Every September, I spend a lot of time thinking about one of my dearest friends, Leslie. It’s not the whole “back to school” vibe or the dawn of another season of Rebel football, though I guess that does factor in a bit. It is because we share the same birthday, September 7th, a fact we discovered during an ice-breaker circle on bid day 1991 at the Ole Miss ZTA house. But this year, as we get ready to mark our 36th birthdays, I find I am thinking of her even more than usual. It’s not like there is normally anything particularly special about 36. It lacks the excitement of 10 (FINALLY double digits, yay!!), or the freedom of 16 (can I have the keys, dad?), or the, uh, responsibility of 21 (please let him card me, pleeease let him card me…), or even the actual responsibility of 25 (I’d like to rent a car, please). In fact, pretty much since I turned 30 I find I have to quickly subtract 1973 from the current year to even remember my own age when I have to fill out a form. That’s just how unspectacular adult birthdays become after a certain age. But for me, for us, 36 IS a bit of a watershed moment. On Sunday, Leslie and I will have known each other for 18 years. Hence the significance of 36 – we have now known each other for half our lives. And as of Monday, on our actual birthday, at 18 years and one day, the years we have known each other will eclipse the years before we met.
That we met at all is proof enough that there are greater forces at work in the universe. One would be hard-pressed to have found two more utterly, completely, undeniably different co-eds on any college campus on the face of the earth. I was a city kid who talked quickly and without an accent which, despite being born and raised in the hometown of General Robert E. Lee, quickly earned me the distinction of being “from the north” (luckily, I was also polite and shy which spared me the dreaded added insult of being labeled a “Yankee” by my new campus-mates). Leslie was a small-town girl from Arkansas who started school with a drawl so pronounced it was difficult for me to even understand her at first. I was a three-sport athlete at a very large, very diverse suburban high school situated just beyond the shadow of our nation’s capital. She was a cheerleader at a tiny, rural high school situated in Arkansas rice country. I grew up thinking I could barely stand to take yet another field trip to the Smithsonian or the Library of Congress. She grew up looking forward to hour-and-a-half to two-hour trips to Pine Bluff or Little Rock where you could go to an actual mall (and in the days before online shopping, that was a BIG deal for a teenaged girl). My dad was a life-long employee of good old, reliable Uncle Sam, working in the heart of D.C. and guaranteed a decent pension and benefits in his retirement. Her dad was a rice farmer, working dawn ‘til dusk during planting and harvesting seasons and waiting on pins and needles in the months between, his fortune and future squarely in the hands of a different and less benevolent relative, Mother Nature. I was the younger of two children born to parents who, by 1970’s standards, were getting a bit long in the tooth. She was the unexpected older of what would eventually be two children born to a very young mother and father. She was a pageant queen who knew all sorts of things about make-up, and hot rollers, and devices called “butt pads” and how to use them. I was a total plain Jane who didn’t wear make-up, had the fashion sense of a hobo, and generally stuck out like a sore thumb among my well-coifed and well-dressed fellow freshmen.
The biggest difference, however, was our personalities. Leslie had (and still has) a million-watt smile that lights up a room. And as big as that smile can get, it is dwarfed by her personality. Leslie has never met a stranger. She can talk to anyone about anything. She can carry on a 20 minute conversation with someone who barely speaks a word of English…I’ve witnessed it. I’ve heard it said that some people are so outgoing they could talk to a wall. Leslie is so outgoing she could get the wall to talk back. I, on the other hand, might have best been described as “mousey”, and that is if the person doing the describing was being generous. I, too, might have been found talking to a wall, though in my case it would have been because I was too shy to attempt a conversation with an actual person.
So we certainly made for an odd pairing when we found ourselves sitting directly across from each other during the sorority’s mandated freshman study hall on the afternoon of Friday, September 6, 1991. Leslie had just returned from the student union building where she picked up a package from home. To this day, I don’t know if she has ever realized how difficult it was for me to force the shyness and social anxiety aside to strike up a conversation that afternoon. As I recall, I said something terribly interesting along the lines of, “Birthday gift?” She looked a little confused as to why I would have known that, so I reminded her I was the other pledge who shared her birthday. To protect the innocent (and the guilty), I’ll spare the details of what was in the box. Suffice it to say we were giggling with each other in a matter of minutes. By the end of study hall, we’d been “shhhhed” by the monitor at least half a dozen times. On that day, a beautiful friendship was born.
Within weeks, we were virtually inseparable. I think we were both smart enough to understand the fleeting bliss that was college. We recognized that never before and never again would there be so much freedom with so little responsibility and we made the most of it. When we met new people, we’d tell them we were twins separated at conception. Over the next four years, our exploits were legendary, in our minds, anyway. There was the fraternity party we attended in togas made from our matching Laura Ashley sheets with door wreaths on our heads. Or the night of our 19th birthday when, for reasons that still escape me, we put bathing suits on over our clothes and walked across campus to visit friends in the middle of the night (no, we had actually not been drinking at the time - it is an event that is memorialized by a photo on my mousepad). There were times we’d lay in wait in our room at the sorority house to ambush our sisters with nerf guns as they walked past (God love those girls for putting up with our grabassery). There were road trips and football games, partying and even some occasional studying (I did still manage to graduate cum laude). My parents adored her. Her parents never could quite figure me out or what we had in common, but they knew I was mostly a good influence, so they welcomed me with open arms. When I really think hard about those years, I realize there were some rough patches along the way. But what I mostly remember is laughter. We laughed all the time, and made others laugh with and at us a fair part of the time, too. When we were together, we were fearless and confident. In each other, we had a friend we could trust completely. For the first time, we had someone outside our own families who had seen us at our worst and stuck it out anyway.
Through the magic of Facebook, I have connected with a number of people from my past. But Leslie is one of my only “old” friends with whom I never lost contact. That is a credit mostly to her, as she is much better about picking up the phone and calling than am I. As is so often the case in these kinds of stories, life has certainly intervened. She actually moved with me when I got my first TV job in Winston-Salem. But there wasn't much opportunity for her there so she moved to Baltimore where she had worked summers with her Aunt for several years. When I moved here, we would see each other very occasionally. We both met and married wonderful men - hers, a more quiet and reserved guy, mine, a gregarious, outgoing man (hmmm...coincidence???) We were in each other's weddings and tried to get together during the summers when we could. But she moved to Dallas a few years back and, despite the best of intentions, time, finances and schedules never seem to synch up to allow for a visit here, there, or in Oxford. I think the last time I actually saw Leslie was when she came here to help with the surprise 60th birthday party we threw for my mother. Mom turned 67 this year. But part of what makes our friendship so special is that we can pick up right where we left off. Granted, there is always a fair number of “good old days” tales passed back and forth, but we can also talk about the newer stuff, even though we don’t share the same day-to-day lives anymore. No one makes anyone feel guilty for having to move the friendship onto the back burner while the more immediate concerns of jobs (or lack thereof) and husbands and children and aging parents move to the forefront. And we still laugh easily, freely, and often.
So, our 36th birthday seems an appropriate time to say thank you to the dear friend I have known for half my life. In many ways, we have grown up together. I terribly miss seeing you every day, but know the future will bring more opportunities to visit as schedules get less crowded and the needs of our growing children don’t require every waking moment, anymore. Mostly, I want you to know that I love you like family and I am so thankful you are part of my life; I am truly better off for having met you. Happy birthday, Les! I am putting my bathing suit on over my pajamas right now in our honor and Rick says hi ; ) .
Monday, September 7, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Book of Spam
Today's post will start with a disclaimer, lest anyone think I am in any way maligning the bible or religion. I am not. The bible is a wonderful book. At least I am told that it is. Being Catholic, we don't actually read the bible...ever. No, the target of today's post is my old nemesis, junk e-mail.
I received another of these e-gems the other day from a friend who is apparently unfamiliar with my rather rigid stance on when and under what circumstances email chain letters will be graciously accepted by me. Though this email did not meet said conditions, I broke from my own policy and read it anyway.
Without reprinting the whole thing, the original author's gist is the query, "What if we treated our bible like our cell phone?" You know, carry it around all the time, check it frequently, and so on. My interest was piqued so I, too, began to wonder what it would be like if we treated the bible like our cell phones. And what I discovered was the email's author has clearly never met my relatives or friends or he/she would never have used such a terrible metaphor.
Let's just see what would happen if me and the people I know treated our bibles like our cell phones. For starters, the work-issued "bible" would have been dropped in the toilet when the belt clip holder came loose right in mid-twist-to-flush-while-pulling-up-pants motion. It would then have been taken apart and dried with a hair dryer. To the email author's point, there was a great deal of prayer involved because the "bible" had been assigned to a brand new employee and the bestower of said "bible" was a dour and nasty woman who could make life most difficult even for senior employees, let alone a new hire.
