Last summer, I had completed chemo and radiation, and it was that, coupled with my husband's enthusiasm, that made me do what I did.
I joined a slow-pitch softball team for the first time since 1995.
I did it because it offered everything I had been missing for five months: namely, the feeling of being alive.
It's a feeling that I didn't even know to appreciate before I was sick, but it was an exhilarating feeling to have again once I thought it was lost forever.
The feeling of being outside, moving, gulping in air and enjoying every second of it, even in temperatures nearing 100 degrees, with no breeze in sight, made me the happiest I think I have ever been.
So, I spent that whole season just appreciating every minute I got to move. I felt healthy again. I felt alive.
This season, the feelings are different.
The novelty hasn't worn off, exactly, but observing assorted teams and their players has taught me a few things.
There are categories of ballplayers, whether it is in slow-pitch softball or baseball. I will just talk about the ones that I don't like.
1. The Sharons. I named them that last night, after one who embodied the entire stereotype.
I don't know why people bother to play ball if they have no intention of ever, ever swinging the bat. This is true in baseball, as well. Few things bring me to instant fury like a player who will not swing the bat. Ever.
It makes me want to hurt them.
Sharon was worse than the traditional stereotype in that she looked fairly athletic. She knew softball terms. She yelled them out at the right times, but in watching her, I came to believe she was doing it for attention.
"GOOD EYE!" Sharon would bellow, then start laughing, after pitches that were almost in the dirt.
I started conversing with her in my mind, and by conversing, I mean delivering a mental tirade.
Wow, Sharon, you seem to really understand the game. You have a real grasp of the obvious, you know it? Hey, Sharon, since we're talking, and since you are so connected to the inner workings of co-ed slowpitch softball, surely you know that you are a GODLESS WHORE FOR NOT SWINGING THE BAT!? REALLY, SHARON!? REALLY!!????
Something like that. I can't remember verbatim.
2. The Shanes. I named them that after their leader.
Shane, it's obvious you aren't winning in the looks department, and you're clearly batting well below average in intelligence. Nice baby mohawk, though.
The Shanes are the bullies of slow-pitch. Last week, I was filling in for a team who had the misfortune of playing Shane's team. Mind you, when we played Shane's team, he nailed me in the arm when I was in my dugout. Other people would have acknowledged the error, would have said sorry, maybe. Shane got pissed off when the ball didn't get returned to him fast enough.
But I digress.
In the first inning, Shane was pitching, and he pitched like he looked: just awful. One of our players made the poor choice to take the walk. Shane went nuts.
"OH, THAT'S HOW IT'S GONNA BE? A TEAM OF WALKERS? IT'S GONNA BE LIKE THAT, HUH? WELL, WE'LL SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT. F#$%IN' WALKS. F#@$."
Nobody else walked.
However, when it was Shane's team's turn, he instructed each batter, only once they got up to bat, that they had better not, in the name of all that was holy, swing. Under any circumstances.
He instructed loudly.
It was like that for the whole game. God, Shane, I'm sorry that softball is your life, but you don't have to take it out on everyone else.
I guess the Sharons and the Shanes are about my only two gripes, player-wise.
I still love to play. But it hit me last night as I kept dodging hornets at first base that it wasn't the same as it used to be.
I played slow-pitch softball for close to 10 years as a child. I perfected the slow pitch. I was deadly because I was the slowest-pitching pitcher in the league.
We were undefeated nearly every season.
Because I spent so much time working on my pitch, I did not develop skills needed at other spots on the field. I could catch line drives hit at me, I could get pop-ups. Grounders, no. And, most importantly, I never really learned to throw overhand.
It hadn't developed within me since then, either.
So, I tried to be a really good hitter instead.
That's not really working out as well in the adult league as it did the girls' league, though. I tend to hit either directly to the shortstop or pop up to the center fielder.
Then I caught myself paying attention to my thoughts during the second game last night (no action at first base. At all. The whole game.)
They went something like this.
I love to be tan. This feels good.
Wait. Am I starting to look like one of those leathery softball moms? Oh, God, please no. You can't get good skin back. Maybe I should pull my sleeves down.
I need a good floppy hat. And bigger sunglasses.
I don't want to be a leathery softball mom.
Oh, my God, what does my cellulite look like? Just because I can't see it doesn't mean it's not there. Don't fool yourself, sweetheart. You have it. You've seen it on plenty of women who have made the (surely unintentional) mistake of wearing short shorts and showing the world their dimples.
Oh, my God, I don't want to be one of those women.
I wonder how much weight I've lost out here tonight? I'm weighing as soon as I get home. I wonder how much my sweat-soaked hair weighs? I'll subtract that. A couple ounces maybe?
Mindless thoughts are meaningless unless you happen to catch yourself in the midst of them and wonder what it all means.
I thought about my 14-year-old self as a pitcher, and what she thought about during games.
Her thoughts went something like this.
Breathe. Spin the ball in your hand five times.
Step up to the rubber.
Breathe.
Zone in.
Pitch.
React.
They were the same every time. They never, ever varied. It's another reason I was good. Thanks to my dad, a book and a videotape, I knew the secrets of mental toughness in sports.
After the inning, I went to the captain.
"I'll pitch next time."
He agreed. He had been pitching and he had not been doing well.
I threw five warm-ups. Then I announced I was ready.
The umpire was surprised. I don't know what he thought traditional warm-ups consisted of, but he repeated my question back to me.
"You're ready?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
I wasn't exactly a hero in my re-entry to the pitching world. In the one inning I pitched, I struck out two and walked one.
I did well enough, though, to merit a compliment from my teammate.
"You've been holding out on us!"
Any guesses on which one I walked, by the way?
That's right. Sharon.
Also, we lost by 18 runs. But in that one inning, I felt like I was close enough to 14-year-old me to reach out and graze her hand.
I'm not her anymore. But for a few minutes, I remembered.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Birthday Boy
Yesterday was Zane's birthday. We now have two 15-year-olds in the house.
I marvel all the time that we have three teenagers between the two of us and they all get along so well.
