Putting Myself Out There, Part Two

I have been as chill as this dog!

On the last day at the plastic surgeon, they have you put on a pink graduation cap and gown.  They take your picture.  You've finished, you're done, life is good.  They also ask you if you would be willing to be a member of their club for former patients.  I said yes, because it was mainly email and therefore not too stressful.  However, I was recently asked if I wanted to be interviewed for a short film about my experiences, to help other women who are about to have reconstruction.

Help other women who are about to have reconstruction? 


The old me(before cancer) would have flat out said, "Nope, no thank you, not interested."   The very idea would have me running in the opposite direction, heading for a hiding place.  Meeting new people really makes me nervous. And to be interviewed on camera?   My anxiety makes me think that people are judging me, making fun of me, with a little paranoia thrown in, and I panic.  Intellectually, I know that I have absolutely NO reason to feel that way.  Emotionally is another story. I know that I'm not the only one out there who feels that way, but when I am in the midst of a panic attack, it sure seems that way.

But the NEW AND IMPROVED me(after cancer) has decided to stop saying "no" to things that scare me.  I said yes.  Then I obsessed 24/7 about all the "what ifs", and had to take a Xanax to calm down.  Actually, I did not do this for once!.  The old me so would have done that, but the new me?  I completely forgot about it, until I got another email asking me when I would be available.  My interview is scheduled for Monday afternoon.  I will try to answer the questions truthfully, without profanity.

I just want to be helpful, and maybe to give back a little of the wonderful support that I received. My experience is a path that many other women have traveled.  I am not unique. Cancer is such a horrific event, no matter what the outcome.  If I can help at least one woman feel a bit more in control of the chaos?  I am more than willing to put myself out there, even if it means doing something scary and terrifying like be on video. 

However, I draw the line at skydiving.  Hard pass.

Gift Horses Sometimes Have Bad Breath

I was walking down the hallway after work, paying not a bit of attention to my surroundings.  I had my keys in my hand, and was searching through my purse for my driving sunglasses.  I passed a young man, and my brain made a note.  Just a note, though, because I work in a school, and I pass quite a few young men.  Unless something they do triggers my "spidey sense",  I go about my business. 

Except on this day.  On this day I hear a voice.

"Oh pardon me! Where are my manners?"  I looked up.  This particular young man, who had been heading the other way, runs past me to open the door.  To hold said door. For me. I smiled and thanked him.  I continued to smile as I made my way to my car, a warm feeling around my heart. What a nice young man, I thought. 

And as I shut the door and put the key in the ignition, something hit me.  It was the thought that that nice young man held the door for me because I reminded him of his mother. What-what-what? I started feeling as though I couldn't breath, signaling the start of a panic attack.  Do I actually look old enough to be someone's mom?  I AM someone's mom, of course, but he's only ten, not twenty-something.  Crap. 

I started inhaling for an eight count, then exhaling slowly.  My brain just kept on rolling along with the "old" comments.  The generally pleasant feeling that I had just before I got into my car had tumbled into the depths, as it does.  I knew that I had to ride this particular train of thought to its destination.

Sometimes I overthink things.  I just have to look in the Gift Horse's mouth, try to find a motive in a behavior when perhaps there isn't one.  This was one of those times.  I shook my head as I pulled into the parking lot of my son's school. 

The truth is that I don't really feel old.  I feel tired, creaky, and cranky sometimes, not old.  I have my AARP card, and am ready to whip it out at a moment's notice to get my discount of whatever, but I don't feel old. Does anyone out there who IS actually what could be considered old(90s?), actually consider themselves old?    

Men and women sometimes hold doors open for the person behind them, just to be nice. Today wasn't the first time that had happened in my life.  When I was younger and men held a door open for me, I was just flattered at the consideration and the kindness.  What was different now?   Nothing. Someone did something nice for me.  Kindness is always welcome in my life.  I didn't need to worry over the motive behind someone else's good deed.  I just needed to be thankful for it.  

That I can do. 

Overcoming A Fear or Two

My son came home from school with news.  It seems that he was the top of his class in Geography.  We didn't know that Fourth Grade had Geography in the curriculum, but we congratulated Zane on a job well done.

There was more, however.  Zane was one of a group of kids who would be competing for the honor of representing Saint Monica School in the regional contest.  This was a big deal, Zane said, his voice a bit off.

"Are you going to have to get up in front of the other kids?" I asked him. I knew that Zane was anxious about standing up in front of a bunch of people; he had refused to try out for plays, and spelling bees gave him the heebie-jeebies.  He gets that anxiety honestly from me. 

Zane answered that he was going to do the Geography Bee, even though the idea made him nervous.  He then asked to call him Grandma.  I dialed the number and handed him my phone, whereupon Zane told his Grandma all about the Geography Bee and the big prize of a trip to the those Islands where Charles Darwin came up with his big theory.  Once he finished with Grandma, Zane asked to speak to his Grandpa and told him the same story.   He asked both of them to come on Friday to watch him in the contest.  I was listening, and Zane sounded excited.

He hung up the phone and promptly started freaking himself out.  He wasn't too sure about how he would do in front of all those people.  He might forget everything he ever learned.  What if people laughed? Each 'what if' is a tiny paper cut in the mind of a person with anxiety, and Zane is no different.

Larry and I told him that we loved him, and as long as he tried his best, it was all good.  These events require more courage than most of us think about. Larry and I knew Zane could do it;  he had to believe it as well. So we listened and encouraged and hugged, and when the big day came, his grandparents were all in attendance. Zane did not win, competing against kids in 4th-8th grade. He brought home his certificate and showed it with pride.  Larry and I cheered for him. 

My wish for Zane is that he tries this again, now that he's seen what he is capable of.  He may balk, but I'm goin to encourage him to try. There's a spelling bee coming up soon!

A Boy's Life Is Complicated

"MOM!!!!"

