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Uncomfortable was an understatement. Uncomfortable is when you have to curl your toes for a minute while they finish the swab. This was painful.
When she suggested this procedure, I resisted. I asked if I really needed to have it done, and couldn't we just wait for another appointment. I was there for my annual, and the less poking and prodding, the better. She asked if I wanted it straight or if I wanted it sweetened a bit. Momentarily sidetracked by thoughts of coffee, I said, "Straight, please." That's when she dropped the C bomb.
"The last woman who came in with your syptoms had uterine cancer."
Of course, I agreed to the biopsy, though it was invasive and painful, it was necessary. I was quiet for a while, remembering my friend Bridgett who had been in my stirrups a few years ago. We lost her barely a year after her diagnosis. I was struck by how different this was than that cervical cancer I had seven years ago. Cervical cancer can be treated fairly easily. Rarely does it kill you. Endometrial cancer is a fight, at best. Almost always requiring surgery, treatment ranges from a D&C to a hysterectomy and on up to chemo and radiation. I learned this from the several searches I did when I got home.
I also learned that I am high-risk for this type of cancer because of my lack of menstruation. Funny, I used to think I was lucky. All my friends were complaining of cramps and heavy periods, while I just shrugged and said lightly, "I never get them. Maybe once a year."
I hope my luck isn't running out.
Now I wait, smoking like a chimney and watching my phone for missed calls while imagining the worst. How would I tell my children? My husband? My mother? This is such an inopportune time to go through this kind of treatment. Or surgery. Of course, when is it ever a good time? As new business owners with school about to start and sports and activities ready to kick into high gear, I can't afford to be out of commission any more than I already am.
With all these practical considerations, it's easy to ignore the basic emotion that has taken up residence in my heart: fear. The truth is, I'm terrified.
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Last night, the darling Mr. grilled up some dee-diddly-icious steaks (courtesy my good friends Lew & Cindy) and we enjoyed them thoroughly. Once we were stuffed and immobile, the Mr. thought it was time to give our puppy, Sasha, a bone. OH boy, time for a bone!
He held the juicy morsel up above the 4 month old poop machine, and told her to "sit". She sat, and looked, and sat...but then lost control of herself and...jumped up and swallowed the bone whole! This bone was a good 2.5 inches long and 1 inch wide!
Good news, though, the vet said just watch her for abdominal distress and lack of appetite. Apparently, there's a good chance the pup's stomach will take care of the problem. So we watch, and we wait!
After this joyous festivity, all I can say is...
...we need to kick the dogs out of the bedroom at night, because clearly she's been watching Mom too much.
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I take great pride in offering you my interpretation of the faces I saw sticking out of car windows for three straight weekends whilst they drove by my yard sale, deciding whether or not to stop.
Enjoy!
And my absolute favorite....
Be wary, oh yard-salers! Someone is watching you! Next time, I shall have my camera at the ready!
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Good news: Mike does not have mono. Apparently it was just a virus. He is feeling better and back to his usual self.
Bad news: Mike is back to his usual self.
Good news: We decided to buy the web design business I have been working for in the last year, and are now, like, BUSINESS OWNERS!
Bad news: We decided to buy the web design business I have been working for in the last year, and are now, like, BUSINESS OWNERS!
Good news: Tomorrow is the 4th and WE R GUNNA PARTAY!!
Bad news: My mother is coming the next day after a very large party at my house. And it is THRASHED!
Good news: It's no different than any other day!
Happy 4th everyone!
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Or, at least has something like a second head sticking out the side of his neck.
Turns out it's a lymph node. Swollen like, HUGE. And now he's really sick. REALLY sick. He couldn't walk to his bedroom. His throat hurts, he has as high fever and is sick, sick, SICK! So off to the doctor's office we trotted (I trotted, he shuffled). Then the doc spoke those words that ease the minds of parents everywhere-"Well, I'm not saying it's not cancer...but I feel quite comfortable that it's probably mono."
...*blink*
Well, I suppose that's definitely the preferable of the two. Heaven knows when I saw that mass on his neck I thought the worst. Is anyone else this neurotic? I had visions of diagnoses for Lymphoma and Hodgkins, chemo treatments and losing my only son. Do you suppose it's all the internet's fault? I mean, now we can research symptoms 24 hrs a day! I know all the bad stuff that causes swollen lymph nodes! Yay!
Folks, lemmejusttellya that mono is a nasty virus. It seriously sucks, and when you just turned 16 and have a summer ahead of you, it's like a death sentence. My poor son's summer is not looking too good.