We're truly blessed.
But I digress.
I had to work both jobs, so I didn't get to see him as much as I would have liked, but on my 80-minute break between jobs I went home to make him some birthday dessert.
Zane doesn't like cake. He's a very, very, very picky eater, in fact.
He also doesn't like fruit pies or cobblers.
The choices were narrowing quickly.
The first thing I looked up was baklava. I was very apprehensive about this, because it's a complicated dessert to make and I didn't want to blow it and kill his desire for yet another dessert for the rest of his life.
Thank God for Pinterest. I found an "easy" baklava pie that promised delicious results with no complication.
Still, a smart woman always has a back-up plan.
I found it in the form of no-bake Nutella cheesecake (also on Pinterest).
Let the obstacles commence!
First up: try living in a small town and finding phyllo dough (a staple of baklava). After striking out at Wal-Mart and Sam's both, I assumed it wouldn't be anywhere. I was pleasantly surprised to find it during a last-ditch search at a local grocery store.
Obstacle One: DOWN.
Secondly, the Nutella cheesecake called for a crushed Oreo cookie crust.
Zane also doesn't like Oreos.
I altered the recipe in my mind to a sort of Nutella pudding. It should work, I figured. If it tastes good enough, you really only need a spoon anyway.
Obstacle Two: DOWN.
Side note: the baklava called for FOUR CUPS of walnuts. I figure the cost of making this to be somewhere in the 30 dollar range, which would be great if it turned out well. I wasn't feeling great about it.
The next problem happened when I mixed up the Nutella "pudding." I had bought a smallish jar of Nutella so that I wouldn't tap into Zane's everyday supply for the recipe, and it called for two thirds of a cup. I recommend leaving Nutella in your car for several hours if you want to use it in a recipe. Very pourable.
So I poured the two thirds in, added the brick of cream cheese and container of Cool Whip (I used extra creamy, because I care like that), and mixed.
Then I tasted it.
It tasted like brown cream cheese, which is to say it tasted like cream cheese.
I HATE cream cheese.
In order to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to throw back a quick shot of Nutella from the still-warm jar. Then I went ahead and poured the rest of that in the bowl and mixed again.
Still no good. This was supposed to be the easy recipe!
I don't cook much. My go-to recipes are all in casserole form, although I love making desserts.
Easy desserts. My berry cobbler is a slam-dunk. I can make it in my sleep.
Why can't the kid like berry cobbler?
Then, inspiration. As a seasoned bullshitter in the kitchen, I have learned that some ingredients save you every time.
I opened the cabinet and pulled out my secret weapon.
A good dousing of powdered sugar and another solid mix later, I had my finished product.
Obstacle Three: DOWN.
Damn, that Nutella pudding was good. But it could stand up by itself and was, as you can imagine, very rich.
I needed a crust.
Inspiration hit AGAIN. I had crushed graham crackers!
I told myself, ok, mix with butter, throw in the oven for a few minutes, spread Nutella on top, and BAM! Dessert.
I don't know how this got lost in translation in my mind. It was totally simple on paper.
I mixed the crust, I spread it on the bottom of the pan, and then I immediately tried to spread the Nutella on top.
Yep. Didn't happen. The whole thing rolled together in a huge mess.
I hadn't baked the crust first.
Well, I thought to myself as I looked at the ball of crap that my beautiful recipe had become, just mix the graham cracker crust in with the pudding and make a NEW graham cracker crust to spread the whole mess on!
Obstacle Four: DOWN.
So I did that. And Zane sampled a mixer paddle's worth, as well as the remainder in the bowl, and proclaimed it to be very good.
No-Bake Nutella Cheesecake (modified): ACHIEVED.
About this time I remembered that I was supposed to make the no-bake dessert while I was waiting for the baklava to come out of the oven. I hadn't made the baklava yet.
Dang it.
Let's talk phyllo dough. Ever used it? I had heard it was quite thin. After holding up the first sheet, I thought, thin is right! Geez, I don't know if I can use this without tearing it!
I slapped it down on the bottom of the real-butter-greased pie pan (gotta use real butter, just ask the ants if you don't believe me. Google it.). Then I realized, upon seeing the edge, that it was actually four sheets stuck together.
Ever tried to pull apart phyllo dough when you've already slapped it onto a buttered glass dish?
HAHAHAHAHA.
So I made a mess. But one sheet remained largely intact. I didn't know what to do with the three mangled sheets so I stuffed them into my mouth.
Not bad.
I only ruined about six more after that. None went to waste.
Obstacle Five: DOWN.
I was also feeling pretty sick at that point. But I soldiered on.
This "easy" baklava pie calls for a layer of phyllo, brushed with melted butter, topped with a layer of crushed walnut mixed with brown sugar and cinnamon. Repeat layers until you get to the top.
I did all that. I tucked the edges. And I put it in the oven.
At this point, I was running out of time before I had to be at Job Two.
The recipe called for a 45-minute bake time. I decided, given the ingredients, that 37 minutes seemed much more appropriate to my situation.
The recipe also called for sugar, honey and water brought to a boil and then poured over the finished product.
I also recommend that, when you leave the Nutella in the car for the afternoon, throw the honey in there too. Very pourable.
So after 37 minutes, I pulled the thing out, poured the boiling sticky topping on it, remembered to turn the oven off, and felt like the greatest kitchen success story in all of time.
When I got home from work six hours later, I had a piece of the baklava. More accurately, I sawed off a chunk.
Definitely texture issues.
All in all, I would say it could have gone worse. The important thing was, he didn't care at all.
Happy birthday, kid.
I marvel all the time that we have three teenagers between the two of us and they all get along so well.
We're truly blessed.
But I digress.
I had to work both jobs, so I didn't get to see him as much as I would have liked, but on my 80-minute break between jobs I went home to make him some birthday dessert.
Zane doesn't like cake. He's a very, very, very picky eater, in fact.
He also doesn't like fruit pies or cobblers.
The choices were narrowing quickly.