In keeping with the aquatic theme, the "bible" would also be dropped into the deep end of a backyard swimming pool. Right in mid-sentence. Plop. It would then spend the next 12 hours inside an oven set to "warm" in the hopes that upon drying it would once again be usable. It would also take a quick but devastating dip in the shallow end of a rental home swimming pool in Kill Devil Hills inside the pocket of a pair of shorts, be doused beyond any use by a car speeding through a puddle during taping of a news stand-up, and be left outside during an overnight monsoon.
The "bible" would be left on the bumper of an SUV, on the roof of a van, and on the trunk of a car while each of the vehicles drove away into the night. It would slip from a pocket, fall onto the running board of a car, fall OUT of the car when the door opened, land in a puddle, and get run over by at least two vehicles before being discovered as missing. It would then take two days for someone to locate it, two more days for them to box it up and mail it to the owner, and two minutes for the owner to accept that this particular "bible" has been rendered damaged beyond all repair.
The "bible" would be left on a plane, in a cab, and in at least half a dozen meetings. It would be dropped, kicked, used as a teething toy for a drooly baby, used as a chew toy by a dog, stepped on, sat on, spilled on, cursed for losing its signal, cursed for finding its signal, ignored, set to "quiet", and generally be abused in a thousand new and unique ways every day. Frankly, I think God might be a little offended if we treated our bible like we treat our cell phones.
So what, exactly, is the moral of this story? Well, it is twofold. First, always take a moment to think your metaphors through, especially if you think they are clever enough to be worth sending to everyone you have ever met. Second, stop forwarding this crap to me.
I received another of these e-gems the other day from a friend who is apparently unfamiliar with my rather rigid stance on when and under what circumstances email chain letters will be graciously accepted by me. Though this email did not meet said conditions, I broke from my own policy and read it anyway.
Without reprinting the whole thing, the original author's gist is the query, "What if we treated our bible like our cell phone?" You know, carry it around all the time, check it frequently, and so on. My interest was piqued so I, too, began to wonder what it would be like if we treated the bible like our cell phones. And what I discovered was the email's author has clearly never met my relatives or friends or he/she would never have used such a terrible metaphor.
Let's just see what would happen if me and the people I know treated our bibles like our cell phones. For starters, the work-issued "bible" would have been dropped in the toilet when the belt clip holder came loose right in mid-twist-to-flush-while-pulling-up-pants motion. It would then have been taken apart and dried with a hair dryer. To the email author's point, there was a great deal of prayer involved because the "bible" had been assigned to a brand new employee and the bestower of said "bible" was a dour and nasty woman who could make life most difficult even for senior employees, let alone a new hire.
In keeping with the aquatic theme, the "bible" would also be dropped into the deep end of a backyard swimming pool. Right in mid-sentence. Plop. It would then spend the next 12 hours inside an oven set to "warm" in the hopes that upon drying it would once again be usable. It would also take a quick but devastating dip in the shallow end of a rental home swimming pool in Kill Devil Hills inside the pocket of a pair of shorts, be doused beyond any use by a car speeding through a puddle during taping of a news stand-up, and be left outside during an overnight monsoon.
The "bible" would be left on the bumper of an SUV, on the roof of a van, and on the trunk of a car while each of the vehicles drove away into the night. It would slip from a pocket, fall onto the running board of a car, fall OUT of the car when the door opened, land in a puddle, and get run over by at least two vehicles before being discovered as missing. It would then take two days for someone to locate it, two more days for them to box it up and mail it to the owner, and two minutes for the owner to accept that this particular "bible" has been rendered damaged beyond all repair.
The "bible" would be left on a plane, in a cab, and in at least half a dozen meetings. It would be dropped, kicked, used as a teething toy for a drooly baby, used as a chew toy by a dog, stepped on, sat on, spilled on, cursed for losing its signal, cursed for finding its signal, ignored, set to "quiet", and generally be abused in a thousand new and unique ways every day. Frankly, I think God might be a little offended if we treated our bible like we treat our cell phones.
So what, exactly, is the moral of this story? Well, it is twofold. First, always take a moment to think your metaphors through, especially if you think they are clever enough to be worth sending to everyone you have ever met. Second, stop forwarding this crap to me.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Thank Heaven For Little Girls
"Why you cryin'. Mama?"
My sleepy-eyed, just-turned-four-years-old-today daughter has just awoken from a rare nap. Rarer, still, in that she feel asleep in my arms after what was, in the four-year-old social scene, a pretty raucous birthday party. She thinks she's just asked a pretty simple question. But I don't have an easy answer.
I'm crying because there was a time we thought we might not be able to have any children, let alone two. Before we finally got pregnant with our son, I can remember literally getting on my knees and praying for a baby. Just one baby. I can remember thinking long and hard before uttering the second half of the prayer to God: "You don't have to give me one of your perfect ones. I'll take one of the ones others might not want. I'll learn the patience. Please just let me be somebody's mommy." Five and a half years later, we have not one, but two perfect children (perfect in form and function, that is...there's some wiggle room when it comes to the definition of behaviorally perfect).
I'm crying because as she slept, I thought about how neither one of us should have been here today. They took her early because of her size: 9 pounds, 15 ounces, two weeks before her official due date. I'd gone the c-section route before and so I knew something was not right with her delivery. It turns out having one giant baby 18 months after having had another giant baby took its toll. At some point in the last two weeks of my pregnancy, my uterus ruptured along the old incision. Lexi should have died and I should have bled out shortly after. The delivery docs and nurses were honestly amazed. I could hear them whispering about us while they weighed and cleaned Lexi and my doctor sewed me back up (I have crazy dog-like hearing, they didn't count on that). The irony is her size is the very thing that saved us. She was so big, her body held the torn flaps together, essentially plugging the hole. It may have been God looking out for us, it may have been luck. And while I give credit to both of those things, I give credit to my little girl, too. She has an iron will and fierce determination. I kind of like to think she somehow knew what was happening, gritted those little gums (no teeth at that time, of course), narrowed those big brown eyes, jutted out that little jaw and promptly jammed her little rear end into the gaping hole that tried to kill us and sat there until help arrived.
I am crying because she is beautiful. Honestly beautiful. I know all parents believe their kids are beautiful, but I really do know my daughter is. And I can say that without arrogance because the child looks NOTHING like me, at all! Her olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes come straight from her Daddy's Italian genes. Even the build of her body and her funny little Fred Flintstone feet come from her daddy. Who knew my husband would be such a pretty girl! At four years old, she has a better tan than I have ever had in my life, including the summer I spent as a lifeguard. In fact, the only way I know for sure she is half mine is the tiny smattering of summer freckles spread across her nose (I used to get them as a kid) and her white-hot, lightning quick temper. It's a trait that was passed from my Grandfather to me (it sometimes skips a generation or two) and there is no mistaking it when you see it.
I am crying because she is confident and fearless and I hope the world never beats those attributes out of her. When I ask her who the most beautiful girl in the world is, she always knows the right answer. When we offer her the chance to try something new, she almost always takes it. What other four year old stomps around Busch Gardens angry that they wouldn't let her in Dark Castle or on the Big Bad Wolf because she is only 40 inches tall? I hope I find a way to protect her confidence and courage as I raise her so she doesn't lose them in her early 20's like I did.
I am crying because time seems like it is going so fast and I am starting to forget little things about her infancy and toddlerhood. But at the same moment, I am so proud of the little person she is and continues to become and that makes it hard not to be excited about her future and all that it holds.
I am crying because I am 100%, head-over-heels, over the moon in love with this little girl and her brother. I can't remember what life was like before them and don't want to imagine life without them.
I am crying because I have had had the honor of being this little miracle's mother for 1,459 days and feel like I have learned far more from her than she from me. I hope I have another 22,000 days or so on this earth to learn all she has to teach me. But for now, I am soaking in every single second that she is letting me hold her while she sleeps. I know, absolutely know, I am holding a angel in my arms.
"Why you cryin', Mama?"
I just sigh and smile. "Because I'm happy, baby. I'm just very happy. Happy birthday, my angel. I love you very much."
"I wuv you more. Get me some milky."
Ahhhh...the princess is awake ; )
My sleepy-eyed, just-turned-four-years-old-today daughter has just awoken from a rare nap. Rarer, still, in that she feel asleep in my arms after what was, in the four-year-old social scene, a pretty raucous birthday party. She thinks she's just asked a pretty simple question. But I don't have an easy answer.
I'm crying because there was a time we thought we might not be able to have any children, let alone two. Before we finally got pregnant with our son, I can remember literally getting on my knees and praying for a baby. Just one baby. I can remember thinking long and hard before uttering the second half of the prayer to God: "You don't have to give me one of your perfect ones. I'll take one of the ones others might not want. I'll learn the patience. Please just let me be somebody's mommy." Five and a half years later, we have not one, but two perfect children (perfect in form and function, that is...there's some wiggle room when it comes to the definition of behaviorally perfect).