I'm going to try to sleep now, hoping he doesn't call my cell phone unless he really needs me. I gave him the house phone and am sleeping with my cell in case he needs me. Because he's too weak to walk across the house.
C'mon, all you mommies...are you getting that "awwww!!!" feeling yet?
I'll keep you posted.
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Yes...I am particularly gifted at this little solo-act. I can bait a hook and cast it out in 5 seconds flat, leaving all on the banks of the lake in awe and wonder, wanting desperately to see more.
Sadly, this doesn't help me catch many fish.
Summer is here, and I'm at the lake as often as possible (after all my work is done! Right, Alaena?) to cast a line and hope something bites. What usually bites, however, is coming home to children whose summer vacation is in full swing. God help me .
It's not so much that the kids are home and the house is a mess. It's the Lord of the Flies mentality that ensues when I pull out of the driveway, the frantic phone messages with full on battles going on in the background and the children meeting me at the door dressed in loincloths and spouting phrases like, "Me leader-you go now!".
Even catching a prize trout can't fix the sinking feeling I get in my gut as the distance between me and Hellhouse becomes less. It is in these times of crisis...these moments of fear and loathing...these moments of fleeting thoughts of turning around and never returning, that I ask myself this question: What would June Cleaver do?
If she saw my family? Probably high-tail her pump-clad feet far, far away. And fast.
Me? First I'll try it the "right" way...I'll separate the kids and talk to them about "what was YOUR role in all of this? How could you have changed it?" Then when they leave my room screaming "I HATE YOU!!" and I make the rest of them cry because I ask them to clean up their FIVE (5!!) drink cups with straws sticking out of them, the empty pudding cup and spoon and shredded fruit snack wrappers that are littering the floor and for heaven's sake, CLEAN UP the soda that spilled on one of the kitchen chairs! Once they're all a sobbing, angry mess, I can head to the lake for the rest of the day, knowing I have done my job and ruined their precious lives forever.
And I am SO not paying for their therapy.
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...Yes it goes on and on my friends...
So here's the deal. I want my peeps (that would be you) to leave me a ONE WORD comment. Each person playing off the last comment. Feel free to KEEP commenting if you have more ONE WORD(s) to add!
I'll get things started (and my darling husband will help).
This will be fun!!
(Comments appear with the most recent at the top...)
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I learned I was carrying a child. I was frightened and ecstatic and nauseous, all at the same time.
With each week, I studied the charts and books and spoke lovingly to my ever-growing belly in an attempt to introduce myself to my unborn baby. I am certain I made mistakes during my pregancies, but I always wanted only the best for each of my precious ones.
When they were born, I reveled in motherhood. I counted each tiny finger and toe, burning their little form in my memory forever. I cherished the sleepless nights, the sore nipples from breastfeeding and even the mustard-colored poopy diapers.
Never in my life had I felt such complete and selfless love as I have felt for my three children. Ever.
Nearly sixteen years after giving birth to my oldest child, I find myself weeping for them. Two of the three are in their teens, with the youngest headed there quickly. And I cannot for the life of me figure out who these ungrateful, selfish and ridiculous little people are or where they came from.
Never has the phrase "Hindsight is 20/20" been so heartbreaking. If only I had taught them the utmost respect for adults, themselves and each other. If only I had taught them the value of a dollar. If only I had taught them to be hard workers, always willing to lend a hand without being asked. If only I had taught them that they only have one mother, and she is to be treasured. Every tear is an "if only". And there are so, so many.
My chance to form them into the kind of people I admire most is gone. My effect on their character is so minimal now, and I find it ironic that it is now when I want so desperately to make an impact. Regrettably, it is too little, too late.
So when I blog about the downfall of this next generation-when I claim they are selfish and rude-when I tell you that our world is in very deep trouble if these are the folks about to start running it...
...please remind me where the blame lies: squarely on my own shoulders.
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So apparently I frighten people. Specifically, children. Sadly, my own children . And they're pissed.
In my defense, I didn't intend to frighten them. I was just trying to be silly. Funny. Ha ha. You know? I had forgotten that my woman-child has lost her sense of humor. And I don't think it's coming back.
It's been a day of attitudes and no-gratitude...failed driver's exams and kids pushing one another's buttons until Mom pulls her hair out. Finally, it was bedtime . Sweet, peaceful bedtime. Actually, past bedtime, by probably a half hour or so. From the back room I can hear it begin.