The first thing I looked up was baklava. I was very apprehensive about this, because it's a complicated dessert to make and I didn't want to blow it and kill his desire for yet another dessert for the rest of his life.
Thank God for Pinterest. I found an "easy" baklava pie that promised delicious results with no complication.
Still, a smart woman always has a back-up plan.
I found it in the form of no-bake Nutella cheesecake (also on Pinterest).
Let the obstacles commence!
First up: try living in a small town and finding phyllo dough (a staple of baklava). After striking out at Wal-Mart and Sam's both, I assumed it wouldn't be anywhere. I was pleasantly surprised to find it during a last-ditch search at a local grocery store.
Obstacle One: DOWN.
Secondly, the Nutella cheesecake called for a crushed Oreo cookie crust.
Zane also doesn't like Oreos.
I altered the recipe in my mind to a sort of Nutella pudding. It should work, I figured. If it tastes good enough, you really only need a spoon anyway.
Obstacle Two: DOWN.
Side note: the baklava called for FOUR CUPS of walnuts. I figure the cost of making this to be somewhere in the 30 dollar range, which would be great if it turned out well. I wasn't feeling great about it.
The next problem happened when I mixed up the Nutella "pudding." I had bought a smallish jar of Nutella so that I wouldn't tap into Zane's everyday supply for the recipe, and it called for two thirds of a cup. I recommend leaving Nutella in your car for several hours if you want to use it in a recipe. Very pourable.
So I poured the two thirds in, added the brick of cream cheese and container of Cool Whip (I used extra creamy, because I care like that), and mixed.
Then I tasted it.
It tasted like brown cream cheese, which is to say it tasted like cream cheese.
I HATE cream cheese.
In order to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to throw back a quick shot of Nutella from the still-warm jar. Then I went ahead and poured the rest of that in the bowl and mixed again.
Still no good. This was supposed to be the easy recipe!
I don't cook much. My go-to recipes are all in casserole form, although I love making desserts.
Easy desserts. My berry cobbler is a slam-dunk. I can make it in my sleep.
Why can't the kid like berry cobbler?
Then, inspiration. As a seasoned bullshitter in the kitchen, I have learned that some ingredients save you every time.
I opened the cabinet and pulled out my secret weapon.
A good dousing of powdered sugar and another solid mix later, I had my finished product.
Obstacle Three: DOWN.
Damn, that Nutella pudding was good. But it could stand up by itself and was, as you can imagine, very rich.
I needed a crust.
Inspiration hit AGAIN. I had crushed graham crackers!
I told myself, ok, mix with butter, throw in the oven for a few minutes, spread Nutella on top, and BAM! Dessert.
I don't know how this got lost in translation in my mind. It was totally simple on paper.
I mixed the crust, I spread it on the bottom of the pan, and then I immediately tried to spread the Nutella on top.
Yep. Didn't happen. The whole thing rolled together in a huge mess.
I hadn't baked the crust first.
Well, I thought to myself as I looked at the ball of crap that my beautiful recipe had become, just mix the graham cracker crust in with the pudding and make a NEW graham cracker crust to spread the whole mess on!
Obstacle Four: DOWN.
So I did that. And Zane sampled a mixer paddle's worth, as well as the remainder in the bowl, and proclaimed it to be very good.
No-Bake Nutella Cheesecake (modified): ACHIEVED.
About this time I remembered that I was supposed to make the no-bake dessert while I was waiting for the baklava to come out of the oven. I hadn't made the baklava yet.
Dang it.
Let's talk phyllo dough. Ever used it? I had heard it was quite thin. After holding up the first sheet, I thought, thin is right! Geez, I don't know if I can use this without tearing it!
I slapped it down on the bottom of the real-butter-greased pie pan (gotta use real butter, just ask the ants if you don't believe me. Google it.). Then I realized, upon seeing the edge, that it was actually four sheets stuck together.
Ever tried to pull apart phyllo dough when you've already slapped it onto a buttered glass dish?
HAHAHAHAHA.
So I made a mess. But one sheet remained largely intact. I didn't know what to do with the three mangled sheets so I stuffed them into my mouth.
Not bad.
I only ruined about six more after that. None went to waste.
Obstacle Five: DOWN.
I was also feeling pretty sick at that point. But I soldiered on.
This "easy" baklava pie calls for a layer of phyllo, brushed with melted butter, topped with a layer of crushed walnut mixed with brown sugar and cinnamon. Repeat layers until you get to the top.
I did all that. I tucked the edges. And I put it in the oven.
At this point, I was running out of time before I had to be at Job Two.
The recipe called for a 45-minute bake time. I decided, given the ingredients, that 37 minutes seemed much more appropriate to my situation.
The recipe also called for sugar, honey and water brought to a boil and then poured over the finished product.
I also recommend that, when you leave the Nutella in the car for the afternoon, throw the honey in there too. Very pourable.
So after 37 minutes, I pulled the thing out, poured the boiling sticky topping on it, remembered to turn the oven off, and felt like the greatest kitchen success story in all of time.
When I got home from work six hours later, I had a piece of the baklava. More accurately, I sawed off a chunk.
Definitely texture issues.
All in all, I would say it could have gone worse. The important thing was, he didn't care at all.
Happy birthday, kid.
 |
| "Easy" Baklava |
 |
| Nutella Cheesecake |
Monday, July 2, 2012
Jen + Cancer, Chapter Two
I don't remember the five days from that point until my surgery very well, but I do remember that I was more excited to be done with school for the semester than I was worried about the lump. I had gotten straight A's, which felt like a major achievement, and I just wanted to relax.
I decided not to tell my mom what was going on, but I (reluctantly) told my dad. My thinking was that my mom would be too worried, and in my mind, there was nothing to worry about. The lump would come out, it would be a cyst as my surgeon suspected, and I would keep on keepin' on. My dad was always so lost in his own world that he would probably forget I told him anything within ten minutes.
I was wrong, on both counts. My dad said that he and my stepmother would be there for the surgery. I was grateful, but still sure there was no need to take time off to be there for something so minor.