"What?" I walked to the back door, hoping that whatever Zane was excited about was not squishy or stinky. 

"There's a bug outside!" 

"There are lots of bugs outside, son." I started to turn around and head back to whatever I was doing, but Zane grabbed my hand.  

"No, Mom," he said as he pulled me outside.  "Come see!"

And there, in the middle of the patio, was this huge bug, legs up in the air.  It was as long as my thumb, and very dead.  

At least, we hoped it was dead.   You really can't be too careful with creepy crawlies.  

But I'm supposed to be the brave one in the family. After I established that the bug in question was not a giant cockroach(my persistent phobia), I flipped the bug over. A Rhinoceros beetle revealed itself.  A beautiful insect, and I was sorry that it was dead, but secretly not so much.  I explained to Zane that this was a perfect specimen, as it appeared to be completely intact. 

"You should take it to school and show your teacher," I said. Zane was skeptical, because he really wasn't convinced that the colossal beetle on the patio was actually deceased.  It still retained that lifelike sheen, as if it were about to slowly shamble into the grass.  I got one of those plastic tubs from the kitchen, and used a stick to roll the rhinoceros beetle into it.  Then I put the lid on and handed it to Zane.  

"Put it in your backpack for school tomorrow," I told him.  Zane was now in a quandry.  He wanted to be brave, like his mom.  And he wanted the 'street cred' that he would get as a nine year old with a beetle on steroids for show and tell.  On the other hand, creepy dead insect which might not actually be dead? In his backpack, possibly eating his lunch?  Big negative, Ghostrider!

My son and I share a fascination with insects and other creepy crawlies...from a distance.  Like pictures in a book kind of distance.  We enjoy watching bugs on television, for instance.  Or bugs on the other side of the glass at the zoo.  Bugs in the house, not so much.  I know that my issue stems from straight up heebie-jeebies--the feeling of those little hairs on insect legs crawling on my skin!  GAHHHH!!!  It is possible that Zane has picked up on my anxiety.  Kids are sensitive to such things.  Or perhaps genetics play a role.  All I know is that when there is a cockroach in the house, Zane and I are on the couch, feet up, while Larry dispatches the intruder.  

My boy sucked it up.  He put the container with the big beetle in his backpack.  He checked it three times before bed, to make sure it was still in the container.  He checked it in the morning.  I'm sure that he checked it on the ride to school, but I was driving.  His teacher was suitably impressed, and Zane basked in the glow of teacher approval. 

"She said it was cool!" Zane told me on the way home from school.  I told him that I was very proud of him for taking it to school.

"Okay," he said. "Can you take it out of my back pack now?"

 

Jury Duty is Stressful

I started off 2017 being selected for jury duty.  Not the normal, local, jury duty, where you spend a day downtown reading or playing on your phone until they tell you to go home.  That stuff is easy; I get to enjoy having quiet time to read and people watch. Also, San Fernando Cathedral is right across the street from the courthouse. I like to go sit in the pews and contemplate the cosmos during the lunch break.

Mind you, I would love to serve on a jury.  I've seen the shows, I know what to do.  I even bring a pad of paper with me, in case I need to take NOTES!  I'm determined to be a great juror, to do my utmost civic duty. I've never been picked, for some reason.  Probably my education level.  Or my profession; my job title has psychologist in it, and nothing makes lawyers cringe more.  Who knows with lawyers?

But this time  I got selected for FEDERAL jury duty. I was astounded. I've never been selected for FEDERAL jury duty before.  It's quite a bit more pressure.  Instead of just a single day, FEDERAL jury duty lasts for a month.  Thirty days.  Every Sunday after 6pm, I have to dial a special number and enter my designated JUROR number.  Then I wait, until the recording tells me whether or not I have to show up the next day.  The Western District Court even calls me on Fridays, to remind me to call on Sunday.  The first Sunday I was good.  I called at exactly 6:05pm, anxious to find out whether I'd be heading downtown the next day.  The recording said I had not been selected to appear.  I breathed a sigh of relief, hung up the phone, and went about my business. 

After that? 

My brain has been very quick to forget all about that Sunday phone call. I would get wrapped up in laundry, or work, or just life, and forget all about my federal jury duty.  I put my summons on the fridge.  I taped it to the banister.  To no avail--it disappeared, and I have no idea where it is. I just have the copy I scanned for work. I have hot pink Post-It notes all over the place. I have written the word "CALL" on my hand.  Don't judge.

I still forget. Sheer panic when I do remember, and I rush to find my phone.  Because what if I do forget?  Will the feds show up and arrest me?  Can I plead chemo brain if I get arrested?  Don't these people know that I forget my own name at least weekly? Do they know that I thought today was the 25th?  Is this some sort of a test? Am I passing?  If I don't get selected, does that mean I failed? 

I have one more week left.  I hope I make it. 

One Perfect Day

I woke up the other day sweating, hyperventilating, my heart racing and my brain on high alert. Something is wrong, my mind yelled, and of course you have to pay attention to that sort of thing.  I took several deep breaths, opened my eyes and began looking around the room. I hadn't injured myself in my sleep.  My husband was still breathing; I could hear Zane snoring. It was early in the morning, so I could see that there were no intruders in the house. The alarm was still on.  Maisy, the secondary alarm dog, was sound asleep.

All was quiet, except in my head. I was having a garden variety panic attack.  As far as my brain was concerned, I am a terrible person, a bad mom, someone who has no friends, oh--and it is the end of the world.  I have a surgery coming up(July 8th), and my brain was convinced that I was going to die on the table, from complications or whatever.

I hate having panic attacks, because they aren't productive. I am used to feeling anxious.  I've read all the books on anxiety. I usually can problem solve my way out of my anxiety, unless it's a panic attack. I always try to talk my idiot brain out of them, as if my assertions can overcome hardwired brain responses.  I do deep breathing exercises. I get up and walk around. I try to redirect my thoughts.  I even pray.  None of that works for panic attacks.

