I work in a middle school. Most people, when I tell them this, look at me with horror at the idea of being around middle school kids, but I love it. I adore middle school aged students the most, with their "not-quite-a-teenager-but-not-really-a-child" shenanigans. Many of them sometimes act like the adults around them aren't there, they are so focused on their peers. These two were in the halls, and they did not notice me walking behind them. Or perhaps they did notice me, and thought that I couldn't hear them. It's even money.
Teenager 1: Wanna fight?
Teenager 2: Yeah, I'll fight you. How about fifth period?
My ears perked up at this, and I listened more closely. If these two were going to fight fifth period, I would have to hustle to find an administrator. I continued to walk behind them. The two didn't seem to be angry or upset. They were talking in normal tones. I wanted to know more, and they didn't disappoint.
Teenager 1: No, I got a test. How about after school?
Teenager 2: No, I got soccer.. How about Saturday in the park?
Teenager 1: No, I got stuff to do with my mom. What about Sunday?
Teenager 2. I got church.
Teenager 1: Me too.
The two finally decided that they were just going to stay friends because they did not have the time to fight. They disappeared around the corner and I stopped at my office door.
A good decision, I think.
Showing posts with label fighting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fighting. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Friday, September 12, 2014
The Battle Begins: The Prequel
I found a lump.
After years and years of routine self-checks, I found a lump. At first I wasn't too sure. Maybe it wasn't really a lump. Maybe it was one of those, "only when you're on your period" lumps. Or one of those fibrocystic lumps that disappear after a few days. I had a mammogram not too long ago, a completely normal mammogram. It's probably nothing.
Except it was still there a month later.
This time I was a little concerned. The lump seemed bigger, grape-sized, and it was tender, as it sat there in my left breast. Still, my mammogram had been normal, so I waited a couple of days, and then I called my doctor and made an appointment for last Thursday.
My doctor has been with me for more than twenty years, and we've been through a lot. He entered the room with his usual handshake, and told me that we had to stop meeting like this. People would talk, he said. I laughed and told him that it wasn't my fault that I was lumpy. He examined my breast, and pointed out that there were actually two lumps close together. Then he sent me immediately over to the radiology clinic two buildings over, so I could have a sonogram.
It's probably nothing, he said. Cancer doesn't usually hurt.
So I went to have my breast sonogram. I lay there in the darkened room and watched the screen while the tech moved the wand over my chest. A dark shape loomed among the gray shapes on that monitor, and I could see it. So could the radiologist, who immediately ordered me to have another mammogram. Then they wanted to do a sonogram of the right breast as well, because they had pictures of that one from last year. All were sent for review by a radiologist as I sat in the waiting room in one of those weird gowns. At this point, I was sending joke texts to one of my friends while I waited, wondering if the tech was going to buy me dinner after all this picture taking. That was when the tech came out with a card and told me to call a different office to schedule a biopsy.
As they say, shit just got real.
So Larry and I took this past Tuesday off and I went to have a biopsy. It was cold in the room, and they didn't use nearly enough lidocaine to numb the area the first time. The biopsy needles are very long and it sounds like a staple gun when they take the sample. After the biopsy, the radiologist inserted markers into the mass, as well as a lymph node that looked suspicious. Markers are inserted in case the tumors try to leave town, I guess. Than I had another mammogram, with all my gauze and tape still on. I was sent home with the knowledge that they would be calling before Friday.
They called me the next day.
I was at work, of course, and when I looked at my phone, I found two messages asking me to call. It was urgent, both messages said. I sat in my car, alone in the parking lot of the elementary school where I work, and I called. My own doctor was on vacation, so the on call doctor had the joy of telling me that the mass in my breast was malignant. He was referring me to a surgeon, he would send all the records to this person, here was the phone number so I could call and make an appointment.
And then he told me to have a nice day before he hung up.