It's weird how well I remember that I wasn't worried. But why should I have been? I had no risk factors. I was only 35, I had no family history, I didn't smoke, and I had never taken birth control pills. I was reasonably healthy, although I definitely could have been exercising more (read: at all).
Bill and Hunter came with me. I was iffy on Hunter being there, but his mind was made up, and it secretly thrilled me that he wanted to be there.
Or he wanted to miss school.
Regardless, he was there.
The surgery part didn't scare me. I had no concerns of complications, and I was already getting used to blood draws and their corresponding needles.
I got prepped, then wheeled away to take my long nap. That is when I discovered the best part of surgery: the warm blankets. Oh my gosh, imagine pulling a warm, soft blanket out of the dryer. Then imagine someone else draping you with it just so, in order to ensure your comfort. So awesome.
The anesthesiologist introduced himself to me, and that's the last thing I remembered.
I woke up back in my little hospital room. Bill was there, and Hunter, and my dad and stepmom, and the surgeon. I think they were all there when I woke up. I know for sure they were all there when he told me.
If you've read my previous post about my husband and me, you may recall that I said there have only been a couple of times that I've heard news that made the world around me disappear and white noise fill my head. This was the other one.
"We got it out," he began, "and it was cancer."
The movie 50/50 did a very good job of portraying what that white noise was like, by the way. That's all I have to say about that.
Always articulate, I took the news in and spoke.
"OK."
He kept talking, with the occasional pause, which prompted me to say "OK" each time.
Turns out he was giving me important information in that talk. I got none of it.
In my mind, all he said was that he got it all. Sure, it was a setback, but he said he got it ALL, and that was that. Good thing we caught it early!
The parts I missed was that there would be another surgery, soon. An exploratory surgery, to check and see if it had spread to my lymph nodes.
When I realized that this was to happen the next week, on December 29, I was very, very grouchy.
I decided not to tell my mom what was going on, but I (reluctantly) told my dad. My thinking was that my mom would be too worried, and in my mind, there was nothing to worry about. The lump would come out, it would be a cyst as my surgeon suspected, and I would keep on keepin' on. My dad was always so lost in his own world that he would probably forget I told him anything within ten minutes.
I was wrong, on both counts. My dad said that he and my stepmother would be there for the surgery. I was grateful, but still sure there was no need to take time off to be there for something so minor.
It's weird how well I remember that I wasn't worried. But why should I have been? I had no risk factors. I was only 35, I had no family history, I didn't smoke, and I had never taken birth control pills. I was reasonably healthy, although I definitely could have been exercising more (read: at all).
Bill and Hunter came with me. I was iffy on Hunter being there, but his mind was made up, and it secretly thrilled me that he wanted to be there.
Or he wanted to miss school.
Regardless, he was there.
The surgery part didn't scare me. I had no concerns of complications, and I was already getting used to blood draws and their corresponding needles.
I got prepped, then wheeled away to take my long nap. That is when I discovered the best part of surgery: the warm blankets. Oh my gosh, imagine pulling a warm, soft blanket out of the dryer. Then imagine someone else draping you with it just so, in order to ensure your comfort. So awesome.
The anesthesiologist introduced himself to me, and that's the last thing I remembered.
I woke up back in my little hospital room. Bill was there, and Hunter, and my dad and stepmom, and the surgeon. I think they were all there when I woke up. I know for sure they were all there when he told me.
If you've read my previous post about my husband and me, you may recall that I said there have only been a couple of times that I've heard news that made the world around me disappear and white noise fill my head. This was the other one.
"We got it out," he began, "and it was cancer."
The movie 50/50 did a very good job of portraying what that white noise was like, by the way. That's all I have to say about that.
Always articulate, I took the news in and spoke.
"OK."
He kept talking, with the occasional pause, which prompted me to say "OK" each time.
Turns out he was giving me important information in that talk. I got none of it.
In my mind, all he said was that he got it all. Sure, it was a setback, but he said he got it ALL, and that was that. Good thing we caught it early!
The parts I missed was that there would be another surgery, soon. An exploratory surgery, to check and see if it had spread to my lymph nodes.
When I realized that this was to happen the next week, on December 29, I was very, very grouchy.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Jen + Cancer
I didn’t blame Adam and Melissa really, but the first thing I said out loud after I found the lump was, “We’re never going fishing with Adam and Melissa again!” This was after I called my fiance into the room to verify that there was, in fact, a hard, albeit tiny, area on my upper right breast. I wanted to believe that I was just tired. We had been night fishing, and I had eaten a huge dinner, and, well, I WAS tired. But after I felt the lump, I was wide awake.
Despite that initial alarm, I didn’t believe it was cancer. I didn’t ever believe it was cancer. The only thing I really felt was a little alarmed because I didn’t have insurance and I needed to get this over with, prove it wasn’t cancer, and get married with a clear conscience and a pebble-free set of jugs.
And what had made me even find it, anyway? I didn’t do self-exams. I was just stretching in bed. Just stretching! Then something, I can’t say it was a voice or a niggling doubt or an urge; my mind didn’t even register that my arm was moving. Then it was my hand that was moving. Then I rubbed my chest, really hard, RIGHT THERE. And it was...it was unmistakable.
After that, I didn’t touch it. What I did do was make an appointment online to go to the student health center on campus the next day I would be in class. August 31 was that date.
In the series of questions the student health center Web site asked to determine why I was making an appointment, “breast pebble” was not covered. The closest I could come to it was “women’s health”. I tried to explain in the tiny space allotted to explain things if your issue wasn’t covered, and what I came up with that fit was “I found a lump.”
Still, the whole business was an irritation at most. I didn’t have insurance. I was trying to finish up planning my wedding, since I was getting married in less than three weeks. I didn’t have extra money to be throwing around! Thank GOD for the student health center!
What I didn’t realize then was that, thank GOD for the student health center. Specifically, the nurse practitioner who was assigned to my appointment. She was reassuring and calm and beautiful, and she loved my shoes. I loved her shoes. She had me settled down in no time, saying that she would just send me over for an ultrasound so we could make sure it was nothing.