I'm crying because as she slept, I thought about how neither one of us should have been here today. They took her early because of her size: 9 pounds, 15 ounces, two weeks before her official due date. I'd gone the c-section route before and so I knew something was not right with her delivery. It turns out having one giant baby 18 months after having had another giant baby took its toll. At some point in the last two weeks of my pregnancy, my uterus ruptured along the old incision. Lexi should have died and I should have bled out shortly after. The delivery docs and nurses were honestly amazed. I could hear them whispering about us while they weighed and cleaned Lexi and my doctor sewed me back up (I have crazy dog-like hearing, they didn't count on that). The irony is her size is the very thing that saved us. She was so big, her body held the torn flaps together, essentially plugging the hole. It may have been God looking out for us, it may have been luck. And while I give credit to both of those things, I give credit to my little girl, too. She has an iron will and fierce determination. I kind of like to think she somehow knew what was happening, gritted those little gums (no teeth at that time, of course), narrowed those big brown eyes, jutted out that little jaw and promptly jammed her little rear end into the gaping hole that tried to kill us and sat there until help arrived.
I am crying because she is beautiful. Honestly beautiful. I know all parents believe their kids are beautiful, but I really do know my daughter is. And I can say that without arrogance because the child looks NOTHING like me, at all! Her olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes come straight from her Daddy's Italian genes. Even the build of her body and her funny little Fred Flintstone feet come from her daddy. Who knew my husband would be such a pretty girl! At four years old, she has a better tan than I have ever had in my life, including the summer I spent as a lifeguard. In fact, the only way I know for sure she is half mine is the tiny smattering of summer freckles spread across her nose (I used to get them as a kid) and her white-hot, lightning quick temper. It's a trait that was passed from my Grandfather to me (it sometimes skips a generation or two) and there is no mistaking it when you see it.
I am crying because she is confident and fearless and I hope the world never beats those attributes out of her. When I ask her who the most beautiful girl in the world is, she always knows the right answer. When we offer her the chance to try something new, she almost always takes it. What other four year old stomps around Busch Gardens angry that they wouldn't let her in Dark Castle or on the Big Bad Wolf because she is only 40 inches tall? I hope I find a way to protect her confidence and courage as I raise her so she doesn't lose them in her early 20's like I did.
I am crying because time seems like it is going so fast and I am starting to forget little things about her infancy and toddlerhood. But at the same moment, I am so proud of the little person she is and continues to become and that makes it hard not to be excited about her future and all that it holds.
I am crying because I am 100%, head-over-heels, over the moon in love with this little girl and her brother. I can't remember what life was like before them and don't want to imagine life without them.
I am crying because I have had had the honor of being this little miracle's mother for 1,459 days and feel like I have learned far more from her than she from me. I hope I have another 22,000 days or so on this earth to learn all she has to teach me. But for now, I am soaking in every single second that she is letting me hold her while she sleeps. I know, absolutely know, I am holding a angel in my arms.
"Why you cryin', Mama?"
I just sigh and smile. "Because I'm happy, baby. I'm just very happy. Happy birthday, my angel. I love you very much."
"I wuv you more. Get me some milky."
Ahhhh...the princess is awake ; )
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
What a Difference a Doctor Makes
Today was our much-anticipated consult with the pediatric surgeon. For those short on time, I'll not bury the lead: we still don't know a whole lot more specifics than before, but the news is generally good. Certainly, at the very least, it is better than what we were led to expect a couple of weeks ago.
To bring you up to speed, to this point we know there is a mass on/above/near/in the general vicinity of Lexi's spine. Her pediatrician called the radiology report from the ultrasound "concerning" and scared the bejesus out of us by adding that she might have cancer. The blood test showed "perfect counts", pretty much ruling out leukemia and lymphoma, but we still don't know what this thing is. We were told the next step would be a visit with the pediatric surgeon, but no one ever really clarified for us what, exactly, the surgeon would be doing.
It is not surprising, then, that today's appointment started with a lot of anger and frustration on our end. Our only instructions to this point have been to show up at the CHKD satellite office at 1 p.m. We've not been given a phone number to call to ask questions. We've not received a phone call telling us what will be happening. We have not even received a letter with pertinent information. We walked in the doors unsure of whether we were merely having a consult with the surgeon (whose name we wouldn't even know for another hour or two) or whether our daughter might be undergoing a biopsy or even surgery before the afternoon ended.
We were ominously directed to check in "upstairs" in the surgery department instead of in the main check-in area. This would be a good time for me to point out that in the process of trying to have kids, having kids, and repairing the significant internal damage done by said kids (reiterating note to self: those two will NOT be getting their security deposits back after the way they trashed the place) I underwent six surgeries in 4 1/2 years. Point being, I know a thing or two about surgery prep. So, as we head to the elevators, I start to worry that perhaps Lex should have been NPO (nothing to eat or drink) and since she has not been NPO, I start thinking that this may be a totally wasted visit. As it turns out, it was not a problem, but it gave me something to stew about while we waited a very long time for the surgeon to see us.
When the surgeon finally came in, it was a total 180 for us from our previous experiences. For starters, she was very calm and projected a general air of confidence and knowledge without the slightest hint of arrogance. The "God Complex" so commonly found in surgeons was nowhere to be found. Let me tell you how reassuring it is to a worried parent to feel like the person behind the wheel knows what the hell they are doing! Bedside manner-wise, she wasn't the greatest with Lexi. She wasn't mean or scary or anything, just not as kid-oriented as you might think a pediatric surgery specialist might be. But, A) most of the kids she deals with on a daily basis are anesthetized and don't care if she is Patch Adams or not and B) I'm not auditioning her to be a birthday party clown so I don't really care if she can pull a quarter out of my kid's ear as long as she can pull a mystery lump out of the kid's back!
At any rate, she came out of the gate with a totally different take on the radiologist's report. Instead of finding it "concerning" as Doogie did, she said the u/s pretty much confirmed to her that whatever it is, the lump is most likely benign (it helps that she personally knows and trusts the radiologist who read the scan). It also helps that the lump has gotten noticeably smaller over the past few days. In her words, "Horrible things don't get smaller. Horrible things get bigger." Finally, she was very pleased with how the thing feels when she manipulates it. Apparently, horrible things behave and feel differently than the thing on Lexi behaves and feels. I am loathe to admit that I find it rather skeevy to touch so I try not to touch it. But with a doctor for a brother-in-law and a retired nurse for a mother, I have come to understand over the years that medical people enjoy such human oddities...the squishier, the smellier, and the pussier, the better in their book.
The surgeon laid out three possibilities for what she thinks the lump could be, none of them overly scary or terrible. Her best guess is that it is a rebellious lymph node. Then she left it to us to decide what to do. Option A is to continue to monitor it over the next 3 to 6 months to see what it does. Option B is to have it surgically removed. She gave us pros and cons for each option and then said Lexi's case falls right in the middle: the risks involved with surgery are equal to the risks involved with waiting. Then she said the magic words that I needed to hear - words spoken NOT from surgeon to patient/parent but words from one mother to another: "If it were my kid, I'd probably wait at least three months and then reevaluate."
So that is what we have decided to do. While I don't like the idea of this "thing" inside my kid, I like the idea of putting my just-about-four year old through an unnecessary surgery even less. The decision was made easier when she added the caveat that if we find ourselves lying awake at night worrying, we can call at any time and schedule to have it removed. She says they frequently do such surgeries not because they are medically necessary but because it eases the minds of terrified parents.
She answered every question we had honestly and completely. As she was getting ready to leave the room, she asked both of us if we had any more questions or concerns. Then she told us, "My door is always open. Please call me if you have any questions or concerns between now and when we reevaluate in a few months." All of which left me wondering: Who is this woman and where do I find a pediatrician like her????
I'm not sure when I will consider this saga to be truly over. Part of me wonders if surgery would be the right move. At least then we would know for certain what is hiding under our daughter's skin and it would bring some closure. If it goes away on its own, I will be happy, but will probably always worry that it is just lurking, waiting to come back. But I keep coming back to the notion that it is not fair to put my child through surgery, no matter how minor, just to ease my own neuroses and insecurities. So for now, we will pray that we have made the right decision and pray that it continues to shrink away to nothing and never, ever comes back.
In the meantime, I'll start the process of searching for a new pediatrician. Looking at the situation with the veil of panic and terror finally lifted, it is clear that this has been poorly managed from the outset. Our trust has been breached and I don't think that can be repaired. There is no point continuing to see a doctor/practice if I will forever doubt anything and everything they say. So if anyone in our area has a practice or a doctor that they just love, let me know!
For now, hug your babies no matter how old those babies may be and thank God for every moment He gives you with them.
To bring you up to speed, to this point we know there is a mass on/above/near/in the general vicinity of Lexi's spine. Her pediatrician called the radiology report from the ultrasound "concerning" and scared the bejesus out of us by adding that she might have cancer. The blood test showed "perfect counts", pretty much ruling out leukemia and lymphoma, but we still don't know what this thing is. We were told the next step would be a visit with the pediatric surgeon, but no one ever really clarified for us what, exactly, the surgeon would be doing.