After years and years of routine self-checks, I found a lump. At first I wasn't too sure. Maybe it wasn't really a lump. Maybe it was one of those, "only when you're on your period" lumps. Or one of those fibrocystic lumps that disappear after a few days. I had a mammogram not too long ago, a completely normal mammogram. It's probably nothing.
Except it was still there a month later.
This time I was a little concerned. The lump seemed bigger, grape-sized, and it was tender, as it sat there in my left breast. Still, my mammogram had been normal, so I waited a couple of days, and then I called my doctor and made an appointment for last Thursday.
My doctor has been with me for more than twenty years, and we've been through a lot. He entered the room with his usual handshake, and told me that we had to stop meeting like this. People would talk, he said. I laughed and told him that it wasn't my fault that I was lumpy. He examined my breast, and pointed out that there were actually two lumps close together. Then he sent me immediately over to the radiology clinic two buildings over, so I could have a sonogram.
It's probably nothing, he said. Cancer doesn't usually hurt.
So I went to have my breast sonogram. I lay there in the darkened room and watched the screen while the tech moved the wand over my chest. A dark shape loomed among the gray shapes on that monitor, and I could see it. So could the radiologist, who immediately ordered me to have another mammogram. Then they wanted to do a sonogram of the right breast as well, because they had pictures of that one from last year. All were sent for review by a radiologist as I sat in the waiting room in one of those weird gowns. At this point, I was sending joke texts to one of my friends while I waited, wondering if the tech was going to buy me dinner after all this picture taking. That was when the tech came out with a card and told me to call a different office to schedule a biopsy.
As they say, shit just got real.
So Larry and I took this past Tuesday off and I went to have a biopsy. It was cold in the room, and they didn't use nearly enough lidocaine to numb the area the first time. The biopsy needles are very long and it sounds like a staple gun when they take the sample. After the biopsy, the radiologist inserted markers into the mass, as well as a lymph node that looked suspicious. Markers are inserted in case the tumors try to leave town, I guess. Than I had another mammogram, with all my gauze and tape still on. I was sent home with the knowledge that they would be calling before Friday.
They called me the next day.
I was at work, of course, and when I looked at my phone, I found two messages asking me to call. It was urgent, both messages said. I sat in my car, alone in the parking lot of the elementary school where I work, and I called. My own doctor was on vacation, so the on call doctor had the joy of telling me that the mass in my breast was malignant. He was referring me to a surgeon, he would send all the records to this person, here was the phone number so I could call and make an appointment.
And then he told me to have a nice day before he hung up.
Friday, April 29, 2011
You Never Know
NOTE: This week, for Red Writing Hood, we want fightin' words. Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions? Show us. Use emotion. Description. If it's a fist fight, what did it feel like to hit someone - or be hit? This can be fiction or non-fiction. This is a fictionalized account of every fight I've ever been in.
You really never know when you will need to use what you learn. At fifteen, I stood in the middle of a ring of girls and sized up my opponent. The girls surrounding me were egging Tasha on like good little bystanders. Some of them were a bit overzealous in their efforts, and pushed at me. They needn't have bothered; I wasn't going anywhere.
Tasha used to be my friend. At some point during tenth grade, she stopped being my friend. But Tasha wasn't done; she and several of her friends began to follow me around, insulting me, taunting me, threatening to beat me up, etc. Bullying. The three girls would follow me from the bus stop. Sometimes there would be more than three, when the sharks smelled blood in the water. This went on for a couple of months, and I mostly ignored them all. Until the day that someone behind me picked up a rock and threw it at the back of my head. It struck a glancing blow right above my ear, and it hurt. When I put my hand up to my head I felt the sticky wetness that is blood. I was instantly furious, but calm at the same time.
I turned around to face the crowd. I didn't say anything. I put my purse and my books down. Then I took my watch off my wrist and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I also put my rings in my pocket, because when you hit someone with a fist, your fingers sometimes swell.
"What are you doing?" Tasha smirked at me, then looked around at the crowd to make sure all eyes were on her. I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible, although inside I was seething.