"Stop it!" one of them yells
"Shut UP! I can't sleep!" the other yells back
"I'm so SICK of sharing a room with you!" the other says
"MOOOOOOOOM!!!" they both yell
Meanwhile, I'm outside, enjoying the shadows of my newly planted trees, among other things.
Because I was outside, it was reasonable to take the shortest route to reach my darlings and
"Shhh...what's that?" one whispered. A smile crept across my face as I tried again, making a bit more noise.
"It's coming from the window!" one of them gasped, so I did it again.
The only sound this time was the thundering footsteps of both of my girls running down the hallway to my bedroom to tell me of the crazy person trying to get into their window.
This was met with my hysterical laughter just outside the back door.
My girls were not amused. Not even a little.
I tried to play it off. The 13 year old crossed her arms in a huff and hit the window in anger. The 9 year old was crying.
I am now officially a candidate for "Mother of the Year". Yay me.
Now all we need is the boy to go off in a testosterone-induced haze and burn the house down because one of the girls at the last pop tart.
...then again, perhaps I shouldn't tempt fate.
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There are moments in life when I look at my fellow man's deeds and think there is no hope for humanity. The violence, the hatred, the destruction are all so overwhelming, and personally, I often have a difficult time coming up with some positive to outweigh the negative. My only hope truly lies in knowing that someday I will leave this Godforsaken planet and never have to stress out about my fat ass again. Never wash another dish. Never pick up dog poop or change diapers. EVER again.
And then...something happens that restores my hope in mankind.
My backyard, until recently, was a two-foot-tall field with potholes, dog piles and shredded items (including several pair of my underwear) littered about. The deck was horrendous, old and pitted. The sun beat directly on that entire back side of the house ever evening, wearing the paint down and weakening the window seals. With the two couches that lived there for a couple of years, we looked like the epitomy of white trash. Not that my bra-less, flip-flopped Wal Mart escapades didn't earn me that title rightfully. It's just icing on the ice-cream cake, baby.
Then we started dreaming about the future. And knowing damn well it would never come to pass. But a funny thing happened. We shared that dream with some friends (mainly as an excuse for not having them over-our house is trashy) and before long, they were here with lawn tractors and garbage bags, pick up trucks and weed wackers. They mowed and cleaned, leaving us ready to spray the grass dead and rototill. Of course, I knew we would never do that. We didn't own one, would never rent one, and I couldn't run it on my own. Not without heavy medication and multiple days filled with expletives followed by two weeks in bed.
Last week, my future brother-in-law showed up with his mini-tractor and tilled the entire backyard. Not long after, I planted my first garden since we've lived here (about 4 years). I *bought* rakes, but they sat in the backyard, lifeless, longing to be useful to someone. Again, we were just doomed to have a barren dirt-land of a backyard. But at least the grass wasn't hiding couches anymore. No grass. No couches.
Today a cement contractor from our church showed up to give me a bid on the little patio we want to pour where the deck used to be. We talked about my plans for the backyard and how I would be able to get to it "someday". We had been seated next to them at a charity dinner a few weeks back and had talked quite a bit about our lives...my illness, the Mr.'s work and kids. I wanted to make sure we used his concrete business, being that they were just getting started.
He mentioned that there were some extra trees (bare root) up at the church leftover from a fundraiser that they were giving away, and that I might go over and take a look. I did, and they were bound up and on trucks, so I didn't touch them. But oh, I wanted some trees. Some big, beautiful shade trees.
When I returned home, our concrete guy's lovely wife was in my driveway. With kids. And shovels. And rakes. And a printout of what the trees would look like when they got bigger. This woman and her children drove me back to the church, helped me pick out SEVEN trees, loaded them up and then planted them for me in my backyard. This was after they raked my tilled yard to prepare for grass. It was nothing short of amazing.
I don't know why it's so hard to ask for help. Even when you really need it. I didn't ask anyone but God. And look what He did! He sent HELP! Over and over, week after week, and in the right order, no less! I am blessed. Not beyond words, obviously, but beyond comprehension.
My cup overfloweth. My faith in God is steadfast...my faith in mankind... restored .
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Happy entry title, no?
I originally wanted to entitle it, "Just shoot me...no wait..don't...it might add to your rap sheet"
This after an afternoon of refereeing via cellphone my two teens having a knock-down-drag-out while I went to the store. For an hour .
Seriously. What is up with that? Does the nearly six foot boy know that the not-quite-five-foot girl is no match for him? Does it occur to him that throwing her around the house and then barracading her in a bedroom are...like... illegal ? I grow so weary of these phone calls when all I wanna do is have some fun. Or buy some razor refills and toilet paper. Which is nothing like fun, actually. Especially devoid of fun with the Mother of All Head Colds and body aches (courtesy of our friend, FM!) and a pile of work waiting for me at home.