It is not surprising, then, that today's appointment started with a lot of anger and frustration on our end. Our only instructions to this point have been to show up at the CHKD satellite office at 1 p.m. We've not been given a phone number to call to ask questions. We've not received a phone call telling us what will be happening. We have not even received a letter with pertinent information. We walked in the doors unsure of whether we were merely having a consult with the surgeon (whose name we wouldn't even know for another hour or two) or whether our daughter might be undergoing a biopsy or even surgery before the afternoon ended.
We were ominously directed to check in "upstairs" in the surgery department instead of in the main check-in area. This would be a good time for me to point out that in the process of trying to have kids, having kids, and repairing the significant internal damage done by said kids (reiterating note to self: those two will NOT be getting their security deposits back after the way they trashed the place) I underwent six surgeries in 4 1/2 years. Point being, I know a thing or two about surgery prep. So, as we head to the elevators, I start to worry that perhaps Lex should have been NPO (nothing to eat or drink) and since she has not been NPO, I start thinking that this may be a totally wasted visit. As it turns out, it was not a problem, but it gave me something to stew about while we waited a very long time for the surgeon to see us.
When the surgeon finally came in, it was a total 180 for us from our previous experiences. For starters, she was very calm and projected a general air of confidence and knowledge without the slightest hint of arrogance. The "God Complex" so commonly found in surgeons was nowhere to be found. Let me tell you how reassuring it is to a worried parent to feel like the person behind the wheel knows what the hell they are doing! Bedside manner-wise, she wasn't the greatest with Lexi. She wasn't mean or scary or anything, just not as kid-oriented as you might think a pediatric surgery specialist might be. But, A) most of the kids she deals with on a daily basis are anesthetized and don't care if she is Patch Adams or not and B) I'm not auditioning her to be a birthday party clown so I don't really care if she can pull a quarter out of my kid's ear as long as she can pull a mystery lump out of the kid's back!
At any rate, she came out of the gate with a totally different take on the radiologist's report. Instead of finding it "concerning" as Doogie did, she said the u/s pretty much confirmed to her that whatever it is, the lump is most likely benign (it helps that she personally knows and trusts the radiologist who read the scan). It also helps that the lump has gotten noticeably smaller over the past few days. In her words, "Horrible things don't get smaller. Horrible things get bigger." Finally, she was very pleased with how the thing feels when she manipulates it. Apparently, horrible things behave and feel differently than the thing on Lexi behaves and feels. I am loathe to admit that I find it rather skeevy to touch so I try not to touch it. But with a doctor for a brother-in-law and a retired nurse for a mother, I have come to understand over the years that medical people enjoy such human oddities...the squishier, the smellier, and the pussier, the better in their book.
The surgeon laid out three possibilities for what she thinks the lump could be, none of them overly scary or terrible. Her best guess is that it is a rebellious lymph node. Then she left it to us to decide what to do. Option A is to continue to monitor it over the next 3 to 6 months to see what it does. Option B is to have it surgically removed. She gave us pros and cons for each option and then said Lexi's case falls right in the middle: the risks involved with surgery are equal to the risks involved with waiting. Then she said the magic words that I needed to hear - words spoken NOT from surgeon to patient/parent but words from one mother to another: "If it were my kid, I'd probably wait at least three months and then reevaluate."
So that is what we have decided to do. While I don't like the idea of this "thing" inside my kid, I like the idea of putting my just-about-four year old through an unnecessary surgery even less. The decision was made easier when she added the caveat that if we find ourselves lying awake at night worrying, we can call at any time and schedule to have it removed. She says they frequently do such surgeries not because they are medically necessary but because it eases the minds of terrified parents.
She answered every question we had honestly and completely. As she was getting ready to leave the room, she asked both of us if we had any more questions or concerns. Then she told us, "My door is always open. Please call me if you have any questions or concerns between now and when we reevaluate in a few months." All of which left me wondering: Who is this woman and where do I find a pediatrician like her????
I'm not sure when I will consider this saga to be truly over. Part of me wonders if surgery would be the right move. At least then we would know for certain what is hiding under our daughter's skin and it would bring some closure. If it goes away on its own, I will be happy, but will probably always worry that it is just lurking, waiting to come back. But I keep coming back to the notion that it is not fair to put my child through surgery, no matter how minor, just to ease my own neuroses and insecurities. So for now, we will pray that we have made the right decision and pray that it continues to shrink away to nothing and never, ever comes back.
In the meantime, I'll start the process of searching for a new pediatrician. Looking at the situation with the veil of panic and terror finally lifted, it is clear that this has been poorly managed from the outset. Our trust has been breached and I don't think that can be repaired. There is no point continuing to see a doctor/practice if I will forever doubt anything and everything they say. So if anyone in our area has a practice or a doctor that they just love, let me know!
For now, hug your babies no matter how old those babies may be and thank God for every moment He gives you with them.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I Wish He Would Have Just Told Me I'm Crazy
About a week and a half ago, as I was dressing Lexi for bed, I noticed a bump right in the middle of her back exactly between her shoulder blades. At first, I thought it was just the way she was positioned and what I was feeling was just a bone in her spine protruding slightly. But it was still there even when she changed positions. Now, Mike and I tend to be very hands-on parents in every sense, so with all the hugging, wrestling, back-rubbing, dressing, hair fixing, and bathing that goes on, new lumps, bumps, bruises, and boo-boos are usually noticed right away. That is especially true in summer when bathing suits are constantly getting put on and taken off and I always seem to be drying off and warming up a kiddo in the perpetually chilly Y locker room. And we were coming off a particularly active weekend, so I chalked it up to either a bug bite or a bruise or swelling from one of the 15 times she rode the new kids' roller coaster at Busch Gardens (the ride is fun, but seriously, I think the seats are made from unpadded iron). The point being, I'm pretty sure the bump could not have been there long before I discovered it.
On Thursday, I picked my daughter up to give her a hug and noticed it was still there. I pulled her hair back and could clearly see the lump. I showed Mike and he agreed that it didn't look quite right. The pediatrician asked to see her that afternoon - apparently the phrase "lump on her spine" earns you a coveted same-day sick visit slot.
When the doctor came in, I told him I really hoped he was just going to chalk me up as a crazy, overbearing mom, but that Mike and I would really just feel better having Lexi checked. Despite the brevity, I had a nagging feeling in my gut and could not shake the thought that no medical professional has probably ever started a sentence with, "Great news! We found a lump!" I'm certainly no doctor, but in my experience, when it comes to the human body, lumps are rarely a good thing. It didn't help ease our minds that both the doctor and the nurse were able to see the lump from 8 feet across the room before the physical exam even started. It sort of blew away the illusion that maybe vanity had made us hyper-sensitive to this ugly thing on our beautiful baby.
He prodded and checked, asking Lexi questions along the way. She was her usual bashful and charming self, answering everything he asked in her mystery NY accent and still turning half of her Ls and Rs into Ws, highlighting just how little she still is.
When he was done, I waited to be judged as nutty Ms. Suman who freaks out over the smallest of things. But that didn't happen. Instead, the doctor said, "I have no idea what it is". Now, I should point out that I have nicknamed this particular doctor "Doogie". He is new to the practice and fairly new to doctoring, in general. And I don't necessarily consider this a bad thing. I believe younger doctors often have an advantage in that their training is still top of mind and I have found them more willing to double check information or ask for second opinions than more seasoned docs. The drawback, of course, is they have far less clinical experience and, as such, don't have a wealth of anecdotes and patients from which to draw parallels. I kept thinking, "I wish Dr. Bob was here today. I'm sure he's seen this a hundred times." Unfortunately, that hope, too, was shattered when the radiologist at CHKD (Children's Hospital of the Kings Daughters) agreed with Doogie: they needed an ultrasound to figure out what it was.
I can go on a long tangent here about how they originally scheduled the u/s for 11 days later and all the hoops Mike jumped through to get it moved. Very long story short, however, Mike got them to move it up to Tuesday the 16th. You can't tell two worried parents that you don't know what is wrong with their child and then tell them to wait almost two weeks for the next step in figuring out what to do!
While the u/s itself was uneventful (Lex was a perfect angel), everything surrounding it was stressful. As we sat in the waiting room, my heart was racing in my chest. Mike was uncharacteristically quiet. But I had to pretend all was wonderful to keep Lexi from getting scared. All three of us went in for the u/s and it was torture for Mike and me. The tech was typically inscrutable. I could not get her face or eyes to betray whatever she was seeing on the screen. And, of course, I knew that if the image on the screen was making no sense to me, Mike would not have a clue - to this day he STILL can't see Lexi's face clear as day on the final u/s of my pregnancy! At that point, everything and everyone becomes suspect to a worried mom. The tech gave Lexi six stickers. Was it because she really was very good or was it because the tech had seen something horrible and felt sorry for us? We weren't allowed to leave until the tech talked to the radiologist. Was that S.O.P to make sure the views were clear or was whatever was there so terrible that the radiologist needed to be consulted right away???