And I keep all my freaking out to myself, because I don't want anyone in the house to freak out with me.  So I went downstairs and let out the dog and the cat into the backyard, started the coffee, and made breakfast.

Then I got mad at myself, and my mental nonsense. I'm not a person who is used to sitting around feeling crazy.  I'm a fighter.  Getting angry seemed counter productive, but there it was.  I just  said to heck with it.  If I have no reason to panic, but I'm panicking anyway, I may as well go do some things that make me panic.  So we packed up and went off to SeaWorld.  We hit their water park, Aquatica.  First on the agenda?  Sting Ray Falls, where you sit in a raft and slide down a big tube underneath a bunch of random stingrays.  Right away, my panic attack got worse.  My claustrophobia was hollering about the ride, because, enclosed space.  My acrophobia was screaming, because we had to climb about four stories up.  Zane noticed my nervousness, and I finally talked about what I was feeling.

"You should face your fears," Zane said.

"That's why we're here, son," I replied.

I took a picture of Larry and I, and my toothy smile.  That is panic on my face, but there's more. 

There's determination.  I could do this.  And I did.  I sat in the raft, I held on, and the ride began.   It was over in seconds, as most experiences are, and as we splashed down and floated to the exit, my panic attack went away.  At least for that day.  We floated on the "river", jumped waves in the wave pool, and had a blast. 

I'm still nervous about my surgery tomorrow.  I wouldn't be me if the "what ifs" weren't constantly running through my mind. But we had one perfect day this summer, where we were able to let some of the cares from the past two years go, and everyone was healthy, and we laughed and had fun as a family. 

It will do for now. 

Pre-Surgery Jitters

I am an anxious kind of person.  Over the course of an average day, I worry over hundreds of ultimately meaningless things.  Is my shirt on right or is it inside out?  Do my shoes match?  Did I remember my lunch?  What if there's a fire drill and it's raining and I forget my umbrella in my office? Such things run in the background of my head all the time, and I've learned to ignore most of the commentary.

And then I got cancer.  It seemed as though the litany of stuff to worry about had had the volume turned up to 11 in my brain.  Even after all the radiation and chemotherapy, even after the last PET scan indicated that I was cancer free, it continued, and it's been more difficult to tune out.  For example, I am getting rheumatoid arthritis in the fingers of my hand.  Typical of people my age, that things like joints start to deteriorate. Not a big deal.  Yet when I noticed that the index finger on my left hand was swollen, my instinctive reaction was to think it was cancer.  It took me two days to talk myself from the ledge of that particular cognitive process.

I don't say these things out loud, I just turn them over in my head until I can fashion some sense from them.  There's just been so much emotional turmoil over the past two years that my anxiety level has just not been prepared for.  I hope that everything calms down soon, because I'm starting to get annoyed with myself.   

In the meantime, while you read this, I'm going to be in surgery having another mastectomy and breast reconstruction.  I am very nervous about what is going to happen and how things are going to be once I wake up.  You would think that I would be used to surgeries by now.  You would be wrong.

Every time, I am terrified.  And yet, that's the path I have chosen.  Why?  To get healthy.  For that little boy that lives with me, who is counting on me to be around for awhile.  For my husband, who is my rock.  For lots of reasons, even for myself.  If I focus on that, maybe I won't be so scared.

Keep sending positive thoughts, and I'll be back when I can.  

Sometimes the Crazy Comes Out

It was Friday, and we were at the soccer field.  It was game time for Zane's team, who were running their hearts out.  My mother and father were sitting with me, while Larry, the team manager, was on the other side of the field with Zane.  The nearby airport was bustling with Friday travelers heading for other cities, and next door at the stadium, high school students were preparing for Friday Night Football. 

I had one eye on the sky.  Thunderstorms were in the forecast, and the sky to the west was darkening.  The Weather Bug app has a nifty little tool that lets you know how close lightning is to your location, but any good sporting venue will have a system in place, because lightning can hurt or kill.  Everyone takes it seriously, especially when kids are involved.

My son has a thing about tornadoes.  He's never been in one, and the only ones he's seen have been on television.  Zane knows that tornadoes happen during thunderstorms, but he wasn't paying attention to anything but the game, for which I was grateful.  He gets his anxiety from me, I'm sorry to say. I have been anxious my entire life. My anxiety has been extreme this year, with panic attacks, insomnia, and lots of hyperventilating.  It's not pretty.  Sometimes the crazy comes out. 

When Zane starts hyperfocusing on the weather, it's bad for both of us.  His anxiety is my anxiety.  For every millisecond that he is wringing his hands, crying, or just sitting there frozen in fear, I am feeling the same.  I want to grab him and run screaming from whatever it is that is causing him any panic.  I think that most parents want to protect their little ones, but not many have an anxiety disorder on top of the normal parent feelings. 

But here's the difference: I cannot let Zane see my crazy when his crazy comes out.  Kids take their cue from their parents.  My parents were always calm during emergencies when I was growing up; as long as they were calm, I was calm.  As anxious as I am,  therefore, I can't show it.  I have to appear calm, ready to handle anything.  My child deserves nothing less.

The lightning alarm went off, as expected.  Zane froze, not understanding what the alarm meant.  He thought it meant that there was a tornado, and he lost it.  He barely managed to quickly shake hands with the opposing team.  While all the adults were scattering, trying to move all of the children safely off of the soccer field, Zane ran to me, crying. 

"Hey!" I said firmly. "When I freak out, THEN you can freak out! Do you see me freaking out?"

I put on the calm face, talked to him in the moderate voice.  He bought it.  He took my hand and we walked to the car, one of the safest places to be in the event of lightning.  Zane talked about tornadoes; I pointed out that if there had been a tornado, he would have been able to see and hear it coming.  This was a good point; Zane wanted to know what tornadoes sounded like.  We waited calmly for Larry.