So what did I do? My thirteen year old is sobbing in my bedroom whilst my 16 year old son is defending his actions when I return home. Do I let them eat the Mickey D's I brought home? yep. How about the candy bars I bought for them (before I knew about the fight)? Yep, I let 'em have those too.
After taking a moment to contain my frustration, I did what any other mother would do. I looked up the Oregon statues for assault, printed them each out a copy, and told them I expected an oral report on what they mean and how they may have violated them in the last six months.
Sometimes it helps having grown up with both parents as cops.
Meanwhile, I feel like a well-worn hockey puck after a national championship. And it's freaking HOT here. The kind of hot that our puny window AC unit can't touch. And it's only going to get worse.
And, as I write this post, I watched my husband walk in my bedroom, walk over to the fan, turn it on full blast and point it toward his desk, away from me , where it had been blowing previously.
Put a fork in me, I'm SO done.
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Damn Fibromyalgia.
Have I mentioned how much I despise this nemesis of mine?
Oh, YES internets, it IS a nemesis of gargantuan proportion. I am the super hero, it is my kryptonite. I am the flame, it is the water that douses my fire. I am the ant, it is the jumper cable attached to my car battery (see previous entry).
You see, I had to say goodbye to Lexie yesterday.
It's not that Lexie is a difficult dog. It's that she's a massive dog. And I am (was) her primary caretaker. I can't walk her, play with her, or have her sit on my lap (as she was so prone to doing) without excrutiating pain. When we brought her home, I didn't suffer from symptoms from this blasted condition. Now it's the pain in the ass (and everywhere else) that won't quit. So, with my heavy heart shredded in teeny tiny bits, I handed her over to a new family who fell in love with her immediately. Apparently she slept like a log last night and misses me like a good butt rash. Though she did like to chew undies.
Her play partner (and much smaller roommate) couldn't be left without someone to talk to...play with...pretend to mate with. Oh, how oft we would look outside to see him becoming amorous with her back leg. Because that's all he could reach, being a Pomeranian. But boy, did he go to town on that back leg! If back legs could have litters...well, you get the idea...
In an act of heartlessness that almost numbs the pain of giving up my Lexie, I brought home a substitute. Everyone, please welcome Sasha.
Although I'd wager that I have more wrinkles than she, at least she is supposed to have them. She should get only slightly larger than Jinx. Oh, and clearly my husband hasn't bonded with her:
And so, whimpering puppy at my feet (don't ask me how I'm going to find the strength and endurance to train a new puppy), I surveyed the backyard, which is newly tilled. We intend to plant grass this year, and also a garden. A vegetable garden. Some day we'll have to do a poll on how everyone pronounces the word "vegetable". But not today.
Around 8:30 this evening, I suddenly was inspired. Inspired to see fresh bell peppers and spaghetti squash grow. Inspired to watch my daughter plant her own goards. Goards, you say? Don't ask. Apparently she plans to make bird houses. We'll talk about her animal obsession another day. My inspiration soon led to perspiration, and no doubt tomorrow will lead to medication, after digging rows and making hills. But alas, my garden is planted. It's a tiny little thing, off in the corner of my yard, but it might as well be an acre for as proud as I am of it. In the words of Redneck Mommy, "They may be puny little hills, buddy, but they're MINE".
Although I seriously doubt she was talking about canteloupe. That is an entirely different kind of melon.
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A little tidbit for your holiday:
Ways in which my son felt effective in dealing with the ants on our driveway:
1. Douse them with gasoline and light them on fire
2. Squash their heads off and watch them run around until they die
3. Take my lighter and burn them one at a time
4. Spit on them until they drown (until, that is, he learned it can take days for them drown)
...and my own personal favorite...
5.Attach jumper cables to my car battery and zap them one at a time
Thank, you, thank you, I appreciate your support.
Now taking donations for future therapy costs, and early royalty checks for my tell-all book when he becomes a household name.
Please tell me that all boys are like this. At 16, I thought we were safe that he hadn't started torturing animals yet.
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Anyone who reads blogs knows how it goes. We start with one blog. They link to twelve more jeweled bits of journaling. We add them to our blogroll, and each blog we add has links to at least fifty wonderfully entertaining entries. We start sending links to our friends about granola , lube , Mormon hairstylists , depression, and nipple piercings. We learn along the way that there are celebrities in the blogging world, and we are right to be in awe of them. They're funny , beautiful, lust-worthy and in some cases, all of the above.