Unfortunately, I had to wait another week for that ultrasound. Still, I wasn’t very concerned. I thought, I can wait until September 7. That will make Hunter’s (my son’s) birthday on September 9 even more of a cause for celebration!
My fiance came with me to the ultrasound. A very cute, younger than me radiation tech, or whatever they’re called, performed it. Because I was watching her so closely, I noticed when the tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows. She got up, making a quick excuse that she just “had to make sure” it was nothing, and left to consult with the head of the radiation department. That was the only time I had doubt. I gripped Billy’s hand and he said reassuring things and made jokes and by the time she came back in, I felt better.
Then I felt MUCH better, because the head of the radiation department had said it was nothing. Woo! The tech kept talking, something about letting them know if anything changed, but I was already over her and the whole experience. Now I could give Hunter a great birthday, have a great wedding, and just go on living my great life.
And it was great.
Until we got back from a Thanksgiving weekend campout with, you guessed it, Adam and Melissa.
I love Adam and Melissa. They’re funny and down-to-earth, and I know it’s not any fault of either of them that terrible things happened to me after spending time with them. I do. I know it.
It just seemed hard to remember at the time.
We got home, I was, again, laying in bed, stretching and thanking God for my bed again after the less-than-idyllic sleeping conditions of the weekend (I’m not a camping chick). Then, damn it all, my hand darted down to the lump. I hadn’t been touching it at all. Not at all. I didn’t want to, you know?
The lump formerly known as the pebble was bigger. It was a lot bigger. If I had to shoot you an estimate on the spot, I would have said it was five times bigger. That’s what it felt like.
Have you ever heard the expression “my blood ran cold”? Mine did. So, ok, I lied before. There was more than one time I had doubt. This was the second.
I again called for Billy. He felt it and told me that he had commented on how big it had gotten recently, but I didn’t recall him telling me. He told me that I told him the radiation tech had said that it was nothing to worry about if it grew. I remembered none of that. I only knew what she had really said, which was the exact opposite.
So I made another appointment with the student health center for the next time I would be on campus, November 30. The morning of my appointment, they left me a message. The nurse practitioner I had the appointment with (same one as before) was sick. Could I come back the next Tuesday, December 7?
Of course I could. This worked better for me, because Billy and I were going to Texas in a couple of days, to have his vasectomy reversed. When I told him, he said maybe we should wait until after we knew that I was ok.
I pushed it. I pushed it because what if he decided to put the surgery off? Then we wouldn’t have kids. We had waited three months to get a surgery date with this particular doctor. We would have to wait another three months if we postponed. We were already 35 years old. The clock was ticking.
So, he had the surgery. I was consumed with how un-good it made him feel, and taking care of him in Texas all weekend kept my mind off of my boob lump (which I knew was nothing anyway, or at least nothing but an inconvenience).
When the nurse practitioner felt my boob the second time, a look crossed her face. She remained very calm as she told me that it was good that the lump moved around when she touched it, but bad that it was so hard. It was also bad that it had gotten so much bigger. She said I needed a surgeon.
“I can just make an appointment with a doctor in my town,” I said casually.
“No.” She was firm as she told me that I wasn’t understanding her. “You need a surgeon. It needs to come out.”
She called a surgeon right then and there, as I stood next to her and tried not to think. It’s hard not to think when you’re standing there in a paper gown, listening to the urgent voice of your student health center nurse practitioner pushing for the earliest possible appointment time because this lump was cause for alarm.
OK. I lied again. There were three times I had doubt.
Still, as I walked out of the health center, I fought for calm. I called Billy and asked him if I had insurance yet (I had been trying to get signed up under his plan since we got married, but had not heard anything definite).
He heard it in my voice. It was pretty easy to do since I had started to cry.
He said he would call the insurance people right away. I hung up and called my friend Marilyn, who had lost a breast and wore a tight arm casting for 23 hours a day due to two bouts with breast cancer.
She was calm and loving. She told me that the lump growing so quickly was actually good news, not bad. She said that cancer didn’t usually grow that fast and that the odds were with me that it was a cyst that was rapidly filling with fluid.
But it’s hard, I thought but didn’t say.
She kept me on the phone until Billy called back. I was just walking in circles all over campus on the freezing December day as he told me the good news: I was covered!
So I just had to wait one more week, until I met with the surgeon.
That day was December 14. Again, Bill came with me. The surgeon was calm, confident, and called me sweetie, which made me feel ridiculously safe. He was also sure it was nothing. He said he could take the lump out one week from that day, which would be December 21. He said even though it was coming out, I should probably get a mammogram to be on the safe side. We scheduled it for the 16th.
I had heard a lot of things about mammograms. Well, wait. I had actually heard one thing about mammograms, from a lot of different sources: that they hurt. That they squeezed badly and were generally horrible and uncomfortable.
Mine wasn’t. I was there for a couple of hours, but as I’ve learned since, that’s just the mammography department. They aren’t in a hurry. At all.
The good part about mammograms: they have big jars of candy in the room with the machine. I loaded up. Once I got my mammogram, there was again a worried technician. She never told me anything, however, just sent me across the hall to get an ultrasound. For some reason, this time I wasn’t worried. I think it was because everyone else had been so positive about it being nothing. Also, I was about to be very late for a final and I was ready to get out of there.
After the ultrasound, the head of radiation came in himself to talk to me. Again, this should have alarmed me, but didn’t. He asked if I was there alone. I said yes, and I have 10 minutes to get to my final. He asked me if I had family or friends. I said yes, I have both. I told him the lump was scheduled to come out in five days’ time. He expressed great relief.
None of this phased me. I had already surrounded myself with a bubble of denial.
I got to my final with no time to spare. And I aced it.
Despite that initial alarm, I didn’t believe it was cancer. I didn’t ever believe it was cancer. The only thing I really felt was a little alarmed because I didn’t have insurance and I needed to get this over with, prove it wasn’t cancer, and get married with a clear conscience and a pebble-free set of jugs.
