Making the breast of things

 
It was the worst of times...it was the breast of times...

(Remember...Spoiler-alert: This story has a happy ending)

If you are still with me (and I believe one or two of you are...Hi, Sabrina!), then you know that, in the midst of my heroically battling the flu, ("Am I being dramatic?" I whispered hoarsely at my husband. "This cannot possibly be this bad. Am I just being a big baby?" "Amy," my poor husband sighed, having had to deal with my refusing to eat the toast he had just brought me because he'd neglected to cut it diagonally, "You can't even put on your pants without help right now. You are NOT being dramatic.") I received a phone call asking me to come in for some follow-up tests after my recent mammogram.

Fortunately, I suffer from Main Character Syndrome so worries about my imminent demise rarely plague me. I'm the main character...I can't possibly die (Tell that to Ned Stark...cue Game of Thrones fans nodding wisely). My current story arc had my character sadly stricken with illness yet still never more beautiful in her husband's eyes. Her senses were still sharp despite her restricted breathing and she  neared paralysis due to her weakened, atrophied muscles. Her husband approached her cautiously with a cup. After a tentative sip from the flexie-straw, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What is this?" she groaned, painfully...air working like ground glass upon her throat. Her caretaker avoided eye contact. "This ISN'T 7-Up," our poor main character accused. Brad shook his head sadly, his tired shoulders beaten down with guilt. "No, it's Sprite," he admitted, ashamed. Certainly my character wasn't going to have to deal with a cancer scare in the midst of such neglect.

Brad and Erin quickly made lists of a million other possible reasons that I would have received a call-back...my charming personality, naturally, at the top of each one.

Brad had diligently knocked me out with doses of NyQuil so I wasn't haunted by sleepless nights.

Of course, I didn't want to worry my family as there wasn't anything to actually be worried about (Looming word: Yet) but I also vehemently believe in the power of prayer. I believe in God's Will. Healing is ideal (but not always a part of God's plan) however, strength, confidence in God's redemptive love, peace, comfort, rest, wisdom in decision-making...those are the prayers that I offer and, in this case, needed to be willing to receive. I wanted to be a good role model and establish the pattern that, whether there is anything to worry about or not...we still share information with one another so that we can encourage and hold one another up in prayer. So, we shared this news with our daughters. They were loving, supportive, and sent inappropriate memes to make me laugh.

As the day of my appointment drew closer, my fears increased. My shallow little brain protected me in that it wasn't allowing me to see beyond the appointment in the event of bad news. In my limited vision, I either received good news and walked out, relieved or...

Except for my mother. 

Brad and the flu were excellent distractions but my husband could tell when I was getting upset (I was born to play Poker). His brain had worked out ALL the contingencies the moment I had told him I needed additional tests. But he spoke only positives...except when it came to my mother. Then he spoke in reassurances. "I will call her EVERY day," he told me. "You will not have to worry about her. I'll bring her her groceries. We'll play cards. I'll eat dinner with her. You DO NOT have to worry about your mother." And I cried.

The day of my appointment arrived.

I opened my front door to leave and there, on my front stoop, framed in the bottom of the expensive glass storm door that we bought for our senior dachshund, was a large brown wake-up bunny. I froze. The evening before, Brad and I had noticed some white crocuses that were blooming right near our house. In the 30 years that we've lived here, we've never had crocuses. I could feel my husband waiting but I refused to give him the satisfaction. I also see and believe in signs from God (usually belatedly and often interpretive). My family revels in my signs from God. 

Tiny white Spring flowers...?

And then, a wake-up bunny...that immediately transported me to a memorably fun camping trip with my family. 

I was beginning to feel better.

About the outcome...NOT the appointment. I was still going to have to deal with my usual anxiety issues.

They had blocked out two hours for me. Brad came in and sat with me before I was, again, wrestled into the half-robed straight-jacket and ushered into the smaller waiting room. He had brought a book to read in the van and it was comforting to know he was nearby.

I worked my way through a ka-zillion coping strategies to deal with my racing heart, pounding pulse, and heaving lungs. When the technician arrived, I just had to make the decision to be mute or cry. I chose mute. I lamented giving up yoga as I was maneuvered into multiple positions that my body mutinied. My mute strategy was working until, as we finished up, the technician kindly assured me that, if I wanted, we could have Brad come in to meet with the doctor at the end. Huh. Pretty sure we don't need the appearance of a husband for good news.

Back to the little waiting room to find a picture from Brad on my phone. I realized that he HADN'T gone
out to the van. The man hadn't budged and was just walls away from me.

Then, off to the ultra-sound.