Then Zane remembered that he left his backpack on the field.  I let Daddy handle that one. 

I Watch Too Many Movies

Tuesday started off as another routine chemo day.  I would be getting a new chemo drug, and I would have 12 weeks of this before I would be finished.  Mentally, I had established my own inner countdown--four treatments down, 12 to go.

Routine.

Except that it wasn't routine.  As soon as the nurse inserted the needle into my mediport and tried to draw blood, nothing was routine.  What was supposed to happen after the insertion of the needle?  That would be blood flowing into the syringe.  This time, nothing happened.  No blood.  Nothing came out of my body.  The nurse didn't panic, but I certainly got anxious, especially when she immediately started pumping on the plunger that went with the syringe.  It appeared to my untrained eyes that my nurse was pumping massive amounts of air into a major vein located right next to my heart.   My anxiety rose rapidly.

Nobody really talks about the anxiety and the panic attacks that come with a cancer diagnosis. We start to freak out about everything, just because that lump we though was "nothing" was something. We cancer patients can no longer trust ourselves to know anything about what is going on in our bodies. Any little thing sets off a chain reaction of "What ifs?" that would drive anyone over the edge, but a person with an anxious personality, like me?  Amp that anxiety to 13.  If I can't catch my breath after climbing stairs, I'm dying.  If my feet hurt, it's some obscure cancer-related disease and my feet will have to be amputated. If my eye twitches because I'm tired, I think I'm losing my vision. Whatever is happening is THE. WORST. POSSIBLE. THING.

As I'm sitting in that chair, watching the nurse,  my brain is remembering that I've seen all the cop shows.  I've seen the movies where people are eliminated by some bad guy inserting a single air bubble into the IV of a victim in a hospital room.  I know what an embolism is, fer cryin' out loud!

"Am I about to die from an embolism?" I blurted, ready to at least punch her for killing me.  In my growing hysteria, I wasn't thinking about what the poor woman's motive might be for murdering me in a crowded chemo room with my husband standing right there.  That would have required less anxiety and more actual brain.  I was thinking of the movies, and the TV shows, and freaking myself out. 

"What?" the exasperated nurse replied, still trying to get blood out of my chest. She laughed.  "No, you aren't going to die from an embolism! Give me some credit here!" 

She then explained what she was trying to do, and why no actual air had gone into my vein. Essentially, the needle was stuck in the port, having never exited to the other side as it is supposed to do.  After a few more moments of fiddling with my mediport, she finally got it to work.  I have never been more happy to see blood coming out of a syringe in my life.  I was especially happy that the blood was red and looked normal.  Routine.

"See, I do know what I'm doing!"  The nurse teased me.  I sheepishly smiled back. 

How Not To Freak Out About Ebola

It is a stone cold fact that I am an anxious person.  If there is something out there to worry about, I'm losing sleep over it.  Anxieties keep a running commentary in the back of my head, every single "what if?"  ever created circling in a constant loop, kept only at bay by my sheer determination not to become dominated by my fears.  I know anxiety very well.

So when I say that this current Ebola hysteria is pure crazy?  Believe it. 

I've lived through all this insanity before, when the school district I worked for abruptly closed down for a week due to the minute possibility that someone in a hundred-mile radius might have had Swine flu. While I appreciated the tiny vacation, I came to despise the phrase "out of an abundance of caution".  And it is getting crazier, all in the name of that Caution.  There's even a discussion among some people that homeschooling is the way to go, so your children don't catch Ebola, which makes me want to create an Extra Special Crazy category for them.(Homeschool if that's your thing, just don't do it for a stupid reason like imaginary contagion.)   Even my husband has become a bit alarmed, because he read Stephen King's The Stand, and the idea of such a situation actually happening seems plausible enough to worry him.

Even with all that, I'm not going to freak out.  There's not really anything to get hysterical about here.  The situation, which may have involved some stupidity on the part of certain hospital officials, has been addressed.  I'm more concerned about the fact that there are only four hospitals in the US equipped to deal with these sorts of infectious diseases than I am about the disease itself.  

Here's what you do instead of freaking out:

1. Get the facts.  Not wiki-facts, or random Internet facts from someone who knows a guy who knew a cousin who slept with a girl who was friends with a guy who died from Ebola.  No, for the serious diseases, a person in need of information goes to the CDC(cdc.gov) or google the World Health Organization.  These people know their infectious diseases like some people can name every first baseman who ever played in a World Series. They have been studying Ebola for years, before anyone else even heard of it. What do they say? Ebola can only be spread certain ways, and those ways involve bodily fluids.  Ebola is not an airborne pathogen.  Nobody is going to breathe in someone's air and catch Ebola. Ebola doesn't survive for long on surfaces. So stop with the drama about closing the borders, or boycotting businesses where someone may have coughed/sneezed while they shopped. Take a deep breath, safe in the knowledge that you're not going to contract Ebola. 

2. Turn off the Television, stop reading articles.  Under the guise of helpfulness, the media has a tendency to sensationalize these sort of situations, in the name of getting you to tune in or click on their page.  Remember that these organizations are all about profit, even if their job is providing information.  It's in their best interest to keep you hysterical and glued to their channel. It's not in your best interest. So turn off the television, shut down the internet, and do something else. 

3. Wash your hands.  That's what you do to keep from getting the flu, colds, and just about every other virus out there.  I don't use hand sanitizer, which contains chemicals known to cause muscle weakness.  I use plain soap and water, and it is just as effective. After all these years, washing your hands makes the difference, and it doesn't cost a ton of cash. If it makes you feel better, you can also wear one of those masks they hand out for the flu.