And what had made me even find it, anyway? I didn’t do self-exams. I was just stretching in bed. Just stretching! Then something, I can’t say it was a voice or a niggling doubt or an urge; my mind didn’t even register that my arm was moving. Then it was my hand that was moving. Then I rubbed my chest, really hard, RIGHT THERE. And it was...it was unmistakable.
After that, I didn’t touch it. What I did do was make an appointment online to go to the student health center on campus the next day I would be in class. August 31 was that date.
In the series of questions the student health center Web site asked to determine why I was making an appointment, “breast pebble” was not covered. The closest I could come to it was “women’s health”. I tried to explain in the tiny space allotted to explain things if your issue wasn’t covered, and what I came up with that fit was “I found a lump.”
Still, the whole business was an irritation at most. I didn’t have insurance. I was trying to finish up planning my wedding, since I was getting married in less than three weeks. I didn’t have extra money to be throwing around! Thank GOD for the student health center!
What I didn’t realize then was that, thank GOD for the student health center. Specifically, the nurse practitioner who was assigned to my appointment. She was reassuring and calm and beautiful, and she loved my shoes. I loved her shoes. She had me settled down in no time, saying that she would just send me over for an ultrasound so we could make sure it was nothing.
Unfortunately, I had to wait another week for that ultrasound. Still, I wasn’t very concerned. I thought, I can wait until September 7. That will make Hunter’s (my son’s) birthday on September 9 even more of a cause for celebration!
My fiance came with me to the ultrasound. A very cute, younger than me radiation tech, or whatever they’re called, performed it. Because I was watching her so closely, I noticed when the tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows. She got up, making a quick excuse that she just “had to make sure” it was nothing, and left to consult with the head of the radiation department. That was the only time I had doubt. I gripped Billy’s hand and he said reassuring things and made jokes and by the time she came back in, I felt better.
Then I felt MUCH better, because the head of the radiation department had said it was nothing. Woo! The tech kept talking, something about letting them know if anything changed, but I was already over her and the whole experience. Now I could give Hunter a great birthday, have a great wedding, and just go on living my great life.
And it was great.
Until we got back from a Thanksgiving weekend campout with, you guessed it, Adam and Melissa.
I love Adam and Melissa. They’re funny and down-to-earth, and I know it’s not any fault of either of them that terrible things happened to me after spending time with them. I do. I know it.
It just seemed hard to remember at the time.
We got home, I was, again, laying in bed, stretching and thanking God for my bed again after the less-than-idyllic sleeping conditions of the weekend (I’m not a camping chick). Then, damn it all, my hand darted down to the lump. I hadn’t been touching it at all. Not at all. I didn’t want to, you know?
The lump formerly known as the pebble was bigger. It was a lot bigger. If I had to shoot you an estimate on the spot, I would have said it was five times bigger. That’s what it felt like.
Have you ever heard the expression “my blood ran cold”? Mine did. So, ok, I lied before. There was more than one time I had doubt. This was the second.
I again called for Billy. He felt it and told me that he had commented on how big it had gotten recently, but I didn’t recall him telling me. He told me that I told him the radiation tech had said that it was nothing to worry about if it grew. I remembered none of that. I only knew what she had really said, which was the exact opposite.
So I made another appointment with the student health center for the next time I would be on campus, November 30. The morning of my appointment, they left me a message. The nurse practitioner I had the appointment with (same one as before) was sick. Could I come back the next Tuesday, December 7?
Of course I could. This worked better for me, because Billy and I were going to Texas in a couple of days, to have his vasectomy reversed. When I told him, he said maybe we should wait until after we knew that I was ok.
I pushed it. I pushed it because what if he decided to put the surgery off? Then we wouldn’t have kids. We had waited three months to get a surgery date with this particular doctor. We would have to wait another three months if we postponed. We were already 35 years old. The clock was ticking.
So, he had the surgery. I was consumed with how un-good it made him feel, and taking care of him in Texas all weekend kept my mind off of my boob lump (which I knew was nothing anyway, or at least nothing but an inconvenience).
When the nurse practitioner felt my boob the second time, a look crossed her face. She remained very calm as she told me that it was good that the lump moved around when she touched it, but bad that it was so hard. It was also bad that it had gotten so much bigger. She said I needed a surgeon.
“I can just make an appointment with a doctor in my town,” I said casually.
“No.” She was firm as she told me that I wasn’t understanding her. “You need a surgeon. It needs to come out.”
She called a surgeon right then and there, as I stood next to her and tried not to think. It’s hard not to think when you’re standing there in a paper gown, listening to the urgent voice of your student health center nurse practitioner pushing for the earliest possible appointment time because this lump was cause for alarm.
OK. I lied again. There were three times I had doubt.
Still, as I walked out of the health center, I fought for calm. I called Billy and asked him if I had insurance yet (I had been trying to get signed up under his plan since we got married, but had not heard anything definite).
He heard it in my voice. It was pretty easy to do since I had started to cry.
He said he would call the insurance people right away. I hung up and called my friend Marilyn, who had lost a breast and wore a tight arm casting for 23 hours a day due to two bouts with breast cancer.
She was calm and loving. She told me that the lump growing so quickly was actually good news, not bad. She said that cancer didn’t usually grow that fast and that the odds were with me that it was a cyst that was rapidly filling with fluid.
But it’s hard, I thought but didn’t say.
She kept me on the phone until Billy called back. I was just walking in circles all over campus on the freezing December day as he told me the good news: I was covered!
So I just had to wait one more week, until I met with the surgeon.
That day was December 14. Again, Bill came with me. The surgeon was calm, confident, and called me sweetie, which made me feel ridiculously safe. He was also sure it was nothing. He said he could take the lump out one week from that day, which would be December 21. He said even though it was coming out, I should probably get a mammogram to be on the safe side. We scheduled it for the 16th.
I had heard a lot of things about mammograms. Well, wait. I had actually heard one thing about mammograms, from a lot of different sources: that they hurt. That they squeezed badly and were generally horrible and uncomfortable.