Then, one day, it happens.
One of them tags you for a meme.
You pull out your scrapbook, sanctify the day forever and call all your friends. And you never wash your computer again.
(Oh, and then you spank yourself-because that's totally possible-for not reading blogs in three weeks because you were knee deep in other people's discarded crap. And bow-chicka. Lots of bow-chicka-bow.)
So here it is, friends, Seven Things You Don't Already Know About Me!
1. I have a picking problem. (and this counts for three!)
a. I pick my nose. Relax. I'm very consciencious about where I place what I retrieve. How can YOU stand it when a hard piece of snot pokes you inside your nose? Then starts flapping in the breeze? Swallow your pride and take CARE of it, man!
b. When I see a zit, I have to bite my lip not to pop it. Even if it's on a total stranger.
c. I pick my cuticles and the skin around my fingers until they bleed when under severe stress. I think it's a disorder of some kind.
2. I agree with Simon Cowell most of the time.
3. I think it would be a good thing for my son to go into the Marines when he hits 18 in 2 years.
4. I was 34 before I got my first pedicure, but 14 when I did my first set of acrylic nails. I don't wear those anymore. The fingernails, not the toenails.
5. I believe wholeheartedly that my husband deserves weekly (if not more often!) services, ifyaknowwhadImean. And I am mostly content to go to sleep immediately after, taking nothing for myself. Because he so often repays me in kind. Bow-chicka to the max!
6. And as if your TMI meter wasn't already in the red...
...I always look before I flush. I have to. Who knows what you might find? Corn? Lettuce? Worms? A disembodied hand?
Yeah, I'm also a little crazy.
Thank you, Oh, the Joys, for tagging me! In turn, when you all are no longer queasy and can return to read the rest of my entry, I shall tag people who probably don't read my blog anymore after my long absence:
Secondhand Tryptophan
Brandy's Blog
Bahrageous
Redneck Mommy
and
Dawn! yes, YOU! Get yer butt over to your blog and write out seven things (ish) people don't know about you!
I shall get back to my brownies, wine and horrible tobacco habit.
In Hilly's words,
Stinky Nicotine Kisses!
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A man's role in life (at least, historically speaking) is to provide for his family. He trots off to work, deals with all the stresses and demands, then returns home with money in hand to purchase life's necessities.
Simplistic. Idealistic.
Sadly, our society's contorted view has changed the roles of our men (and women) as breadwinners, and the demands and stresses have increased to the point where more men are seeking treatment for depression and anxiety than ever before.
I understand why.
As a wife, I find it so very frustrating to hear the man I love with every fiber of my being talk about his fruitless quest to better his workplace. I'm disheartened to hear how his employers are continually upping his stress level and dangling his job in front of him like a carrot keeping the mule moving forward. I'm angry that those above him can sing his praises one moment, then place the downfall of the entire franchise squarely on his shoulders the next. I'm exasperated to watch him give everything he has to a company, leaving him nothing to give his wife and children, then be treated like he is not doing enough and could be replaced on a whim.
I've had enough.
Do they know anything about this man? Do they have any idea what he has done to put money in their pockets to buy Harley bikes and private jet rides? Do they see him spin his wheels and hole up in his office until nearly 8 p.m. every night (even though he started working at 8 a.m. that morning) to make sure they have their pointless reports and numbers (the same ones they will use tomorrow to nail him to a proverbial cross)? Do they know what an amazing, intelligent and gifted man they are blessed to have working for them? What amazing work ethics? Do they KNOW?
Well they should. And they should be held accountable for what they're doing both to him and those he works with under the guise of bettering the company. They should know that they're canibalizing their own people by working them into the ground, and then demanding more. They should know that when they implement ten more procedures on top of the hundreds already in place, that they increase the work load and the time it takes to do the job. They should know that not only does my husband not get paid enough to be put under these conditions, but nobody should be willing to work this way for any amount of money.
But then, it's all about money, isn't it?
You know the most amazing thing? My man, who deserves far more credit than he gets and exceedingly more in a wife than I can offer, will get back up, dust himself off, and dig down deeper to try to find more to give. Because along with all the wonderful skills and qualities he has to do the job, he is fiercely loyal, and won't consider looking elsewhere unless he can see no way to give them what they want.
Every company should have such a man. And I thank God daily that I do. I only hope that they can see how invaluable he is to them before it's too late.
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