of people around you?
As busy as we are with our own lives, we enjoy finding the time to go to
the movies, turn on the television or sit back with a good book. It’s easy enough to find entertainment in a
story that won’t disrupt our own.
Taking an active role in the story of stranger – well, that might get
complicated.
Oct 12th was National Gumbo Day. This year, my husband and I celebrated by enjoying a bowl of gumbo at our local Gumbo Festival. The kids scarfed down cheese-covered fries and then waited patiently for their dad and I to finish our meals. By patiently, I mean that they said, “Hurry up and finish eating already!” less than a thousand times. You see, they didn’t care that it was National Gumbo Day. They didn’t go to the Gumbo festival for gumbo. They were there for the rides.
After eating, we split into groups. My husband and son went off to the “big rides” while I watched our youngest enjoy the tamer attractions. The Fun House was one of her favorites. She waded through balls, climbed up, slid down, and then got back in line to do it over and over again.
That’s what she was doing when I saw him.
Two dirty streaks ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t crying. The tears that left the tracks had dried. He mouthed silent words, talking to no one in particular, except perhaps himself. His left hand was near his chest, making repeated motions in the air that didn’t appear to be ASL to my (admittedly untrained) eye. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. He was alone. My mommy sense soared to red alert status as I scanned the crowd, searching for someone, anyone that might be looking for him. Another mom met my eyes. She had noticed him too. “Is he okay?” she worried. I fought back the instinct to reach down with a comforting touch to his shoulder, because something told me that physical contact from a stranger might be overwhelming for this child. Instead, I lowered myself to his height and asked, “Are you lost?” He didn’t look at me as he shook his head. I pressed further. “Who is with you?” His raised his arm and pointed to the empty space between the The Fun House and the ride next to it. Then, before I could question him again, he began to walk toward the spot. When we reached the in-between point, he gestured again. Behind The Fun House was an RV. It was inside the fence bordering the fairgrounds, not in the parking lot. I wondered if his family traveled with the carnival attractions. Perhaps the rides were as familiar to him as the swing set in my yard is to my own children. Still, he just seemed much too young to be walking around in a crowd of strangers by himself.
At that moment, a police officer passed near enough to us that I was able to get his attention and explain the situation. While he began talking to the little boy, my daughter exited the ride and ran up to me. She was ready to move on. I watched for a moment as the police officer walk toward the RV with the little boy then took my daughter’s hand and went off to a different part of the fair.
I didn’t see that tiny, tear-stained face again the rest of the evening, but questions hung around my mind. Why was he alone? Why had he been crying? Did someone hurt him? Was he hungry? Did his family know that he was walking around on his own? Were they worried? If he was part of a “carny” family, perhaps there was an agreement among the attraction operators to keep an eye on him. I wondered if he had a permanent home, or if he lived “on the road?” What is life like for a child, any child, who travels from one carnival spot to another? Maybe it’s a wonderful life, full of adventure and amazing experiences. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know because I’m not a part of his life - not a part of his story.
Should I be?
Was it too easy for me to walk away?
Oct 12th was National Gumbo Day. This year, my husband and I celebrated by enjoying a bowl of gumbo at our local Gumbo Festival. The kids scarfed down cheese-covered fries and then waited patiently for their dad and I to finish our meals. By patiently, I mean that they said, “Hurry up and finish eating already!” less than a thousand times. You see, they didn’t care that it was National Gumbo Day. They didn’t go to the Gumbo festival for gumbo. They were there for the rides.
After eating, we split into groups. My husband and son went off to the “big rides” while I watched our youngest enjoy the tamer attractions. The Fun House was one of her favorites. She waded through balls, climbed up, slid down, and then got back in line to do it over and over again.
That’s what she was doing when I saw him.
Two dirty streaks ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t crying. The tears that left the tracks had dried. He mouthed silent words, talking to no one in particular, except perhaps himself. His left hand was near his chest, making repeated motions in the air that didn’t appear to be ASL to my (admittedly untrained) eye. He couldn’t have been more than five years old. He was alone. My mommy sense soared to red alert status as I scanned the crowd, searching for someone, anyone that might be looking for him. Another mom met my eyes. She had noticed him too. “Is he okay?” she worried. I fought back the instinct to reach down with a comforting touch to his shoulder, because something told me that physical contact from a stranger might be overwhelming for this child. Instead, I lowered myself to his height and asked, “Are you lost?” He didn’t look at me as he shook his head. I pressed further. “Who is with you?” His raised his arm and pointed to the empty space between the The Fun House and the ride next to it. Then, before I could question him again, he began to walk toward the spot. When we reached the in-between point, he gestured again. Behind The Fun House was an RV. It was inside the fence bordering the fairgrounds, not in the parking lot. I wondered if his family traveled with the carnival attractions. Perhaps the rides were as familiar to him as the swing set in my yard is to my own children. Still, he just seemed much too young to be walking around in a crowd of strangers by himself.