There is another tangential tale for another time that goes here about the wild goose chase and associated frustration and anger at trying to find out the results of the u/s in a timely fashion. But I will sum it up by saying pediatric nurses who get an attitude with a mother who has heard and seen the words "unknown spinal growth" and "soft tissue mass above T3" in relation to her not-quite-four year old should either consider a different career or have a quick refresher course in empathy and basic human decency.
After an interminable and agonizing wait, the doctor finally called to talk to me at 2 on Wednesday afternoon. I retreated to my bedroom closet, the place I usually go to take phone calls when either I or the caller needs to be able concentrate without the steady din of shrieks, laughter, and general destruction generated by an almost-four year old and 5 1/2 year old playing together in the background. The call was not what I had been expecting.
"I finally have the results of Alexis' ultrasound and they are concerning." Not a good start to the conversation. My heart starts pounding all over again and I can't say anything so he plows ahead. He proceeds to read from the radiologists' report. I understand the words but don't have the medical experience to put them in context, so Doogie stammers around but eventually does it for me: "There is no blood supply to it, so it doesn't appear to be a tumor. However, there is an outside possibility, and she doesn't have any of the other symptoms, but there is a chance, a small chance...well, we can't rule out that we could be looking at leukemia or lymphoma."
You know how you read in books or hear a character on TV or in a movie say their head was spinning? It really happens. I got dizzy and had to sit on the floor of my closet. It became difficult to hear because the blood started pounding in my ears. I had to concentrate to breathe. I went into a flop sweat. Did he really just say that my child, my baby, my little girl - the sweet, shy, little Italian princess with the fiery temper who loves her brother and all things sparkly and pink and purple, the little pumpkin who just starting writing her own name and learned her phone number from her "brudder" - THAT child might have cancer? Ever wonder what goes through your head at a moment like that? I'll tell you: Please, God, no.
I asked him to re-read the radiology report and began scribbling random words on an empty shoe box so I could try to accurately relate the information to my husband and my parents and my sister: "leukemia", "lymphoma". It won't matter because I am shaking so badly the words are barely legible.
He says he wants her in for a blood test right away and asks where we live. I tell him but also say it doesn't matter. He just needs to tell me what lab he wants to use and I will take her wherever we need to go the minute we are off the phone. I'm still crumpled on the floor of the closet when I call Mike. As soon as I say leukemia and lymphoma, I can hear him actually gasp. For the past week, we've been consumed with conversations about financial worries, and when my new job would start, and taking the deadbeat client who owes us $8,000 to court...and right now, neither one of us gives a damn about any of it because someone just told us our baby might be very, very sick. I want to cry, my head is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. But I have to walk into the playroom and cheerfully announce to Lexi that we need to go see another doctor because Dr. Robinson needs some more information. To her, going to the doctor means stickers and treats, so she happily hops off the chair and asks if she can bring her glow-in-the-dark dinosaur with her. It truly feels like someone is twisting a knife in my heart. I grab the finger rosary someone gave me a few years ago and the guardian angel token I keep on my vanity, shove one in each pocket, and head out.
We leave in such a rush that I barely have time to leave a message for my mom. I don't give any details...I don't want her and my dad to hear those words on a message. I just tell her the doctor wants blood work. Normally, I would call at least one of my two best friends, too, but there is not time and I don't know how many more times I can say the words before I really do lose what little composure I still have. I'm not sure I have ever felt quite so alone. I know I have never been that scared. As many of you know, one of my best friends is a local television news anchor. Funnily enough, as I made the turn onto the street where the lab is located, I got behind an ad-mobile. I looked up to see a life-sized picture of my friend smiling at me from the truck. Sounds weird, but it made me feel a little less alone, at least for a minute.
I sign in at the lab and have to ask the receptionist the date. I can remember it is June but I can't think clearly enough to remember the day. At that moment I am struck by the irony. I can't conjure up the date but there is a chance, depending on what the white blood cell count shows, that the date will be seared in my brain forever with dates of other terrible anniversaries: July 29th: the day my grandfather died, November 27th: the day my grandmother died, March 4th: the day Tucker went to heaven.
Meanwhile, Lexi is blissfully unaware that anything is not right. She comments on the dresses worn by the cartoon princesses decorating the walls. She keeps mistakenly calling Pinocchio "Pokemon" as she colors a picture of him. She laughs out loud as Donkey does his shtick on the "Shrek" DVD they just started. I, on the other hand, am spinning my finger rosary so fast that I might get a blister. I'm trying to say prayers but keep losing the words as other thoughts ricochet around my brain: "Hail Mary..." how do you explain cancer to a four year old? "...full of grace..." I'll shave my head with her if she loses her hair. "...the Lord is with thee..." what if I have to pick out a tiny casket or speak at her funeral? How could I ever find the words to make the world know how much we love her and how much she means to us and how I don't think I can live without her. I can't do this...
I can remember being on a walk with my mom one time when I was a little girl. I was maybe seven and it is one of those memories that is clear as day to me; I can even tell you exactly where we were in the old neighborhood at the time. Somehow, the topic of death came up and I told her how scared I was of it. I distinctly remember her telling me that when people got older they got less scared of dying and I remember at that moment thinking how brave my mom must be. But I think now I understand it better. I think she was not saying that death is any less intimidating, I think she meant that when you have kids, dying is no longer the worst thing that could happen to you. But something happening to your child - something you can't prevent and you can't fix, well, that is sheer terror. I think any parent would tell you they would die a thousand deaths to spare their child one.
They call us back and I hold Lex in my lap while they draw blood. I didn't tell her it would be a blood draw for selfish reasons so now she is pissed and sad, and fat tears roll down her cheeks onto my arm. I dry her eyes and hold her tight and hope she doesn't notice that I am crying, too.
We go home to wait. Dr. Doogie has put a STAT order on the blood work and Mike has made it clear we are to be called even if there is no news to report, so we will probably hear something tonight. Tears stream down my face as I read the dozens of messages of encouragement and offers of prayers from the Duckies (an online community of mommies who have been my friends since the days of trying to get pregnant with Jamie). Lex and I sit on the couch, her enjoying the fact that I am letting her watch crappy TV shows, me clutching the phone in a death grip.
At 5:15 the phone finally rings. I peel myself off the ceiling and answer it. It is Dr. Doogie. The pathologist has not reviewed the blood work yet, but the tech has. She says all the counts are perfect. She has noted a single atypical cell, but the doc says that is normal - we all have a certain number of atypical cells and he would not be concerned unless there were a bunch of them. The tech told the doctor she is only forwarding it on to pathology because it is what his orders say to do. Under regular circumstances, this is not a sample that would merit further review by the pathologist. We still don't know what it is, but it is probably NOT leukemia or lymphoma. Probably. He hedged his bets again with that word.
So, today we wait for confirmation of the tech's initial analysis from the pathologist. Assuming (praying) there are no changes, we move on to the next step which is a biopsy and/or surgical removal. I still have a nagging feeling in my gut but I am not sure I can trust it right now. The stark terror of the past 24 hours has colored everything. It will be a while before I can separate instinct from fear again.
Again, for those of you who pray, please keep my little girl and our family in your prayers. I'm not sure we are out of the woods but I am hoping we can see the edge of the forest from where we are. While it is probably not cancer, we still don't know what it is and that is more than a little disconcerting. Go find your babies and give them hugs. For the rest of the day, laugh when you want to yell, let them get absolutely filthy and then get dirty with them, and maybe even let them have dessert before dinner. One day of indulgence won't spoil them forever.
On Thursday, I picked my daughter up to give her a hug and noticed it was still there. I pulled her hair back and could clearly see the lump. I showed Mike and he agreed that it didn't look quite right. The pediatrician asked to see her that afternoon - apparently the phrase "lump on her spine" earns you a coveted same-day sick visit slot.
When the doctor came in, I told him I really hoped he was just going to chalk me up as a crazy, overbearing mom, but that Mike and I would really just feel better having Lexi checked. Despite the brevity, I had a nagging feeling in my gut and could not shake the thought that no medical professional has probably ever started a sentence with, "Great news! We found a lump!" I'm certainly no doctor, but in my experience, when it comes to the human body, lumps are rarely a good thing. It didn't help ease our minds that both the doctor and the nurse were able to see the lump from 8 feet across the room before the physical exam even started. It sort of blew away the illusion that maybe vanity had made us hyper-sensitive to this ugly thing on our beautiful baby.
He prodded and checked, asking Lexi questions along the way. She was her usual bashful and charming self, answering everything he asked in her mystery NY accent and still turning half of her Ls and Rs into Ws, highlighting just how little she still is.
When he was done, I waited to be judged as nutty Ms. Suman who freaks out over the smallest of things. But that didn't happen. Instead, the doctor said, "I have no idea what it is". Now, I should point out that I have nicknamed this particular doctor "Doogie". He is new to the practice and fairly new to doctoring, in general. And I don't necessarily consider this a bad thing. I believe younger doctors often have an advantage in that their training is still top of mind and I have found them more willing to double check information or ask for second opinions than more seasoned docs. The drawback, of course, is they have far less clinical experience and, as such, don't have a wealth of anecdotes and patients from which to draw parallels. I kept thinking, "I wish Dr. Bob was here today. I'm sure he's seen this a hundred times." Unfortunately, that hope, too, was shattered when the radiologist at CHKD (Children's Hospital of the Kings Daughters) agreed with Doogie: they needed an ultrasound to figure out what it was.