Mine wasn’t. I was there for a couple of hours, but as I’ve learned since, that’s just the mammography department. They aren’t in a hurry. At all.
The good part about mammograms: they have big jars of candy in the room with the machine. I loaded up. Once I got my mammogram, there was again a worried technician. She never told me anything, however, just sent me across the hall to get an ultrasound. For some reason, this time I wasn’t worried. I think it was because everyone else had been so positive about it being nothing. Also, I was about to be very late for a final and I was ready to get out of there.
After the ultrasound, the head of radiation came in himself to talk to me. Again, this should have alarmed me, but didn’t. He asked if I was there alone. I said yes, and I have 10 minutes to get to my final. He asked me if I had family or friends. I said yes, I have both. I told him the lump was scheduled to come out in five days’ time. He expressed great relief.
None of this phased me. I had already surrounded myself with a bubble of denial.
I got to my final with no time to spare. And I aced it.
Movie Magic
Last month, about the same time I officially went full-time in the pharmacy, my dad gave me a call.
This is unusual in and of itself. My dad and I don't talk much. He's busy, I'm busy.
The fact that he called in the middle of a weekday was intriguing.
So I called him back.
He had a proposal. Sharon, the manager at the movie theater, was retiring after 25 years of service, and that put my dad in a pickle. The assistant manager would take over, but he needed somebody to help her. He knew I had been working part-time, so he asked if I would consider stepping in.
To me, it was a no-brainer. I love movies. I love the whole environment of the movie theater. I love people.
After discussing it with Bill, I said yes.
My main inner conflict stemmed from the fact that I am a mother. The boys are older, and really don't need me like they would if they were little, but they are still my first priority in life, and I have guilt about not being there for them as much as possible.
I will eventually have to make a choice. But I don't want to make it yet.
The best part, the part that really drives me every working day in these early weeks, is that I am saving 100% of the second job earnings for new flooring in my house. I live with four guys. The carpeting is original to the house.
Do you have a visual yet?
The carpet must go. And it will not be replaced with carpet. My son and my younger stepson have severe allergies and occasional asthma flare-ups, respectively. We live on a dirt road. I think that a lot of really bad stuff gets trapped in the carpet fibers. In the two and a half years I have lived here, we have gone through four vacuums. They just can't keep up.
I'm thinking hardwood and tile. But I digress.
I started working at the theater a month ago, and I LOVE IT. I love it all. I love that people still come to movies, in the age of extreme pirating. I love that people are excited to be there. I want to help their experience be the best that it can be.
I finally always know what's playing. And I usually know what time.
Maybe it's because my dad has owned the movie theater since I was seven, but I have always felt that the place was full of magic. The old theater, especially, with all of its history, seemed full of ghosts. In a good way. I remember the single theater with the balcony seating. Then it became two theaters, and then three. Thousands and thousands of people passed through those doors.
Magic.
The new theater (I still call it that, after 13 years) still has the elements of movie history. The tributes to movies long past. The clusters of themes (theater number two is dedicated to me; the music notes on the wall , if played, are from the song "Lullaby" by Billy Joel) for each theater are amazing. Theater One, Gone with the Wind, was for my grandma. Theater Three, with knights and princesses, was for Christian. The Old West theme was Luke's. The drive-in theme was complete with my dad's convertible truck and my brother's high school car. The Wizard of Oz was Shannon's.
Not to brag, but I think I got the best one. The Beatles? Hell yeah.
So when I am there, I feel like I'm marinating in that magic. I feel young again. And I wonder if others feel the same.
Movies suspend reality. Once you're in that theater, you can let go of real life and just enjoy the fantasy.
How can one not find romance in that?
This is unusual in and of itself. My dad and I don't talk much. He's busy, I'm busy.
The fact that he called in the middle of a weekday was intriguing.
So I called him back.
He had a proposal. Sharon, the manager at the movie theater, was retiring after 25 years of service, and that put my dad in a pickle. The assistant manager would take over, but he needed somebody to help her. He knew I had been working part-time, so he asked if I would consider stepping in.
To me, it was a no-brainer. I love movies. I love the whole environment of the movie theater. I love people.
After discussing it with Bill, I said yes.
My main inner conflict stemmed from the fact that I am a mother. The boys are older, and really don't need me like they would if they were little, but they are still my first priority in life, and I have guilt about not being there for them as much as possible.
I will eventually have to make a choice. But I don't want to make it yet.
The best part, the part that really drives me every working day in these early weeks, is that I am saving 100% of the second job earnings for new flooring in my house. I live with four guys. The carpeting is original to the house.
Do you have a visual yet?
The carpet must go. And it will not be replaced with carpet. My son and my younger stepson have severe allergies and occasional asthma flare-ups, respectively. We live on a dirt road. I think that a lot of really bad stuff gets trapped in the carpet fibers. In the two and a half years I have lived here, we have gone through four vacuums. They just can't keep up.
I'm thinking hardwood and tile. But I digress.
I started working at the theater a month ago, and I LOVE IT. I love it all. I love that people still come to movies, in the age of extreme pirating. I love that people are excited to be there. I want to help their experience be the best that it can be.
I finally always know what's playing. And I usually know what time.
Maybe it's because my dad has owned the movie theater since I was seven, but I have always felt that the place was full of magic. The old theater, especially, with all of its history, seemed full of ghosts. In a good way. I remember the single theater with the balcony seating. Then it became two theaters, and then three. Thousands and thousands of people passed through those doors.
Magic.
The new theater (I still call it that, after 13 years) still has the elements of movie history. The tributes to movies long past. The clusters of themes (theater number two is dedicated to me; the music notes on the wall , if played, are from the song "Lullaby" by Billy Joel) for each theater are amazing. Theater One, Gone with the Wind, was for my grandma. Theater Three, with knights and princesses, was for Christian. The Old West theme was Luke's. The drive-in theme was complete with my dad's convertible truck and my brother's high school car. The Wizard of Oz was Shannon's.