At that moment, a police officer passed near enough to us that I was able to get his attention and explain the situation. While he began talking to the little boy, my daughter exited the ride and ran up to me. She was ready to move on. I watched for a moment as the police officer walk toward the RV with the little boy then took my daughter’s hand and went off to a different part of the fair.
I didn’t see that tiny, tear-stained face again the rest of the evening, but questions hung around my mind. Why was he alone? Why had he been crying? Did someone hurt him? Was he hungry? Did his family know that he was walking around on his own? Were they worried? If he was part of a “carny” family, perhaps there was an agreement among the attraction operators to keep an eye on him. I wondered if he had a permanent home, or if he lived “on the road?” What is life like for a child, any child, who travels from one carnival spot to another? Maybe it’s a wonderful life, full of adventure and amazing experiences. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know because I’m not a part of his life - not a part of his story.
Should I be?
Was it too easy for me to walk away?
Monday, December 10, 2012
Art Party
A few weeks ago, my niece turned five with a colorful art party. There are more than a few us of who believe that her mom should become a professional party planner. Here are a few photos of her creativity!
The guest filled these goody bags with an assortment of art supplies and treats.
Those cute "crayons" are candy coated pretzel sticks.
The guest filled these goody bags with an assortment of art supplies and treats.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Temporary
I saw a former love today.
He was every bit as adorable as I remembered him. His smile lit up my heart in less than a nano second.
Then I realized that it wasn't for me.
He was there to see another woman. I'd been replaced. We exchanged a few polite words before I left to search for the one he really wanted to visit. She was in the another part of the building, helping to get things ready for the new school year.
"Mrs. Jeanne, you have a visitor," I informed her. "It's my Jackson...I mean, YOUR Jackson."
:::sigh:::
He used to be mine. He climbed into my heart each time that he climbed onto my lap. For the first few weeks of school, he'd arrive with tears brimming in his eyes. I don't let my babies cry alone unless they want to. He didn't want to. The rest of the class quickly grew accustomed to seeing me holding Jackson. Every now and again, another child wanted their turn in my arms, but none of them clung to me nearly as long as he did. As the weeks flew by, the arrival time tears were replaced by a playful smile. I watched him grow more and more confidant, and as he did, I grew more assured in my own ability to help build foundations for my little ones.
By the year's end, I knew he would never again be my cuddle bug. He didn't need my arms anymore. He was ready to move on.
In a way, I moved on too. I left my classroom that year, but I couldn't quite leave the vocation completely. This year, I am returning to my role as Preschool Teacher. In a few weeks, I'll meet a new group of three year olds. Some of them will come into the room ready to learn, explore and meet new friends. Some of them will hang back, worried about what to expect and missing their parents. I'll do my best to engage the ones who are ready to jump right into absorbing everything that they can, and to offer comfort those who need to feel safe before showing off their awesome three year old skills. I'll do those things knowing that, two years from now, many of them will barely remember my name. And that's okay. My role in their lives is temporary. That's all it's supposed to be.
He was every bit as adorable as I remembered him. His smile lit up my heart in less than a nano second.
Then I realized that it wasn't for me.
He was there to see another woman. I'd been replaced. We exchanged a few polite words before I left to search for the one he really wanted to visit. She was in the another part of the building, helping to get things ready for the new school year.
"Mrs. Jeanne, you have a visitor," I informed her. "It's my Jackson...I mean, YOUR Jackson."
:::sigh:::
He used to be mine. He climbed into my heart each time that he climbed onto my lap. For the first few weeks of school, he'd arrive with tears brimming in his eyes. I don't let my babies cry alone unless they want to. He didn't want to. The rest of the class quickly grew accustomed to seeing me holding Jackson. Every now and again, another child wanted their turn in my arms, but none of them clung to me nearly as long as he did. As the weeks flew by, the arrival time tears were replaced by a playful smile. I watched him grow more and more confidant, and as he did, I grew more assured in my own ability to help build foundations for my little ones.