4. Get out and live your life.  Instead of hiding in your house waiting for the Ebola zombies to show up, go outside.  Hit the stores.  Eat out.  Hang out with your friends. Go to a pool hall and gamble away your pension.  Do all those things that make you happy, and stop thinking about Ebola.  Unless it really makes you happy to think about Ebola.  But if thinking about Ebola makes you happy, you should probably be working for the CDC.   

5. Worry about something else completely.  There are more significant things to be concerned about in our part of the world than Ebola. Focus on those things, like the chronic temper tantrums of Congress, or the fact that the vaccine stockpile is expiring with nothing to replace it.  Those will keep you occupied until this scare is over. 

The Perils of PET Scans

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on September 10.  Since then, not a damn thing has happened. 

On the face of it, it might seem as though tons of things have happened.  There have been tests, and more tests, and still more tests.  I've had blood tests, sonograms, mammograms, biopsies, MRIs, CT scans, bone scans.  Each test has indicated "something" that has required more tests, because they want to be sure that I don't have cancer any place else.  First there was "something" on my lung, then some "things" near my collar bone, etc.  Never mind that every single time they tell me that they "found" something on any of these tests, I completely lose it, thinking that it is more cancer. 

My oncologist finally ordered a PET scan.  PET scans are supposed to be the go-to test for cancer, but my doctor didn't order one for me at first, because my "insurance won't pay for it".  Yes, that is exactly what he said.  But because of whatever showing up on my lung/other body part, then that justified a PET scan. 

I dutifully followed the special diet they give you the night before--no carbs, only proteins, and no caffeine. Not having coffee was extremely difficult, but I managed.  The technician asked me if I were pregnant for the 447th time before informing me that I would essentially be radioactive for the rest of the day, so I needed to stay away from young children and keep my distance from adults as well. 

"You're kidding, right?" I tried to be patient, to be calm.

He was not kidding, and he went into a discussion of half-life in reference to radiation. I interrupted him before my eyes glazed over.

"I work at an elementary school," Don't these people read the files?  "I have a six year old child."

This seemed to throw him, the idea that I might a)work in a place full of children, and b)have a small child.  His supervisor, a no nonsense type, had to come in and explain to me that no, I could not have any contact with small children, and adults were an iffy prospect as well. That's kind of an important thing to mention, that "stay away from people until you're no longer radioactive" thing.  Probably should be at the top of the list, before the special diet.

The two set me up with an IV, and brought in a lead lined container filled with the radioactive glucose concoction they were going to run through my veins.  The glucose would travel all over my body, but since cancer loves glucose, that's where it would stop.  I then had to sit quietly in a chair, not moving, so the glucose would not be used by my muscles.  Again, something that they could have told me the day before, so I could bring a book.  I was not allowed to use my phone, either.  Instead, I suffered through ancient magazine articles about looking wonderful while running, since I was too wound up to nap. 

After the hour, the technician had me use a "special" bathroom for radioactive people, and then took me into the PET scan room.  I entered the room, stopped, and stared at a machine that looked horrifyingly similar to an MRI. I said as much to the tech, who said, no, this was not an MRI.  It's closer to a CT machine, he said.  It did not look like a CT machine to me, but I allowed that perhaps if two CT machines were put together, it might look like this machine.  It might also look like an MRI machine.

"You know that I am extremely claustrophobic, right?"  I have specifically stated that fact EVERY single time I've been to this radiology clinic.  Since nobody at this place ever reads the files, the technician did not know that, and of course, he had no idea what to do about it.  He lamely repeated that the machine was not an MRI, while I stood there hyperventilating, completely overcome with thoughts of coffins, being buried alive and other confinements.

But the test had to be done.  I knew that.  I was already radioactive; did I have a choice? 

I went back to where I'd left my things, dug into my purse, and found the bottle of Xanax that I'd demanded from the doctor who told me that I had cancer. I took one of those pills, gritted my teeth, and was as still as I could be during the test, considering that I wanted to run very fast away from the machine.  And also punch the technician in the face for being so damn cheerful.  And I admit to some disappointment that all this radiation has not resulted in a single superpower. 

My husband and son had to stay at least fifteen feet away from me for the rest of the day, but I dealt with it, secure in the knowledge that after this test, they could schedule the surgery at last.  Something would happen, things would get done. 

"We found something on your ovary," the nurse practitioner told me the next day.  "It's probably nothing, but...we'll need to do an MRI of your pelvis."

So today, the day I was expecting to have surgery, I will be having another MRI. Meanwhile, the cancer appears to have spread to one of my lymph nodes. 

At this rate, I'm going to need a lot more Xanax. 

Doubt

Eight legs,

Those sharp, itching pinpricks

scurry over my skin

so furtive,

secretive

yet predatory.

The comment seems benign,

virtuous,

but the powerful venom

begins

to replicate, those

cold, calculating tendrils

burrowing into my brain,

feeding, expanding

until all is darkness within.







Is something crawling on me?

A Smashing Good Time

I had a scary moment earlier in the year over a suspicious mammogram.   The radiology clinic would now like a recheck, and not because my girls are particularly attractive to anyone but my husband. So at the end of this week, I have to have another mammogram and sonogram to verify that I indeed have a suspicious something in one of my boobs. I keep telling my husband that it's probably Jimmy Hoffa,  to keep the whole thing upbeat, but the fact is that I'm nervous.  Just like anyone who has had time to think about an upcoming medical procedure, I have had many emotions spinning through my head.  Anger, fear, doubt, crazy full-on psycho--all taking their turn at bat. 
 
Mammograms suck.  They may be vital for detecting cancer early, for saving lives, but they still suck.  Not because the radiology clinics try so very hard to make everything less "scary medical" and more "spa", with their comfy waiting areas, ubiquitous pillows,and soft-spoken, pleasant receptionists.  Not because your boobs are smashed painfully in a vise made of two panels of plexiglass.  Not because of the indignity of having a random stranger pull on your breasts, jamming them even further underneath that plexiglass, before telling you not to move.  Not because you leave the place with relief, only to be blindsided by a letter six weeks later. 

