August 28, 2009 @ 06:05

During my week of did breast cancer win the third time’s a charm game panic, I really did write a letter to Bear.  The last few days as my friends and family have been telling me how happy they are that I’m okay, in between unattractively snort laughing at the idiots that gave us the scare, I’ve been thinking.  Isn’t it a shame that I don’t gush more over my babies?  These are things that maybe should be said, even though I’m just fine.  So this is for Bear.  And the rest of you, as well. 

Swear to me, Bear, that no matter how frustrated you may get, that you will never give up on Puppy.  Things may get hard, sweet Bear.  But I can already see that man that you are going to be and I know that you are more than enough.  Know that I was hard on you because I know you are the kind of man that this world is aching for.  Good to the core and smart and funny and more amazing than I could ever take credit for making you myself.  Although sometimes in my head I do mentally puff up with pride for it.  Remember that Papa will always be your biggest fan.  That Mimi will love you even when she’s furious or even bewildered by you.  That Grandma needs you.  Especially now.  And remember that I love you beyond what I could have ever imagined was possible.  That I would have given up everything for you.  Just to make sure that you got what you needed.  And I’m sorry if it turns out that I cannot stay.  I never wanted to leave you or Puppy.  But you must promise that you won’t be angry, at me or at god or at the universe and whatever reasons made me have to go.  You have to keep going onto become the man that I already see shining through the edges of your very quickly fading boyhood.  When you were tiny, just days and weeks old, I would lay awake at night and watch your little chest rise and fall, terrified and awestruck by the miracle that was lying there in the crib.  You are still that same miracle.  I love you, Bear.  Forever. 

So . . .  What am I thinking right now?  ……….(for those of you who just got lost, Bear is answering Tacos)…………   Yes!!!  Hope they have tacos where I’m going.  Bet if I do, they’re fat free and tasty.  Love you baby.  Don’t forget to laugh at how silly we were.  And tell Rob you don’t wanna know about Barry White.  But that you do wanna know about Big Head Todd and how to be a man when it’s hard and what it means to love unconditionally.  He can tell you all about those important things.  Ask Nonnie to tell you about the importance of singing out loud in the car and how love isn’t always perfect, but that’s what is special about it, that it can survive not perfect.  Ask Sheila to tell you about how to make it work when it won’t.  And how to never give up.  Always go to Janet for good advice, on books and life.  Ask Grandma to tell you what Papa was like before he became a hippie.  Ask Papa to tell you about Grandma when she was a gloriously gorgeous girl with her whole life ahead of her.  Never forget that you’re named for a man who survived the Bataan Death March who loved the sweetest woman who ever lived.  And another man who left us too soon, but marked our lives so that we would never forget.  You’ve got that power too, baby boy.  You will mark the lives of the people you come in contact with, whether it’s for years or for seconds.  Remember this when you want to lose your patience in the drive through.  And when you want to lose your patience with the one who you choose to spend your life with.  And name your babies for people who are special and who mean something to you.  Always remember to put candy canes in the stockings, even if nobody eats them.  And never forget that you were the person who taught me how to love everything that was ever worth loving in this life. 

I could not be prouder of you.  I swear it, if there is such a thing as a ticket to heaven, sweet Bear, you are mine. 

Much love to you all.  Hope your weekend is grand. 

August 25, 2009 @ 14:45

So for the past ten days or so, I’ve been in a state.  Two weeks ago I had my yearly mammogram.  Do you get one?  You should.  Despite the story I’m about to tell ya, you should.  So about ten years ago I had a couple of bad years.  Two surgeries to remove lumps, thankfully benign.  But the recovery was far less than pleasant.  Trixie took very good care of me.  Even picking my ass up out of the shower once when I blacked out.  She is a great friend.  I’ve said it before, if you don’t got a Trixie, you need to get one. 