I can go on a long tangent here about how they originally scheduled the u/s for 11 days later and all the hoops Mike jumped through to get it moved. Very long story short, however, Mike got them to move it up to Tuesday the 16th. You can't tell two worried parents that you don't know what is wrong with their child and then tell them to wait almost two weeks for the next step in figuring out what to do!
While the u/s itself was uneventful (Lex was a perfect angel), everything surrounding it was stressful. As we sat in the waiting room, my heart was racing in my chest. Mike was uncharacteristically quiet. But I had to pretend all was wonderful to keep Lexi from getting scared. All three of us went in for the u/s and it was torture for Mike and me. The tech was typically inscrutable. I could not get her face or eyes to betray whatever she was seeing on the screen. And, of course, I knew that if the image on the screen was making no sense to me, Mike would not have a clue - to this day he STILL can't see Lexi's face clear as day on the final u/s of my pregnancy! At that point, everything and everyone becomes suspect to a worried mom. The tech gave Lexi six stickers. Was it because she really was very good or was it because the tech had seen something horrible and felt sorry for us? We weren't allowed to leave until the tech talked to the radiologist. Was that S.O.P to make sure the views were clear or was whatever was there so terrible that the radiologist needed to be consulted right away???
There is another tangential tale for another time that goes here about the wild goose chase and associated frustration and anger at trying to find out the results of the u/s in a timely fashion. But I will sum it up by saying pediatric nurses who get an attitude with a mother who has heard and seen the words "unknown spinal growth" and "soft tissue mass above T3" in relation to her not-quite-four year old should either consider a different career or have a quick refresher course in empathy and basic human decency.
After an interminable and agonizing wait, the doctor finally called to talk to me at 2 on Wednesday afternoon. I retreated to my bedroom closet, the place I usually go to take phone calls when either I or the caller needs to be able concentrate without the steady din of shrieks, laughter, and general destruction generated by an almost-four year old and 5 1/2 year old playing together in the background. The call was not what I had been expecting.
"I finally have the results of Alexis' ultrasound and they are concerning." Not a good start to the conversation. My heart starts pounding all over again and I can't say anything so he plows ahead. He proceeds to read from the radiologists' report. I understand the words but don't have the medical experience to put them in context, so Doogie stammers around but eventually does it for me: "There is no blood supply to it, so it doesn't appear to be a tumor. However, there is an outside possibility, and she doesn't have any of the other symptoms, but there is a chance, a small chance...well, we can't rule out that we could be looking at leukemia or lymphoma."
You know how you read in books or hear a character on TV or in a movie say their head was spinning? It really happens. I got dizzy and had to sit on the floor of my closet. It became difficult to hear because the blood started pounding in my ears. I had to concentrate to breathe. I went into a flop sweat. Did he really just say that my child, my baby, my little girl - the sweet, shy, little Italian princess with the fiery temper who loves her brother and all things sparkly and pink and purple, the little pumpkin who just starting writing her own name and learned her phone number from her "brudder" - THAT child might have cancer? Ever wonder what goes through your head at a moment like that? I'll tell you: Please, God, no.
I asked him to re-read the radiology report and began scribbling random words on an empty shoe box so I could try to accurately relate the information to my husband and my parents and my sister: "leukemia", "lymphoma". It won't matter because I am shaking so badly the words are barely legible.
He says he wants her in for a blood test right away and asks where we live. I tell him but also say it doesn't matter. He just needs to tell me what lab he wants to use and I will take her wherever we need to go the minute we are off the phone. I'm still crumpled on the floor of the closet when I call Mike. As soon as I say leukemia and lymphoma, I can hear him actually gasp. For the past week, we've been consumed with conversations about financial worries, and when my new job would start, and taking the deadbeat client who owes us $8,000 to court...and right now, neither one of us gives a damn about any of it because someone just told us our baby might be very, very sick. I want to cry, my head is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. But I have to walk into the playroom and cheerfully announce to Lexi that we need to go see another doctor because Dr. Robinson needs some more information. To her, going to the doctor means stickers and treats, so she happily hops off the chair and asks if she can bring her glow-in-the-dark dinosaur with her. It truly feels like someone is twisting a knife in my heart. I grab the finger rosary someone gave me a few years ago and the guardian angel token I keep on my vanity, shove one in each pocket, and head out.
We leave in such a rush that I barely have time to leave a message for my mom. I don't give any details...I don't want her and my dad to hear those words on a message. I just tell her the doctor wants blood work. Normally, I would call at least one of my two best friends, too, but there is not time and I don't know how many more times I can say the words before I really do lose what little composure I still have. I'm not sure I have ever felt quite so alone. I know I have never been that scared. As many of you know, one of my best friends is a local television news anchor. Funnily enough, as I made the turn onto the street where the lab is located, I got behind an ad-mobile. I looked up to see a life-sized picture of my friend smiling at me from the truck. Sounds weird, but it made me feel a little less alone, at least for a minute.
I sign in at the lab and have to ask the receptionist the date. I can remember it is June but I can't think clearly enough to remember the day. At that moment I am struck by the irony. I can't conjure up the date but there is a chance, depending on what the white blood cell count shows, that the date will be seared in my brain forever with dates of other terrible anniversaries: July 29th: the day my grandfather died, November 27th: the day my grandmother died, March 4th: the day Tucker went to heaven.
Meanwhile, Lexi is blissfully unaware that anything is not right. She comments on the dresses worn by the cartoon princesses decorating the walls. She keeps mistakenly calling Pinocchio "Pokemon" as she colors a picture of him. She laughs out loud as Donkey does his shtick on the "Shrek" DVD they just started. I, on the other hand, am spinning my finger rosary so fast that I might get a blister. I'm trying to say prayers but keep losing the words as other thoughts ricochet around my brain: "Hail Mary..." how do you explain cancer to a four year old? "...full of grace..." I'll shave my head with her if she loses her hair. "...the Lord is with thee..." what if I have to pick out a tiny casket or speak at her funeral? How could I ever find the words to make the world know how much we love her and how much she means to us and how I don't think I can live without her. I can't do this...
I can remember being on a walk with my mom one time when I was a little girl. I was maybe seven and it is one of those memories that is clear as day to me; I can even tell you exactly where we were in the old neighborhood at the time. Somehow, the topic of death came up and I told her how scared I was of it. I distinctly remember her telling me that when people got older they got less scared of dying and I remember at that moment thinking how brave my mom must be. But I think now I understand it better. I think she was not saying that death is any less intimidating, I think she meant that when you have kids, dying is no longer the worst thing that could happen to you. But something happening to your child - something you can't prevent and you can't fix, well, that is sheer terror. I think any parent would tell you they would die a thousand deaths to spare their child one.
They call us back and I hold Lex in my lap while they draw blood. I didn't tell her it would be a blood draw for selfish reasons so now she is pissed and sad, and fat tears roll down her cheeks onto my arm. I dry her eyes and hold her tight and hope she doesn't notice that I am crying, too.
We go home to wait. Dr. Doogie has put a STAT order on the blood work and Mike has made it clear we are to be called even if there is no news to report, so we will probably hear something tonight. Tears stream down my face as I read the dozens of messages of encouragement and offers of prayers from the Duckies (an online community of mommies who have been my friends since the days of trying to get pregnant with Jamie). Lex and I sit on the couch, her enjoying the fact that I am letting her watch crappy TV shows, me clutching the phone in a death grip.
At 5:15 the phone finally rings. I peel myself off the ceiling and answer it. It is Dr. Doogie. The pathologist has not reviewed the blood work yet, but the tech has. She says all the counts are perfect. She has noted a single atypical cell, but the doc says that is normal - we all have a certain number of atypical cells and he would not be concerned unless there were a bunch of them. The tech told the doctor she is only forwarding it on to pathology because it is what his orders say to do. Under regular circumstances, this is not a sample that would merit further review by the pathologist. We still don't know what it is, but it is probably NOT leukemia or lymphoma. Probably. He hedged his bets again with that word.
So, today we wait for confirmation of the tech's initial analysis from the pathologist. Assuming (praying) there are no changes, we move on to the next step which is a biopsy and/or surgical removal. I still have a nagging feeling in my gut but I am not sure I can trust it right now. The stark terror of the past 24 hours has colored everything. It will be a while before I can separate instinct from fear again.