Those things are certainly part of the reason that mammograms suck, but they aren't the main reason.

It's that nagging fear in the back of your head.  The uncertainty.  The "what if?" that swirls around in your head as you're waiting, even as you try to pretend everything is normal. I try to distract myself with rational, logical thoughts, facts even. But my brain has already boarded the seriously-in-need-of-meds crazy train.  What if it's a false positive?  What if it's not a false positive? What if I do have cancer, even though I haven't had any other reason to think that there's a issue, even though not another blood relative in my entire family, dating back to the 1800s, has ever had breast cancer?  What if I have surgery and they botch it, and I'm lopsided?  What if I have to have chemo, and all of my hair falls out, and I look like a wobbly white bowling ball?  What if I can't spend time with my son because he might pass on a random school-acquired infection?  What if we can't pay the millions of dollars of medical bills, after I've worked so hard?  What if I'm not there to see my son grow up and graduate from high school/get his degree/get married/have my grandchildren? 

Useless anxiety over something that is likely just a blob of random fat.

The reality is that if it does turn out to be something, I will deal with it.  I will bawl my head off, hug my husband and son, and I will deal with it.  That's what I've always done, and I've made it this far.  It's just amazing to me that even in something as researched as breast cancer, there's no sure thing, and they have to recheck, and recheck, and recheck.  The anxiety never ends, it will just keep resurfacing every six months for the rest of my life, no end in sight.   Who needs that?

Cleanliness is Next to Impossible, So Get Over It

My mother is a clean freak. Her version of clean is everything put away, surfaces spotless, floor vacuumed and mopped. Think of a house that is on display by a realtor, and that's my mother's version of clean.  My mother didn't work outside the home, so she kept the house clean.  Very clean. The Five Second Rule didn't apply to her floors; they were as sparkling clean as the table top.  I can remember my mother yelling at one of my friends for pulling into the driveway of my parent's new house; my mom didn't want to get the driveway dirty. 

When we were old enough, my brother and I were expected to help with the dishes and the trash and the dusting and the vacuuming.  Which is normal--kids should help with the chores when they are able. My mom was in a never ending battle with dirt and clutter, however, and her children were aiding and abetting the enemy if we weren't helping her keep a clean house.  The bathroom had to be spotless.  If it wasn't, we were lectured about keeping the house clean while my mother went in there and did it.  

Children have been manipulating their parents for years, and we were no different.  It is a known fact that the best way to get someone else to do your work is to do the job as sloppily as possible, for instance.  My brother and I knew that if we did a terrible job with our chores, my mother would follow us and do it.  That's just how she was, and we knew it.  Feeling guilty didn't mean that I changed my behavior, of course.  I felt a little guilty about it, however.  Maybe a twinge. 

That's what I grew up with, and even then I thought that was a ton of pressure to put on a child.  What is the point of putting all the toys away if you're just going to get them right back out to play with them?  Why have toys at all?  We finally just started throwing all our stuff into the closet and shut the door.  This met the letter of the law(put your toys away), and my mom never opened the closet doors. She likely would have had a heart attack if she had.

Now I have my own house.  Turns out that I don't mind a bit of clutter.  When you live with two guys, it's necessary.  I don't mind toys on the floor for a few days.  I don't mind that there's water spots on the mirror, or that the ceiling fan doesn't get dusted on a daily basis.  I can overlook the dishes in the sink for a couple of days.  I can even pretend that the trash doesn't need to go out until Larry does it.  I am not a clean freak.  I'll go through phases, where everything in the house must be either put away or thrown out, but that's only about once a year. I keep the bathrooms clean and I keep the kitchen clean.  My husband, who is in charge of vacuuming, is on a bi-yearly schedule, unless someone is coming over.

But I'm the one who gets to listen to my mother when she comes over to visit.  It's like I'm still ten years old, the way she goes on.

"Child Protective Services will come and take Zane away, this house is so dirty."

"This house could be on an episode of Hoarders."

I understand that this is a central personality trait of my mother's.  I understand that having everything clean reduces her feelings of anxiety.  I understand that she can't help herself, but I find myself wanting to scream at her.  I often wonder, does she do this to everyone, or just family?  Then I decide that I don't really want to know.  I know that I should say something to her about this, but it would be the same discussion we've had over and over.  She just doesn't get it, and maybe she never will. It is getting so that I don't even want to invite my parents over anymore, and that would be a shame.

She is so focused on the clutter and what she sees as dirt that she misses the entire point of why she was invited over to our house:  her grandson.  He doesn't care about dirt or clutter, he just wants to show his Grandma his new toy, or his new soccer ball, or the picture he drew at school that day.  He is what is most important at that moment, not whether there's a Skylander on the floor.  I hope that she remembers that before it is too late.

 

Anxiety is a PITA

I've been having panic attacks the past few days. 

They happen without warning, of course, otherwise what would be the point?   I'll be reading or working around the house or fall asleep, and that insidious little voice whispers in my ear:

"Something bad is going to happen."

What? My brain turns on the Red Alert siren, all of my neurons firing up and freaking out. That voice keeps talking:

"It's going to be just terrible. It's going to be terrible, and you're not going to be able to handle any of it."

My thoughts are now racing.  What did I forget?  Did I leave the car running?  Did I forget to lock the front door?   Is there a bad man in my house, waiting to kill me? Where is my purse?  What did I do with my keys?  What if that zombie apocalypse is real and they are heading this way? What if the new job I just got is horrible and they fire me?  What if we end up homeless because we can't pay our bills?  What if I have to sell my hair/plasma to pay some bills?  Is that a tornado or a train?  What if Zane gets kicked out of kindergarten?  Why are my palms sweaty?  What is wrong with me?  Am I having a heart attack?  What about an asthma attack?  What about a heart attack disguised as an asthma attack?  What if I have some new weird disease that nobody has even heard of before?  Who is going to pay for the medical bills for this?