For the last ten years though, each yearly has come and gone without incident.  No more mysterious masses.  No fears.  All good.  But this year, they called.  Setting the stage solidly for my low churning state of panic for the last ten days was the fact that they didn’t just call and say “hey, call us”.  They called twice in one day.  Saying “we need you to come back in”.  Insert ominous background music, yes?  I called the next morning.  Within an hour I was having new images taken.  Then waiting.  They take me back in and shoot more images.  More waiting.  I notice how everyone is very nice.  My paranoia beginning to blossom.  Are they talking to me so sweetly because I’m sick?  They come back in and want to do an ultrasound.  This sets my paranoia to singing.  The last time I had a breast ultrasound, I was in surgery a few hours later.  I am not happy.  I wait.  The doctor himself comes in and redoes the ultrasound.  And then he gives me two options.  I can wait for three months and then come back to see if there are any changes to what they are seeing.  Or I can get and MRI.  He isn’t comfortable doing a biopsy guided by the ultrasound because this area is being so difficult to pin down.  Apparently they can see it in some angles but not in others.  I am not a fan of waiting.  Not for hot french fries in the damn drive thru, certainly not for this. 

Now I have not, for the last several years, been getting my yearly mammogram at the doctor who took such great care of me in those bad years.  I live in a city that’s 30 miles away.  So I’ve been going here, where it’s more convenient, always with the thought in the back of my mind that if the time comes to take action in some way, back to Little Rock I will go.  So I go straight back to my office and make the appointment.  I have only one week to wait.  Much better than the three week’s wait that the MRI would have been. They ask me to bring my mammograms with me.  I call to find out if I can pick them up.  They tell me no, they don’t do that, but that if I sign a form they’ll send them directly.  Fine, I do.  No problem.  You’d think. 

The week passes agonizingly slowly.  Wherein I over-analyze every word spoken to me by the techs and nurses and doctor.  I begin to compose letters in my head to my children as I lay awake at night.  This is what mom’s do.  I begin actually writing one to Bear.  I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that I’m melodramatic, yes? 

So this morning dawns, I am wide awake for it long before I have to be.  I drive to the Women’s Oncology Clinic in Little Rock and wait.  They call me back, ask more questions, including, did you bring your mammograms?  Ummm, no, they wouldn’t give them to me.  I signed forms for them to send them directly to you.  Don’t you have them?  No, they do not.  The doctor goes ahead and does the physical exam while the nurse calls to see what the problem is.  They haven’t sent them yet.  What, they’re waiting for a sign from god?  Well, guess what, it’s on its way.  They agree to give them to me today and I head out.  I am livid.  Apparently it shows on my face when I walk in the door.  One woman makes the mistake of telling me to calm down.  I silence her with a look.  Funny thing is I haven’t raised my voice at all.  I imagine if you pictured me with a ring of flames around my head it would probably sum it up, though.  I take the giant envelope and head back to Little Rock. 

I arrive and the waiting begins again.  This waiting I cannot begrudge.  They have bent over backwards to work this out for me today so I don’t spend another week of sleepless nights and paranoia. And finally I am rewarded by the knock at the exam room door.  The doctor sticks her head in and says “I want you to come down and look at this with me.  And by the way, everything is fine.  Also, you are coming back here for your next mammogram.” 

She is smirking subtly.  I begin to relax.  Simultaneously I begin to wonder what is so funny. 

She takes me to the room where the light board is on the wall and there they are, eight shining black and white images of my breast.  She begins by showing me in the file the narrative about why they needed to do an MRI and then biopsy this mysterious mass.  It is clearly visible in some of the images, but they cannot pinpoint it in every angle in order to do the biopsy, thus they want the MRI.  She then turns my attention to the images on the light board.  First, she points out the profile, here is the breast, my nipple in profile, no mass to be seen.  The next image, my breast turned at an angle, with the round shape in question clearly visible.  Funny thing is, it’s on the backside where my nipple would be at this angle.  See where we’re headed here?  Over and over again she points out how they have been absolutely confounded by this mass that is in fact my NIPPLE!  Are you kidding me?!?!?  Are you serious?!?!?  I have lain awake for the last week scared out of my wits because your entire team of people who spend all. damn. day. looking at breasts. have been bamboozled by my NIPPLE!?!? Any thirteen year old boy could have identified that, I’m betting. 

All I can say is, “calm down” woman better be glad I didn’t go back today. It appears that my gut feeling of dread was in fact just intuitively knowing that I was in the care of idiots.  It’s funny now.  But good lord, what it must be like to be in their care if you really did have a problem. 