I added reciting the Ten Commandments to my mute strategy. 

Roll. Roll. Roll...went the wand. 

Click. Click. Click...went the computer.

Roll...roll...roll.

Click...click...click.

F-word...f-word...f-word.

Switch to the Ten Commandments backwards.

Back to the little waiting room.

My technician came back and motioned me to follow her. Should I get Brad? Turns out...I am NOT brave at all. Can we, please, get my husband? NOT ready for this...

Smiling, she assured me (in the HALLWAY) that everything was okay. My breasts were (as I've always known) magnificent. They would appreciate seeing me again, next year, for my annual exam. Thanks for coming.

I skipped happily out to my husband who was sitting stoically in the main waiting room. His jaw immediately relaxed as I ran, grinning to him. "So you don't have to spend the rest of your life crediting Erin with saving your life?" he asked, escorting me out to the van before driving me to McDonald's for a celebratory Caramel Frappe. "Nope," I grinned, "Now I can blame her for putting me through all this unnecessary worry!"

My fingers were a blur as I prepared a text to reassure everyone. Seinfeld always comes through.

And so does God.

Mammograms can be so up-lifting (Part 1 of 2)

AFTER THE PHONE CALL:

"What are you most worried about?" my husband's voice floated over in the darkness to where I was attempting to smother myself with my own pillow.

I sighed.

"If they find something, I have to live the rest of my life dealing with Erin crediting herself for bullying me to a mammogram appointment," I hiccuped. 

"That would be pretty terrible," he agreed.

BEFORE THE PHONE CALL: 

Somehow, I have managed to successfully make it to age 55 without the consultation of a committee. But now, all of a sudden, certain bossy individuals are taking it upon themselves to shove me into situations of which I am FAR from comfortable. Case-in-point, my friend Michelle's relentless hounding to get me to go see a gynecologist.

I still wasn't healed from the emotional trauma of that little episode, when...along came Erin with magical stories of "The Breast Bus" that runs through her town like some weird rendition of a food truck. Is there a "Colonoscopy Caravan," too? Having seen more episodes of "The Magic School Bus" than I would like to admit, my imagination ran wild about the appearance of this "Mammogram Mini-Van."  I could not contain my curiosity...okay, sign me up.

Erin and I made the call together and were devastated to discover that "The Breast Bus" had been re-tired.  Obviously, this meant that I could just park my plans. Whew! Unfortunately, Erin and the receptionist decided to change lanes and, before I could blink, an appointment was made for Monday. "THIS Monday?" I gasped. Most medical and dental appointments are made months out...giving me plenty of time to cancel. "We'll go for drinks first," whispered Erin. The receptionist, now Erin's new best friend and my mortal enemy, laughed, chiming I with, "And after!"

Of course, my mammogram prescription had expired so I had to make the Call of Shame to my gynecologist who THANKED me for calling and CHEERFULLY wrote me another one. Everyone is conspiring against me.

I spent all weekend, whining to the point of exhaustion.

"Are you okay?" Erin asked, as we departed for our Monday appointment.

I was a bit congested. So tired. Inexplicably, my voice was starting to go.

We went out to eat before our appointment, Erin ordering me a little liquid courage. 

I don't remember this.

We were still a little early so Erin suggested popping into a store.

I don't remember this.

Great. Another store.

Nope. No memory of this.

Two weeks later, I would show Erin a picture of her in an unknown location and ask her what the heck we were doing.

She stared at me, stunned. "You don't remember this? You sulked your way around this entire store with me."

I do remember most of the mammogram visit as I was on high alert.

I am usually rendered mute in circumstances such as these so Erin did most of the talking. 

Then she wrestled me into this weird half-robe contraption.

We shared a locker because we are "breast friends."

Then...Erin was whisked away.

The technician arrived to escort me to a tiny room with giant machines. My weird half-robe had become a straight-jacket so the poor technician had to help me. My breasts were individually lifted onto a platter, quivering slightly like a Jello mold. I cooperated by shaking uncontrollably, tears silently streaming down my face while being unable to follow even the most simple of directions. I have posed for pictures in the past...but not like this. "Chin up. Feet parallel. Hips tilted. Arm stretched up over the machine." The technician had to physically move me into place each time. Then...the noise of the machine and the pancake-flattener. The technician was so kind...so professional...so patient. My anxiety leaves me feeling embarrassed, vulnerable, and ashamed. She tried so hard to be encouraging and complimentary. "You did great!" she said, hugging me. 

Yeah.

Apparently, Erin took me for ice cream after.

No memory of it.

Got home and collapsed.