And over all that, my thinking brain is hollering: what is the problem?  What is the problem?  WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

Finally that insidious little voice answers:

"How should I know? I'm just here to get you worked up over nothing, because something might happen."

Completely wigging out over nothing, just because it might be something? Sucks.  




This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

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I am Rude

I don't usually discuss work here.  Most days it is just plain monotonous and uninteresting, moving one pile of paper to the other. And I fully recognize that my geeking out over cross-battery assessment is mind numbingly boring to others, and I don't want any readers dying of sheer boredom.  But today I need to talk about work.  I hope that you can bear with me.

Yesterday morning I got an email from my boss, saying that she wanted to meet with me that afternoon to discuss some "issues".  Issues?  What did I do now, I wondered?  What did I forget to do, or do that I shouldn't have?  I felt a panic attack starting, that sensation of my stomach falling into my gut, the heart racing, the sweats, the shaking.  I may have even burst into tears, I don't remember. 

I knew that my anxiety was over the top.  I knew that I was overreacting to what was likely nothing.  I knew all that on an intellectual level, but guess what?  Intellect means not a darn thing when you're having a panic attack. I had to sit there for hours of this, because every time I would see the clock, I would get worked up again.  I was so freaked out that I couldn't even eat lunch. Finally it was the appointed time.  My boss shut the door to her office and got right down to business. 

I'm rude. 

Yep.  That was the big news.  I'm rude and I make rude comments.  Everybody says so, she told me. It's unprofessional, she said.  People are complaining to me all the time.  I need to do some self-reflection, which is why she was graciously telling me this. 

I'm rude. 

I have reflected upon my alleged rudeness, as requested. But how am I supposed to know that I'm being rude?  All of these "people" deemed my behavior or comments rude...and they did not give me the respect of asking me about it, they just went whining about it to my boss.  Had they shown me the tiniest bit of respect, and asked me about whatever it was they had a problem with, there would have been no issue.  I would have had the chance to clarify or apologize or whatever to resolve the problem.  THAT would have been the professional thing to do, instead of this passive aggression.  

I have reflected, and I am a little angry right now. Also hurt, because my boss has known me for twenty years and she still has no clue about who I am and what makes me a happy worker.  Instead of supporting me by insisting that these complainers speak to me first like adults, which I have asked her to do, fell for the drama, ready to believe the worst of me.   

These people made a judgment about me, said nothing to me about it, wallowed in their self-righteousness, and then tattled on me. That's pretty darn rude, in my book. Disrespectful. Selfish.  I feel like I've been bullied.  I feel like I have been placed into a hostile work environment.  Where is the respect for individual differences in this situation?   Respect for individual differences means not jumping to conclusions about a person's behavior. Respecting individual differences means being flexible enough to avoid snap judgments about a person. Respecting individual differences means holding the person accountable so they can explain themselves or apologize. Respecting individual differences means allowing the other person to participate in a dialogue in order to solve the problem. What I am getting in this particular instance is that I'm supposed to go out of my way to be respectful of everyone else, but nobody has to give me the same consideration if they don't like my temperament?  Because I am different, I'm singled out.  I should be used to that, but I'm not.

I'm rude. I'm also an introvert and I don't pick up on some social cues. I have trouble understanding when others are joking.  I often say the first thing that pops into my head without censoring myself.  I don't like changes in my routine. I become obsessive about certain topics.  I get distracted easily and I hate to be interrupted when I am trying to finish a task. I have a tendency toward sarcasm or condescension when I become anxious.   Most of my meltdowns happen on the inside, but they do happen. Instead of respecting my differences, I'm being forced into someone else's mold. I don't like it.

Okay, that's all I wanted to say.  I tried to keep the ranting to a minimum.  What am I going to do about this?  I can't really say right now, because I am still processing the whole traumatic day.  Maybe I'll win the lottery.  A winning lottery ticket buys a whole bunch of therapy sessions, doesn't it?

Overscheduled vs. Underscheduled

I know some people who always have someplace to be.  Their days are a constant movement from one activity to another, from the early morning spin class to the late night business video conference.  They were constantly on the go, always someplace to be or something to get done.  When they did slow down long enough to have a conversation, I felt as though I was the victim of a drive-by-yakking instead of any sort of meaningful interaction.  Even at parties, when everyone is supposed to be relaxing, these individuals are talking at people using rehearsed talking points, instead of listening.  When that is finished, they consider their social duties done, and then it is time for the emails, phone calls, and texts that they can't get to at other times. 

Then these people had kids. One of them added three kids.  There would have to be some slowing down of the scheduling at last, I thought  Children have their own agendas, their own pace, their own schedule, right? No. They simply added the children into their schedules.  Now their kids have early morning tutoring before school, followed by chess, book, whatever club meetings after school, then it's off to gymnastics or football or soccer, followed by drive-by visits to the grandparents, then home to exactly 60 minutes of homework, dinner, bath, then bed.  I get exhausted just thinking about all that.

Those people scare me now.  I used to admire them at first, but after watching them flitting around, never stopping, I got tired.  How can every single minute of every single day be scheduled?  What happens to a brain when every minute you're scheduled to be doing something?  I can't believe that any actual thinking happens--your day is planned out, and you are constantly looking forward to make sure you get to the next item on the schedule.  And what are the kids learning?  That they have to be entertained or managed?  That they aren't allowed to have their own agendas?  That letting someone else(Mom or Dad) do all their planning is optimal?  What happens when these children are adults?  What happens when these adults retire? 