August 24, 2009 @ 06:11

Saturday night, Trixie and I spent the evening with lots of wonderful friends, drank a few beers (me), glasses of wine (her) and generally had a great time.  We did not at any time as I can recall, board a plane, train, automobile, or effing rocket.  But Sunday morning, we woke up somewhere else entirely. 

Trixie texts me around 8am. 

Trixie:  need pancakes waffles - f it syrup n coffee 

Me:  yes please

Trixie:  ihop or waffle house?

Me:  ihop

Trixie:  pick u up n 2 min 

We go.  Seems ordinary enough.  We have timed our arrival beautifully.  Almost as beautifully as our recent beach weekend wherein we were neighbors for four glorious days to an entire college baseball team.  But I digress . . .  We walk through the doors of IHOP at the precisely perfect moment to avoid the early and the regular church crowds.  Our hostess comes around the corner.  And I swear to you, she was a perfectly lovely girl, except for having an entirely unnecessary comb over.  Can anybody explain this to me?  Parting the hair just above one ear and draping it elaborately over to the other side is NEVER cute!  Seriously.  Trust me.  I’m doing you a favor here.  Move that part back where it belongs. 

She seats us.  We manage to control ourselves and not say mean things.  It was difficult.  As we were seated, I, being the lover of all movies with killin’, sat facing the room and back to the wall.  This puts me next to Trixie, who didn’t want to sit in the aisle, instead of across the table from her.  Great view for people watching, our second favorite pasttime. 

The place is beginning to fill up right behind us, so it takes a bit of time for our waitress to take our order.  We begin to check out the room.  A man walks out of the kitchen and begins clearing tables.  He’s in uniform, with an honest to god pompador, and he’s wearing sunglasses.  We try to sympathetically imagine what sort of eye condition might make you need to wear sunglasses while bussing tables, but in combo with the pompador?  Yeah, you know you think it, too.  Hilarious. 

There is also a very angry couple in the booth across from us.  The man stares sullenly at his pancakes.  Seriously dude?  Pancakes make peole happy.  What’s your deal?  Oh, but then we see.  He’s married to an angry vampire.  She is sitting in the booth across from him with her pale and pasty complexion and her coal black, with a widow’s peak even, hair, yes, in a freakin’ pompador, too!  And she’s got her arms crossed tightly over her chest.  She’s staring intently at Trixie.  I fear for a moment that perhaps Trixie smells delicious.  But Saturday was canoe day and that night was wine night, could she really?  Maybe I smell delicious and she’s thinking of how to get rid of Trixie first?  Trixie begins to shift nervously in her seat. 

“Why is the vampire staring at me?” 

In sad reality, we get this look alot.  I mean a whole lot.  People either immediatly think we’re sisters or lovers.  We are neither.  I mean Trixie’s cute and all, but nope, not my girlfriend.  Actually, a few years ago I had a minor surgery and Trixie picked me up afterward and one of the nurses asked her if she was my husband.  No, seriously, she’s really cute, that’s not the point.  The point is that people just assume this about us.  And this is the deep South, where it’s still the fifties in a lot of the ways that weren’t fun at all.   So I shift to the seat opposite Trixie, placing myself between her and the angry vampire church lady.  My back is now to her.  Trixie?  Who loves you baby?  Me, that’s who.  The woman continues to stare at us for our entire meal.  And we were there a solid hour.  It almost made me unable to enjoy my harvest grain pancakes and embarassingly large pool of old fashioned syrup . . .  Almost. 

Okay, comb over hostess, pompador shade wearing busboy and angry vampire.  Did we wake up in a mob flick set in Forks?  And why isn’t our vampire hot?  I protest the unfairness. 

August 23, 2009 @ 21:14

Things just keep changing.  Every day I wake up and it’s like a new day at a new school.  Life school.  The boys are now back in school as well.  Bear to the high school campus, all six feet tall of him, now a freshman.  With a sophomore girlfriend.  Yikes.  I took them on a date a couple weeks ago.  Hadn’t actually seen her since last school year.  She’s adorable.  But over the summer . . .  she blossomed.  She’s now this beautiful young woman.  I was a bit . . .  oh, hell with it, I was blindsided.  I dropped them off at the theater and a couple hours later picked them up and dropped her at home.  As I stopped in her driveway, she opened the door and got out, Bear in the front seat by me made no move to exit and walk her to the door.  Apparently my brain fell out of my head at exactly that moment because I poked him in the leg and mouthed “walk her to the door” at him.  He jumped out.  It hadn’t occured to him and that’s okay, because he took the cue quickly.  But as he walked away down the sidewalk with this beautiful girl it occured to me that I had just become my son’s wingman.  Best. Mom. Ever.  Saint’s preserve us. 