By the year's end, I knew he would never again be my cuddle bug. He didn't need my arms anymore. He was ready to move on.
In a way, I moved on too. I left my classroom that year, but I couldn't quite leave the vocation completely. This year, I am returning to my role as Preschool Teacher. In a few weeks, I'll meet a new group of three year olds. Some of them will come into the room ready to learn, explore and meet new friends. Some of them will hang back, worried about what to expect and missing their parents. I'll do my best to engage the ones who are ready to jump right into absorbing everything that they can, and to offer comfort those who need to feel safe before showing off their awesome three year old skills. I'll do those things knowing that, two years from now, many of them will barely remember my name. And that's okay. My role in their lives is temporary. That's all it's supposed to be.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Desire
It begins.
It begins as softly as a sigh.
You push it aside.
Life is busy.
It waits.
It waits for you to find a moment alone.
The moment doesn't belong to you.
You belong to it.
In it is the longing.
The craving.
The desire.
It threatens to consume you.
You let it.
You are aware that there is no way to assuage the hunger.
That knowledge isn't enough to stop you from slipping into it's grasp.
This isn't a candy bar craving.
You can't quell this need with a run to your favorite junk food.
There is no way to indulge the want.
The yearning is for the smile that you won't find forming.
It's for the embrace that can no longer comfort you.
Not here.
Not now.
The sweet remembrance that lured you into this state leads you further away.
Desire turns into despair as you long to return to conversations that can't be changed.
Reality beckons.
Life pulls at you.
You feel the cycle winding down.
You carefully pack away the bittersweet memories.
You turn your focus to the life before you.
There is more to learn.
More to experience.
More to feel.
You aren't leaving your desire behind.
You are growing toward it.
It begins as softly as a sigh.
You push it aside.
Life is busy.
It waits.
It waits for you to find a moment alone.
The moment doesn't belong to you.
You belong to it.
In it is the longing.
The craving.
The desire.
It threatens to consume you.
You let it.
You are aware that there is no way to assuage the hunger.
That knowledge isn't enough to stop you from slipping into it's grasp.
This isn't a candy bar craving.
You can't quell this need with a run to your favorite junk food.
There is no way to indulge the want.
The yearning is for the smile that you won't find forming.
It's for the embrace that can no longer comfort you.
Not here.
Not now.
The sweet remembrance that lured you into this state leads you further away.
Desire turns into despair as you long to return to conversations that can't be changed.
Reality beckons.
Life pulls at you.
You feel the cycle winding down.
You carefully pack away the bittersweet memories.
You turn your focus to the life before you.
There is more to learn.
More to experience.
More to feel.
You aren't leaving your desire behind.
You are growing toward it.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Father's Day 2012
"You smell like vacation."
"What?"
"Vacation. You know...that place where people go to rest, relax and recharge? That's what you are to me."
Two of our children were within earshot when that exchange occurred. Naturally, they groaned. I just smiled.
When my husband gets home from work, we almost always greet each other with a quick kiss and hug. I believe that it is very important for our children to see signs of affection between their parents. For one thing, it grosses them out - and that's always fun! More importantly, it models a healthy relationship for them. As parents we can talk and talk and talk all we went, but children sometimes learn more from what they witness than they do from what they are told.
My children are blessed to have a father who shows them, on a daily basis, that husbands are to treat their wives with love and respect. My hope for my daughters is that they each find someone just like their dad. My hope for my son is that he grows up to be the same kind of man his father is.
As for me, well, what more could I hope for? I already get a vacation with every hug!
"What?"
"Vacation. You know...that place where people go to rest, relax and recharge? That's what you are to me."
Two of our children were within earshot when that exchange occurred. Naturally, they groaned. I just smiled.
When my husband gets home from work, we almost always greet each other with a quick kiss and hug. I believe that it is very important for our children to see signs of affection between their parents. For one thing, it grosses them out - and that's always fun! More importantly, it models a healthy relationship for them. As parents we can talk and talk and talk all we went, but children sometimes learn more from what they witness than they do from what they are told.
My children are blessed to have a father who shows them, on a daily basis, that husbands are to treat their wives with love and respect. My hope for my daughters is that they each find someone just like their dad. My hope for my son is that he grows up to be the same kind of man his father is.
As for me, well, what more could I hope for? I already get a vacation with every hug!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)