Again, for those of you who pray, please keep my little girl and our family in your prayers. I'm not sure we are out of the woods but I am hoping we can see the edge of the forest from where we are. While it is probably not cancer, we still don't know what it is and that is more than a little disconcerting. Go find your babies and give them hugs. For the rest of the day, laugh when you want to yell, let them get absolutely filthy and then get dirty with them, and maybe even let them have dessert before dinner. One day of indulgence won't spoil them forever.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Excitement
Another mom I know from an online forum posed a question today. While having a discussion with some co-workers who have kids, the topic of excitement came up. Specifically, whether other moms felt like they were missing something from their younger, single days. So this mom asked us (the other forum moms) if we felt like there was an element of excitement missing.
My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, "Yes! Where has all the excitement gone???" But, as I often do, I stopped for a moment to really ponder the question. In so doing, I realized it is really all about perspective. I mean, if I even HAD the free time I did when I was young and single, would I still find the same things "exciting"? And I went on to realize that many of the things that have become commonplace and mundane to me are actually pretty amazing.
So this is how I answered her question:
Define "excitement" If you mean spontanaity, then probably not. Most everything I do is carefully planned and days, even weeks, are back-timed to make sure everything that needs to get done does. There's no throwing caution to the wind and catching a movie on a whim or heading out of town at the last minute. On the other hand, however, in the past five years I've talked at 2 year old into handing over a decorative knife that I *thought* was out of his reach; I've vaulted a train table and a four year old to catch a 50+ pound dresser as it began to fall onto a three year old; I made a no-look catch as a two year old accidentally backflipped off a swing; I pounded incompletely chewed food out of the esophaguses of different little people on different occasions; I've fixed countless boo-boos; I've skipped countless hours of sleep; I've handled diapers that literally made grown men gag; I've wiped puke off my car, my kids, myself using only one semi-damp wipe and some old McDonald's napkins from the glove compartment; I've led "potty parades" complete with original musical compositions; flown with an infant and toddler; I've saved the day by chasing down a puppy that was accidentally let out of the house by children (more than once); taught two little people to say "please", "thank you", "I love you" and everything else; made ordinary pancakes into baseball pancakes; taught myself to make character cakes for birthdays; taught a three year old my secret chocolate chip cookie recipe and fought the urge to freak out when she spilled the flour and broke the egg before it got to the bowl; braved the grocery store with two pre-schoolers chanting, "He's touching me" "She's touching me" the ENTIRE time; made up innumerable crafts using glitter glue, pipe cleaners, and construction paper; let an 18 month old eat chocolate ice cream in a white dress; scraped squash off of floors, ceilings, and walls; remembered what was so great about Christmas; stood in countless lines for countless hours to see movies, ride rides, and purchase gifts; missed every adult movie but didn't really miss them at all; gladly handed over the only trophy I've won in 20 years to a four year old who told me he was proud of me; let a three and a four year old pick the Halloween costume I would wear in public; dropped everything to volunteer at school, coach soccer, cheer at basketball games, and bring snacks to the cutest tiny baseball players I've ever seen; convinced two little people that there was nothing to be scared of when I was terrified myself; yelled my head off; made up songs and sang them in public; laughed and cried more than I thought humanly possible...So maybe not excitement in the traditional sense, but you'd be hard pressed to find a dull moment in my life! I'm not sure I could take any more stimulation, to tell you the truth.
My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, "Yes! Where has all the excitement gone???" But, as I often do, I stopped for a moment to really ponder the question. In so doing, I realized it is really all about perspective. I mean, if I even HAD the free time I did when I was young and single, would I still find the same things "exciting"? And I went on to realize that many of the things that have become commonplace and mundane to me are actually pretty amazing.
So this is how I answered her question:
Define "excitement" If you mean spontanaity, then probably not. Most everything I do is carefully planned and days, even weeks, are back-timed to make sure everything that needs to get done does. There's no throwing caution to the wind and catching a movie on a whim or heading out of town at the last minute. On the other hand, however, in the past five years I've talked at 2 year old into handing over a decorative knife that I *thought* was out of his reach; I've vaulted a train table and a four year old to catch a 50+ pound dresser as it began to fall onto a three year old; I made a no-look catch as a two year old accidentally backflipped off a swing; I pounded incompletely chewed food out of the esophaguses of different little people on different occasions; I've fixed countless boo-boos; I've skipped countless hours of sleep; I've handled diapers that literally made grown men gag; I've wiped puke off my car, my kids, myself using only one semi-damp wipe and some old McDonald's napkins from the glove compartment; I've led "potty parades" complete with original musical compositions; flown with an infant and toddler; I've saved the day by chasing down a puppy that was accidentally let out of the house by children (more than once); taught two little people to say "please", "thank you", "I love you" and everything else; made ordinary pancakes into baseball pancakes; taught myself to make character cakes for birthdays; taught a three year old my secret chocolate chip cookie recipe and fought the urge to freak out when she spilled the flour and broke the egg before it got to the bowl; braved the grocery store with two pre-schoolers chanting, "He's touching me" "She's touching me" the ENTIRE time; made up innumerable crafts using glitter glue, pipe cleaners, and construction paper; let an 18 month old eat chocolate ice cream in a white dress; scraped squash off of floors, ceilings, and walls; remembered what was so great about Christmas; stood in countless lines for countless hours to see movies, ride rides, and purchase gifts; missed every adult movie but didn't really miss them at all; gladly handed over the only trophy I've won in 20 years to a four year old who told me he was proud of me; let a three and a four year old pick the Halloween costume I would wear in public; dropped everything to volunteer at school, coach soccer, cheer at basketball games, and bring snacks to the cutest tiny baseball players I've ever seen; convinced two little people that there was nothing to be scared of when I was terrified myself; yelled my head off; made up songs and sang them in public; laughed and cried more than I thought humanly possible...So maybe not excitement in the traditional sense, but you'd be hard pressed to find a dull moment in my life! I'm not sure I could take any more stimulation, to tell you the truth.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Thanks, but no thanks.
I wrote this one a couple of months ago and posted it on MySpace - I know, how very "tweener" of me. But I'll post it here because it bears repeating (and because it makes me look I spent a really long time today composing my thoughts and writing them down today).
An open letter to email forwarders:
My dear "friends",
For many years now, you have thoughtfully included me in every "cc" to every inane, inappropriate, misguided, misinformed, and downright ridiculous email chain letter that has come along.
You have warned me of gang initiations, protected me from Achilles slashers lurking under my car, enlightened me to all the secular humanists trying to remove God from quarters and schools and courts and everywhere else (after all, we all know separation of church and state is for Communists, anyway). I've learned all the things my cell phone can do that I never knew, and all the reasons I should vote Republican, or Democrat, or Green. You've provided countless chances to change my luck for the better (or worse) and money-making opportunities. Incidentally, Bill Gates has still not sent me my check for that email beta program, did you get yours? I digress. Even when I change email addresses, you steadfastly track me down to make sure I have all the latest vital information care of an anonymously composed and forwarded email message of dubious origin.
Today, I have realized, with great shame, how very selfish I have been. In all these years, I have never returned the courtesy to you. Not once have I forwarded warnings, opportunities, or critical political information to you. In fact, I have failed to even prove what a good friend I am by sending messages to 20 other friends including the one who sent it to me. When I think of how many chains "died" right there in my inbox…well, it is almost more than I can bear. Many people would have given up on me long ago. "Fine," they would sniff. "Let her flash her bright lights at the '79 Caprice Classic low rider with the rear hydraulics and thumping subwoofers and see what happens to her and her small children. My conscience is clear." But not you, my good, loyal, tenacious friend. Not you. No, you send it again and again. A sort of cyber-intervention aimed at protecting me from myself by perpetuating stereotypes, preying on fears and furthering urban myths and legends like some giant game of grown-up "Telephone".
Because you have invested so much time and effort into this endeavor over the years, I feel I owe you the following explanation as to why I have failed to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me.
"Friend" emails: If I call you friend, it is because I have genuine affection for you. I care about you and things that happen in your life. I trust you apply the same definition to me. If you know me well enough to call me friend, then you probably know my life is very busy, chaotic even. I have two small children who are not yet school-aged who I care for just about all day, every day. I run a household, managing most of the family admin including scheduling, shopping, boo-boo soothing and maintenance, and even occasionally cleaning (when I can find my vacuum amongst the clutter, that is). I own and operate a small business. I am a freelance writer in my "spare" time. I try to devote equitable chunks of time to my family, my in-laws, and friends. I also volunteer at preschool, and stay active in various business and civic organizations. Friends, there have been days where I have been awake for 4 hours or more before I've found two minutes to use the restroom (though by then, it usually takes more than two minutes to expel the 15 gallons of urine that have collected in my superhuman mom-bladder). Please don't give me one more thing to do in my already jam-packed day. We are friends. There, I've said it for all the world to hear. Please don't ask me to validate it and prove it daily by sending a flowery email back to you and everyone else in my address book. We're not dating. We're past the "prove your love to me" phase of our relationship. I don't have time and if you really love me as much as the little flapping butterfly and doe-eyed cartoon child in your email says you do, you will understand that. Also, what kind of a person sends an email about friendship that ends with a promise of horrible, disfiguring, tragic luck for not responding? God help me if I don't answer the phone when you call. Do you call in the hit squad for that, "friend"?