Not to brag, but I think I got the best one. The Beatles? Hell yeah.
So when I am there, I feel like I'm marinating in that magic. I feel young again. And I wonder if others feel the same.
Movies suspend reality. Once you're in that theater, you can let go of real life and just enjoy the fantasy.
How can one not find romance in that?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Meaning of Life
Today was a good day. After nearly three decades of being me, I had long since accepted that I had no self-esteem. I was ok with it. Did I want to be different? Sure, but it was the same kind of wanting that I employed when I dreamt of being in prime physical condition: I WANTED it, but only if I didn’t have to do anything to get it. I WANT my house to be remodeled, but I don’t want to do any of the extensive work required for that to happen. I’m lazy, is what I’m trying to say.
Not now. It all changed as I lay face down on the beach this afternoon, marveling at tiny little shells that could bury themselves in the sand. As I took another swig of my warm, slightly sandy pear-vodka-and-water beverage, it hit me with an almost physically-jarring jolt.
I’m amazing.
I’m not just amazing, I’m the most incredible person I know. I not only want to be around myself, I enjoy my company.
This realization was based on a few key truths, which I will graciously detail for you now, and also for me, should I forget once I sober up and/or sleep.
1. Everything that I think is funny is VERY funny. I totally agree that everything I laugh at is, in fact, laugh-worthy. EVERYTHING.
2. Things that make me angry are very reasonable things that SHOULD make one angry. If not, why would I get angry about them?
3. Things that make me sad are sad. They just are. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sad.
Unless you’re very slow, you get the picture. I GET me. I understand me. I don’t have to talk when I’m with myself. I can just sit in companionable silence. If I want to play spider solitaire for several hours and drink, that makes sense. If I want to sleep in and not shower until late in the day, well, there’s nothing wrong with that! If I’m being moody, it’s for good reason!
As I came out of this once-in-a-lifetime epiphany, I heard my husband (another good, solid person, but one who I don’t always agree with or understand, therefore making him not as great as me) call for me. He’d caught a freakin’ shark. From the shore.
So, yeah, he’s pretty amazing. But he’s no me.
Not now. It all changed as I lay face down on the beach this afternoon, marveling at tiny little shells that could bury themselves in the sand. As I took another swig of my warm, slightly sandy pear-vodka-and-water beverage, it hit me with an almost physically-jarring jolt.
I’m amazing.
I’m not just amazing, I’m the most incredible person I know. I not only want to be around myself, I enjoy my company.
This realization was based on a few key truths, which I will graciously detail for you now, and also for me, should I forget once I sober up and/or sleep.
1. Everything that I think is funny is VERY funny. I totally agree that everything I laugh at is, in fact, laugh-worthy. EVERYTHING.
2. Things that make me angry are very reasonable things that SHOULD make one angry. If not, why would I get angry about them?
3. Things that make me sad are sad. They just are. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sad.
Unless you’re very slow, you get the picture. I GET me. I understand me. I don’t have to talk when I’m with myself. I can just sit in companionable silence. If I want to play spider solitaire for several hours and drink, that makes sense. If I want to sleep in and not shower until late in the day, well, there’s nothing wrong with that! If I’m being moody, it’s for good reason!
As I came out of this once-in-a-lifetime epiphany, I heard my husband (another good, solid person, but one who I don’t always agree with or understand, therefore making him not as great as me) call for me. He’d caught a freakin’ shark. From the shore.
So, yeah, he’s pretty amazing. But he’s no me.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Radiation
Three radiations down, 30 to go. Not bad so far. I should probably stop reading other accounts of it though, because I don’t know what will happen in my experience and the things I’m reading are kind of frightening. “Skin loss” is not a good term, for example. Also, I am grateful I don’t have throat or butt cancer. I know that’s terrible to say, but it’s true. Those stories sound like the very worst.
The treatments themselves take like, three minutes, and feel like nothing. This large round disc rotates around me, first one side, then the other, and I feel nothing. There’s no visible beam, there’s no burning sensation when it’s happening. The room has a large, backlit mountain scene on the ceiling, which is peaceful. There is a light on the wall near the entryway that flashes on, accompanied with a buzzing sound, when it’s happening, and I always think of an “On Air” light during a radio broadcast. The first treatment, the technicians hurried out of the room, saying “We can still see and hear you, we just won’t be in the room.” Then, the light and buzzing. I thought, “WAIT! I CHANGED MY MIND!” It seemed so dramatic, like I was in lockdown and would emerge with horrible disfigurement and extreme superpowers, but neither happened (yet! HA!). It really feels like nothing, and takes almost no time, which is weird. From what the technicians tell me, I can’t wear a bra after the first week, because I will not want anything touching my skin. Awesome. I’ll have my arms crossed in front of me for six weeks.
I also keep reading about extreme fatigue. We’ll see. So far, so good. I have a mental paper chain to count down with, and I’ve already gotten to tear off three links!
The treatments themselves take like, three minutes, and feel like nothing. This large round disc rotates around me, first one side, then the other, and I feel nothing. There’s no visible beam, there’s no burning sensation when it’s happening. The room has a large, backlit mountain scene on the ceiling, which is peaceful. There is a light on the wall near the entryway that flashes on, accompanied with a buzzing sound, when it’s happening, and I always think of an “On Air” light during a radio broadcast. The first treatment, the technicians hurried out of the room, saying “We can still see and hear you, we just won’t be in the room.” Then, the light and buzzing. I thought, “WAIT! I CHANGED MY MIND!” It seemed so dramatic, like I was in lockdown and would emerge with horrible disfigurement and extreme superpowers, but neither happened (yet! HA!). It really feels like nothing, and takes almost no time, which is weird. From what the technicians tell me, I can’t wear a bra after the first week, because I will not want anything touching my skin. Awesome. I’ll have my arms crossed in front of me for six weeks.
I also keep reading about extreme fatigue. We’ll see. So far, so good. I have a mental paper chain to count down with, and I’ve already gotten to tear off three links!
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