"We are going to fight," I said. My statement was met with eagerness by the Peanut Gallery, but Tasha became uncertain.
"What?"
She was a few deputies short of a posse, I decided. I moved closer, invading Tasha's space, and I lowered my voice.
"We are going to fight," I repeated. "We are going to fight, and then you are going to leave me alone, because I am tired of this shit."
Tasha was about to respond to my direct challenge. The noises of the crowd fell away and I was surrounded with silence. My right fist struck her like a snake striking. I really hadn't meant to hit her as hard as I did, but adrenaline and anger put a lot more power behind my punch than expected. I felt the punch in slow motion; the knuckles of my right hand compressing with the impact, telegraphing up my arm to my elbow and then my shoulder as I followed through as I had been taught. I felt, rather than heard, a cracking sound. My brain registered intense pain radiating up my arm.
Blood spurted from Tasha's upper lip where it had split, and spatters of it showered the front of me and several bystanders. My hand was throbbing now, and vaguely I thought that I might have fractured something. The days spent preparing for fights when I was ten and the New Kid yet again had paid off, however. I said a quick mental thank you to the older boy who had taken pity and taught a nerdy girl how to correctly throw a punch.
I was still standing, and Tasha was not. I turned away from her, picked up my stuff, moved through the shocked crowd, and walked the rest of the way home.
You really never know when you will need to use what you learn. At fifteen, I stood in the middle of a ring of girls and sized up my opponent. The girls surrounding me were egging Tasha on like good little bystanders. Some of them were a bit overzealous in their efforts, and pushed at me. They needn't have bothered; I wasn't going anywhere.
Tasha used to be my friend. At some point during tenth grade, she stopped being my friend. But Tasha wasn't done; she and several of her friends began to follow me around, insulting me, taunting me, threatening to beat me up, etc. Bullying. The three girls would follow me from the bus stop. Sometimes there would be more than three, when the sharks smelled blood in the water. This went on for a couple of months, and I mostly ignored them all. Until the day that someone behind me picked up a rock and threw it at the back of my head. It struck a glancing blow right above my ear, and it hurt. When I put my hand up to my head I felt the sticky wetness that is blood. I was instantly furious, but calm at the same time.
I turned around to face the crowd. I didn't say anything. I put my purse and my books down. Then I took my watch off my wrist and put it in the pocket of my jeans. I also put my rings in my pocket, because when you hit someone with a fist, your fingers sometimes swell.
"What are you doing?" Tasha smirked at me, then looked around at the crowd to make sure all eyes were on her. I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible, although inside I was seething.
"We are going to fight," I said. My statement was met with eagerness by the Peanut Gallery, but Tasha became uncertain.
"What?"
She was a few deputies short of a posse, I decided. I moved closer, invading Tasha's space, and I lowered my voice.
"We are going to fight," I repeated. "We are going to fight, and then you are going to leave me alone, because I am tired of this shit."
Tasha was about to respond to my direct challenge. The noises of the crowd fell away and I was surrounded with silence. My right fist struck her like a snake striking. I really hadn't meant to hit her as hard as I did, but adrenaline and anger put a lot more power behind my punch than expected. I felt the punch in slow motion; the knuckles of my right hand compressing with the impact, telegraphing up my arm to my elbow and then my shoulder as I followed through as I had been taught. I felt, rather than heard, a cracking sound. My brain registered intense pain radiating up my arm.
Blood spurted from Tasha's upper lip where it had split, and spatters of it showered the front of me and several bystanders. My hand was throbbing now, and vaguely I thought that I might have fractured something. The days spent preparing for fights when I was ten and the New Kid yet again had paid off, however. I said a quick mental thank you to the older boy who had taken pity and taught a nerdy girl how to correctly throw a punch.
I was still standing, and Tasha was not. I turned away from her, picked up my stuff, moved through the shocked crowd, and walked the rest of the way home.
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