"Warning" and "Informational" emails: I appreciate your concern for my safety and the health and safety of my CPU and hard drive, I really do. Three words for you: Snopes Dot Com. Please take the two minutes it would normally take you to blindly and blithely forward these emails on to everyone you ever met to look up the subject matter on this highly informative site. You'll find somewhere in the neighborhood of 99.0 to 99.99% of them are completely false.
And my favorite, "Political" emails: Like most people, my political beliefs are a complicated amalgam of my upbringing, my gender, my socioeconomic status, my family status, my level and quality of education, the amount of time I spend independently researching and reading about the issues of import to me, and myriad other factors. Please don't insult my intelligence by assuming some random facts or quotes taken entirely out of context (or thin air, even) slapped into an email will, in any way, inform my vote or influence my opinions. And please don't assume my political leanings are the same as yours just because we live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery store, cheer for the same tee-ball team or visit the same OB/Gyn. If you really want to make a difference this election year, save the political forwards and instead compose a brief but heartfelt note to everyone in your address book encouraging them to get out and vote. Democrat, Republican, it matters not. Here, I know how you like to forward, so I'll make it easy for you to cut-n-paste:
"Dear Friends,
In this election year it is critical that you get off your ample American derrières, stuff your sorrys in a sack, get to the polls and cast your ballot. Each candidate has many pros and many cons. Please take a few moments to learn what each stands for then decide which most closely represents the views and opinions you'd like to see implemented in this great country of ours. If you aren't willing to head to the polls (the threat of drizzle IS a good reason to abdicate your primary right as an American citizen), consider registering to vote absentee by mail. If you are not willing to do that, either, then let's make this deal right now: In exchange for the vote that you will not be casting, you promise that you will keep your pie hole shut on any and every political matter for the next four years. Not one peep about the administration, not a cross word about the IRS, not the slightest utterance on Roe v. Wade. If you don't care enough to engage in the process, I sure don't care what you have to say about the system.
Please forward this message to everyone in your address book immediately or you will develop a hideous case of hemorrhoids, hammer toes, and halitosis* within a matter of days.
Have a lovely day!"
*(I like the "h" conditions; they are the most fun to say)
To summarize, I would be eternally grateful if, in the future, you would use a bit more discretion in deciding which emails to forward to me. The marzipan babies? Those were cool. I don't mind the funny little fruit carvings and even the guy who paints his hands to resemble all sorts of exotic animals. Oooh, and that guy who does the sidewalk chalk? You know, from one angle they just look like some weird out-of-proportion drawing but from another they become really detailed 3D creations? Yeah, those'd be OK, too. I don't even mind the occasional "Edna" email (she's that old lady from the cards). For pretty much everything else, don't worry – it won't hurt my feelings if you leave this "strong, smart, independent woman" off your list. We'll still be friends, even if I don't validate it by forwarding it on to my Great Uncle and my college roommate's brother's wife.
Your Friend,
Mary
An open letter to email forwarders:
My dear "friends",
For many years now, you have thoughtfully included me in every "cc" to every inane, inappropriate, misguided, misinformed, and downright ridiculous email chain letter that has come along.
You have warned me of gang initiations, protected me from Achilles slashers lurking under my car, enlightened me to all the secular humanists trying to remove God from quarters and schools and courts and everywhere else (after all, we all know separation of church and state is for Communists, anyway). I've learned all the things my cell phone can do that I never knew, and all the reasons I should vote Republican, or Democrat, or Green. You've provided countless chances to change my luck for the better (or worse) and money-making opportunities. Incidentally, Bill Gates has still not sent me my check for that email beta program, did you get yours? I digress. Even when I change email addresses, you steadfastly track me down to make sure I have all the latest vital information care of an anonymously composed and forwarded email message of dubious origin.
Today, I have realized, with great shame, how very selfish I have been. In all these years, I have never returned the courtesy to you. Not once have I forwarded warnings, opportunities, or critical political information to you. In fact, I have failed to even prove what a good friend I am by sending messages to 20 other friends including the one who sent it to me. When I think of how many chains "died" right there in my inbox…well, it is almost more than I can bear. Many people would have given up on me long ago. "Fine," they would sniff. "Let her flash her bright lights at the '79 Caprice Classic low rider with the rear hydraulics and thumping subwoofers and see what happens to her and her small children. My conscience is clear." But not you, my good, loyal, tenacious friend. Not you. No, you send it again and again. A sort of cyber-intervention aimed at protecting me from myself by perpetuating stereotypes, preying on fears and furthering urban myths and legends like some giant game of grown-up "Telephone".
Because you have invested so much time and effort into this endeavor over the years, I feel I owe you the following explanation as to why I have failed to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me.
"Friend" emails: If I call you friend, it is because I have genuine affection for you. I care about you and things that happen in your life. I trust you apply the same definition to me. If you know me well enough to call me friend, then you probably know my life is very busy, chaotic even. I have two small children who are not yet school-aged who I care for just about all day, every day. I run a household, managing most of the family admin including scheduling, shopping, boo-boo soothing and maintenance, and even occasionally cleaning (when I can find my vacuum amongst the clutter, that is). I own and operate a small business. I am a freelance writer in my "spare" time. I try to devote equitable chunks of time to my family, my in-laws, and friends. I also volunteer at preschool, and stay active in various business and civic organizations. Friends, there have been days where I have been awake for 4 hours or more before I've found two minutes to use the restroom (though by then, it usually takes more than two minutes to expel the 15 gallons of urine that have collected in my superhuman mom-bladder). Please don't give me one more thing to do in my already jam-packed day. We are friends. There, I've said it for all the world to hear. Please don't ask me to validate it and prove it daily by sending a flowery email back to you and everyone else in my address book. We're not dating. We're past the "prove your love to me" phase of our relationship. I don't have time and if you really love me as much as the little flapping butterfly and doe-eyed cartoon child in your email says you do, you will understand that. Also, what kind of a person sends an email about friendship that ends with a promise of horrible, disfiguring, tragic luck for not responding? God help me if I don't answer the phone when you call. Do you call in the hit squad for that, "friend"?
"Warning" and "Informational" emails: I appreciate your concern for my safety and the health and safety of my CPU and hard drive, I really do. Three words for you: Snopes Dot Com. Please take the two minutes it would normally take you to blindly and blithely forward these emails on to everyone you ever met to look up the subject matter on this highly informative site. You'll find somewhere in the neighborhood of 99.0 to 99.99% of them are completely false.
And my favorite, "Political" emails: Like most people, my political beliefs are a complicated amalgam of my upbringing, my gender, my socioeconomic status, my family status, my level and quality of education, the amount of time I spend independently researching and reading about the issues of import to me, and myriad other factors. Please don't insult my intelligence by assuming some random facts or quotes taken entirely out of context (or thin air, even) slapped into an email will, in any way, inform my vote or influence my opinions. And please don't assume my political leanings are the same as yours just because we live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery store, cheer for the same tee-ball team or visit the same OB/Gyn. If you really want to make a difference this election year, save the political forwards and instead compose a brief but heartfelt note to everyone in your address book encouraging them to get out and vote. Democrat, Republican, it matters not. Here, I know how you like to forward, so I'll make it easy for you to cut-n-paste:
"Dear Friends,
In this election year it is critical that you get off your ample American derrières, stuff your sorrys in a sack, get to the polls and cast your ballot. Each candidate has many pros and many cons. Please take a few moments to learn what each stands for then decide which most closely represents the views and opinions you'd like to see implemented in this great country of ours. If you aren't willing to head to the polls (the threat of drizzle IS a good reason to abdicate your primary right as an American citizen), consider registering to vote absentee by mail. If you are not willing to do that, either, then let's make this deal right now: In exchange for the vote that you will not be casting, you promise that you will keep your pie hole shut on any and every political matter for the next four years. Not one peep about the administration, not a cross word about the IRS, not the slightest utterance on Roe v. Wade. If you don't care enough to engage in the process, I sure don't care what you have to say about the system.
Please forward this message to everyone in your address book immediately or you will develop a hideous case of hemorrhoids, hammer toes, and halitosis* within a matter of days.
Have a lovely day!"
*(I like the "h" conditions; they are the most fun to say)
To summarize, I would be eternally grateful if, in the future, you would use a bit more discretion in deciding which emails to forward to me. The marzipan babies? Those were cool. I don't mind the funny little fruit carvings and even the guy who paints his hands to resemble all sorts of exotic animals. Oooh, and that guy who does the sidewalk chalk? You know, from one angle they just look like some weird out-of-proportion drawing but from another they become really detailed 3D creations? Yeah, those'd be OK, too. I don't even mind the occasional "Edna" email (she's that old lady from the cards). For pretty much everything else, don't worry – it won't hurt my feelings if you leave this "strong, smart, independent woman" off your list. We'll still be friends, even if I don't validate it by forwarding it on to my Great Uncle and my college roommate's brother's wife.
Your Friend,
Mary
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