Puppy is now in first grade.  One week down and all is well.  Over the summer he didn’t have any speech or occupational therapy.  Yeah.  None.  I had begun calling in February to get him on the schedule for the summer.  Don’t even ask about how pleasant that process was.  During the school year his therapy takes place at school.  We have a phenomenal school district here.  It’s why I bought the house here, for the schools.  Okay also for the hardwood floors and the fabulous stained glass built in china cabinet, I’ll admit.  Anyway . . .  during summer, it’s up to us to stay on track.  It’s hard to do that.  Not one of the three different groups we work with, the school district, the Dennis Developmental Center (I highly recommend them) or the clinic here in town that provides care and therapies for special needs kids utilize one another’s evals to any great degree.  They will glance over them, yes, if you provide them, but all evaluate for themselves.  This made sense to me, until this summer.  The Developmental Center is where Puppy recieves his primary care from the Autism specialists, the whole team of doctors and therapists who know him inside and out after the two years we’ve been seeing them.  The therapist at his elementary school knows him just as well, if not better, after being in his life every day for his kindergarten year.  The summer program however, has only seen him during the summer before he started kindergarten.  So they don’t really know him like we do.  I think of the staff at school and the Developmental Center and myself to be a team.  I was ready with recommendations for speech and occupational therapy from both.  But when, after several botched attempts to get him back in the door for the summer program, they didn’t even look at his other evals or their recommendations, I was so disappointed.  They took him back and tested him for one hour.  Yes.  ONE.  And a few days later I got a cold clinical letter in the mail telling me that he did not qualify for the therapies.  His skills tested (in that one hour) in the typical range.  Maybe I’m being ridiculous.  Maybe I should be doing a crazy happy dance that he did not qualify.  But I just didn’t think that the one hour they devoted to that decision could possibly be accurate.  So, we had a summer back at our old daycare center.  Thankfully staffed with qualified teachers and with a structured environment only barely relaxed during the summer months.  Relaxed being defined as regular curriculum interspersed with the awesomeness of a weekly super soaker day and other such appropriate activities.  Oh, to be six again, yah?  I think a great deal of my work stress could be absolutely relieved by a weekly super soaker day.  Don’t you? 

So now he’s on to first grade, with no real prep.  We’ve spent so much focus and energy on the prep for the last two years that it has left me feeling pretty at sea.  Maybe it’s time to get over that and get happy.  Relax for a bit and think about something different.  That’s a change I could totally live with.  Just as soon as I figure out how. 

August 12, 2009 @ 06:38

Miles since the lasts stats:  A few, I’ll take a stab at it and say 12? 

Hours of other fitness pursuits since the lasts stats:  Lots! Discovered that tennis is still fun!

Pounds lost since the last stats:  14

I’m loving tennis!  And I’ve got a handful of friends that are into it, so I’ve got options to play several times a week.  Kinda not a thing you can do by yourself.  Not giving up on the trail.  But it’s brutally hot during the day and I haven’t felt safe on the trail by myself at night lately.  I did do a couple runs on local park trails in the last couple weeks.  Will do more as the fall approaches and the weather is better for daytime runs.  I’ve taken the ½ marathon off the table.  I know better than to set unrealistic goals.  For now, we’ll think 5k and when it happens, yay.  If it doesn’t for awhile, no guilt. 

I know I haven’t had a lot to say lately.  I’ve been fighting some battles with Puppy’s care.  He’s doing great, rest assured.  But I’ve got a post in my head that I guess I’m a little afraid to let out.  It’s tentatively titled “How Autism Almost Made Me an Atheist”.  Yeah, so now you get my hesitation . . . 

No worries, though.  I’ll cowgirl up soon, I’m sure.  ‘Cause this is mostly about Puppy’s triumphs, not our losses, those are few and far between these days, happy to say.  This is about my disgust at a combination of apathy, bureaucracy, and bad bad parenting.  More later. When I’ve processed it enough to be more sympathetic and less impatient.