On the other end of this spectrum, there are the individuals who never schedule anything.  They aren't lazy, they just would rather be 'spontaneous' with their lives, they say.  They don't own an alarm clock. They get there when they get there, and if they don't get there, oh well.  Many of these people just don't want to make decisions. I have been in restaurants with people like this, and I've wanted to strangle them because they can't even pick out an item on the menu without a lot of hemming and hawing and hand wringing. They are terrified and therefore don't want to choose between vanilla or chocolate, wheat or white, short-sleeves or long-sleeves.   They lose money paying for missed appointments because they can't decide. They lose jobs because they can't make decisions at work. They lose friends,too, because what sort of regard can you have for a person who never shows up? 

For some individuals, having a schedule is a comfort, a safety net.  Sheldon, from The Big Bang Theory, who even has his bowel movements on a schedule, comes to mind.   The need to never schedule anything because something better might come along smacks of narcissism, a severe self-centered person who cowers in the center of a world that must revolve around their needs, but it seems to be more about fear and anxiety than selfishness. I have a mother-in-law who can't make decisions as simple as what shirt to wear; having her day planned out brings her some relief from her overwhelming anxiety.  I can certainly understand that need to have some control over your life.  However, control is mostly an illusion. There's no controlling for every single variable, and life is really just one variable after another.  You have to be able to adapt to the curve balls, the spitballs, as well as the fast pitches. Why am I using baseball metaphors?  I have no idea--I dislike baseball.  But just because I dislike something, or fear something, or outright hate it, doesn't mean that I will never have to deal with it.  I understand that. 

And me?  Where am I in all this scheduling mess?  Why, I am somewhere in the middle, which is why my family and I are enjoying our day off by being as unscheduled as possible, and why tomorrow we will go back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Darn Children's Commercials

An insidious summertime commercial has appeared, among all the horrible ones designed to make kids want stuff they don't need, like a stuffed animal with pockets.  In this commercial, a boy gets out of the swimming pool and gently hits his head, as if he were getting water out of his ears.  Letters and numbers fall out instead, while the announcer warns that if you don't give large amounts of money to this tutoring company, your child's brain will leak knowledge or something.  This particular visual, of the child losing letters and numbers from his ears, bothered my son immensely.

"Why, mama?  Why are the letters coming out of that boy's head?"   Z even had a nightmare about this poor boy last night, and he started talking about it, worried about whether letters and numbers were going to leak out of HIS head.

Part of me was thinking very hard about my son's concerns, pondering how I might alleviate his anxiety.  Part of me was just looking at my child and thinking, huh.  I do this sort of thing all the time, with the freaking out about obscure and unlikely scenarios.  It was like my kid was in my head.  Is it time for me to face the fact that my kid may have inherited my anxiety issues, which I got from my mother, and she got from her mother, and so on, and so on?   Joy.  Maybe they should put something about this genetics thing in the parenting man--. Oh. Never mind.

So...I had to come up with something simple that would make sense to Zane and would also alleviate his anxiety. Before my morning coffee!  I also had to think fast, because the kid was staring at me, waiting.

"Uh...Zane, you won't leak any letters and numbers out of your ears because that is not where learning goes.  Learning goes up here(I tapped his forehead).  That silly boy did not put his learning in the right place, so it leaked right out of his ears!"  I made it all sound just so very ridiculous, the idea of storing letters and numbers in your ears, of all places.  

Zane thought about this.  I waited, eyes half closed in a wince.

It worked.  He's not scared of the commercial anymore, and he told his dad that he was putting his learning in the right place.  Then, while I had my coffee, I started worrying.  If my kid is actually a genius, and he takes any sort of neurology classes in the next couple of years, he'll be upset at me for not telling him the correct place that memories are stored in the brain.  But then he'll remember that I didn't let him think that his learning would just seep out of his ears, either.

I think that I am safe.

The Big Dog

The other day I was talking to Zane about leaving all of his small toys all over the floor and how he needed to pick them up and put them away.

"No," Zane tells me.

"Yes," I respond. "If you don't put your toys away, I will put them into 'time-out'." Zane HATES for his toys to be put into 'time-out'.

"No! I tell Big Dog!"

I almost laughed out loud.

We have quite a few dogs on our street; Zane knows most of them by name. There's Pepper, and Mojo, and Nikki, and Jade, to name a few. The dogs know Zane, who has no problem running up to these friendly pups and playing with them.

But we also live next door to two Rottweilers. They are relatively friendly, if high spirited. Personally, I don't think that they get enough exercise, but they aren't my dogs. Zane has never actually seen these dogs. He has no idea what they look like. He does, however, know what the male dog, sounds like. This dog seems to always be in the garage(to be fair, he is in the garage because he keeps breaking out of the backyard), and he barks at everything. Zane calls him The Big Dog.

Zane is 'scared' of The Big Dog. He will tell you that he's scared, but sometimes he will just start screaming. There are days when we have to carry Zane from the car to the door because The Big Dog barked and Zane is afraid to walk. There are times when we are inside our house and Zane comes running to us because The Big Dog barked, and he's very terrified. (We've explained that dogs don't know how to ring the doorbell and that The Big Dog doesn't have opposable thumbs to turn the doorknob to get inside, but this somehow is not as comforting as you might think.)

We don't know why Zane is afraid. I am not afraid of dogs and neither is Larry. Zane's been around a large dog; our Lab Sandy just passed away last year and Zane climbed on her like she was Everest. But who knows why any of us become afraid of anything? There are lots of people afraid of snakes who have never even encountered one, for instance. And I don't want Zane to throw caution to the wind and approach strange dogs, because that's not smart, either. The important thing is to deal with the fear in a positive way instead of just running from it.

We've been working on this anxiety of Zane's, talking with him about it, modeling good responses, and just generally reassuring him about The Big Dog. It seems that our efforts are working, since now Zane is going to tell The Big Dog if I put his toys in 'time-out'. Good. Zane will most certainly encounter many things that are scarier than The Big Dog, and I want him to be at least a little prepared to face them and not frozen with fear.