Tried to go to work the next day until my team blocked me from my classroom door and insisted I go home.

Discovered I had Influenza A.

The next three days were miserable.

The phone rang on the second day. My heart fluttered when I saw it was the Radiology Center. I didn't want to answer it. This was one of those moments in your life where you realize that your life may be about to take another trajectory. My mind flashed to my mother. She needed me. I didn't want to answer that phone. But I did.

(Don't worry...this story has a happy ending)

Psalm 107: 29...He calmed the storm {within my mother} to a whisper

Once in a while, the storm breaks and the cloud of worry that envelops me...dissipates...and all I can do is be so grateful for the clear skies and warmth that suddenly surrounds me.

It happened in small, subtle stages that went unnoticed as, a few days before Easter, I had flowers delivered to my Mom's apartment. My dad was a dedicated bouquet-bestower. His favorite flower to give my mother always made me laugh: Only Earl F. DeLong would present his tiny, barely 5-foot-tall, wife with towering gladiolas. 

I usually grab a grocery store bundle of bright blossoms every few weeks but, for special occasions, I channel my father. Mom is fond of soft pinks and purples and her spotty memory miraculously maintains her mother's favorite flower: Daisies. I carefully selected a bouquet that would include beautiful pink roses and Grandma's daisies. Order made:  I quickly forgot about it.

On our way to celebrate Easter a day early with Mom, I made a quick and silly impulse-buy at the store, tossing cute, theme-decorated plates into my bag. Purchase complete...I then forgot about it.

Brad and I arrived at her apartment and, immediately after greeting her with happy hugs, set out on our usual, hopefully discreet, inventory of her rooms. Mom, meanwhile, began squirreling through the bag I had left on her kitchen table. Her squeal caught my attention and I whirled around to see her admiring the plates. She assigned Brad the blue bunny plate and then asked me which one was mine. I grinned at her. "Your favorite color is pink so you get the pink bunny plate and I get the yellow chick." Satisfied, Mom set the table.

We enjoyed potato patties and angel food cake before letting Brad drag us outside despite my concern that the gray clouds would soon be delivering on their promise. The temperature was pleasant but the wind whipped our hair into tiny tendril tornadoes. I threatened to tie a rope to my petite mother so I could fly her like a kite. Brad kept up a brisk pace as a drizzle tried dampening our spirits as we made a dash for the door...my Mom laughing the entire time.

Laughing.

We made our usual quick visual sweep of the apartment to make sure if Mom needed anything as we got ready to leave. Mom stood at the little table by her window and adjusted her vase of flowers. "I have to keep turning them," she explained to my husband, "because it's pretty from all sides."

Thank you, God, for the break in our storm. The sun broke through and we were able to simply bask in the enjoyment of one another's company and our love for one another. Every day is a gift.

My brush with greatness: Marrying Brad Mosiman was easel-y the best move I've ever made

 A lot of things change over the course of a marriage. People change. Once you've endured the painful process of reading this blog...seriously, don't you have anything better to do (watching paint dry comes to mind)...you'll realize that I haven't changed one iota. But Brad has. That man has developed an Olympic-style measure of patience reflective of certain Bible figures, farmers, Nelson Mandela, and the Chicago Cubs.

Case-in-point:  Brad has been lamenting the deteriorating condition of our 40+ years old wood snow fence for the past few winters. I, on the other hand, continued to wonder why we even NEEDED the heavy, clumsy, difficult-to-store-and-wrestle-out contraption. Our bushes are fine:  Study and resilient. That dilapidated structure was an unnecessary crutch whose only purpose was to test the strength of my marriage while spot-lighting the fragility of my muscles and work ethic.

This year, Brad couldn't take it anymore. Like the Little Red Hen, he measured out the fence, picked up and purchased the wood, cut the pieces down to size, laid them out in our yard, and began to paint them while I, the Lazy Ostrich, buried my head in the sand and pretended I did not see what was going on around me. 

My conscience finally got the better of me and I wandered out there while Brad rolled paint over his fence replacement. "I'll paint," I offered, dismally. Brad handed me the long-handled roller and I promptly painted my foot. I peeked at him, waiting for a snarky comment or suggestion but he heroically refrained from speaking, busying himself with other activities. I then went to pour new paint in the pan and realized, too late, that Brad had systematically poured only from one side (to save mess?) and I, of course, poured, torrentially, from the opposite side. I immediately apologized and he, again, refrained from negative comment. 

I watched as my husband then carefully scanned the area and began to remove possible trouble spots. "I'm just going to move the lid over here," he told me before I could track green footprints all over his driveway. He watched me artfully plant a blade of grass green. He listened sympathetically as I complained that the act of rolling paint was not as easy as it is portrayed on commercials or sitcoms. "It's not rolling," I told my husband, exasperated, "You have to push down as you roll." He winced as I repeatedly let the roller slip off its device and I would grate against the wood and my husband's nerves. But still...patience, kindness, and tolerance. 

What IS this? I wondered and decided to poke this forbearing beast, just to see how far his patience limit could be pushed.

As he quietly cleaned up the mess I'd made of his paint can, I made my move.

"My daddy would nail holes around the top perimeter of the can to limit spillage," I shared.

Brad didn't even look up from his task. "Too bad your daddy didn't teach you how to paint."

I grinned. Good. He was still in there.

Here's a tip for you: Once in a while, grief is gonna get you. Feed it and then put it back in its cage

When last we left Vee DeLong, we were regularly enjoying Friday dinner-times together and daily evening phone calls. My mother's life, like the lives of so many other seniors, has gotten incrementally smaller...limited to one television channel, a menu of breakfast cereals and bananas, 6-7 hours of visitation per week, and, poor thing, a daily phone call from me.

So...if the TV goes on the fritz (which happens more than one might think) or the phone isn't working properly, I go into hyper-drive in a vain attempt to keep her walls from closing in even more...think of Han, Luke, Leia, and Chewy in that claustrophobic garbage compactor. 

A month ago, I called Mom at our typical time and was confronted by an unanswered ringing. Where could she be? My husband, frustratingly practical, advised me to calmly wait and call again in 15 minutes. Naturally, I heeded his advice and called every minute for the next half hour before finally calling the front desk of Mom's assisted living facility while Brad held his breath, sure that we would soon be making the two hour round-trip trek as bedtime drew near in the middle of the work-week. 

The very patient staff popped up to Mom's apartment to solve the mystery that she had simply been on the phone with another caller. Whew! What a relief. All of my worst-case scenarios dissolved. A child of the 80s, I was accustomed to a land-line's incessant eh-eh-eh-eh busy signal so this was a learning curve for me. 

Sigh. Everything is a learning curve for me.

The reward for my worry was my Mom's genuine laugh when I berated her for not answering my call. "Mom!" I scolded, "I thought you'd been abducted by aliens!" She responded by giggling and telling me that they'd bring her right back.

Last week, another internet outage targeted BOTH the TV and the telephone and Brad Mosiman knew he was in trouble.

Mom went a full day without either working. Brad and I arrived the following day, relieved that the TV was back on line and went immediately to task, targeting that phone. We checked cords and switched out phones, to no avail. Mom and I went for a walk to the front desk to see if any other residents were experiencing issues. We were advised that we were going to have to contact the telephone carrier which was upsetting as Mom is accustomed to daily communication from me.  Another staff member helpfully mentioned the router and, when Mom and I returned to her apartment, we found Brad already trying to re-set it. Nothing was working.

Discouraged, I sat with Mom at her little kitchen table as we warmed our meal. I watched my husband systematically try different things to get that phone up and running.  I suddenly felt an overpowering wave of missing my dad. It was both a welcome but strange feeling. I think, to guard my heart and protect my often-close-to-boiling-over emotions, my primary feelings, whether he deserves it or not, for my dad are anger and frustration. We are not in the most ideal of situations which originated with some short-sighted decisions originating with him. I am well-aware that I will also, one day, be measured by that misguided measuring stick. We all do the best we can. Dad did the best he could...and now, when he can no longer take care of his girl...Brad and I are doing our best to represent him in that endeavor.

And there...in my Mom's apartment...was the embodiment of Earl F. DeLong...obsessed to fix that phone and refusing to leave until the job was done. Brad repeated his steps...checking cords, test-trying the two phones, returning to that router...resetting at 30 seconds, a minute, five minutes. And finally...SUCCESS. Brad's reward? A wife who would be able to sleep that night. And who is he kidding? Every night he asks me if I called my mom and asks how she is. Brad Mosiman loves my mom.

The next day, Brad asked where I wanted to eat on our trip to Batavia. He was not prepared for me to say "Denny's" and burst into tears. My husband was surprised on many levels. First, we were not "Denny" patrons. I am a loyal "Perkin's" girl. Second, going out to eat does not typically elicit tears from me. "I miss my dad," I cried, "I want to go to Denny's and over-tip the waitstaff." Brad laughed, remembering how, each time Dad would "treat" us to "Denny's," we would have to sneak an extra tip onto the table.

So Brad Mosiman took his wife to "Denny's" and didn't comment on her tears as she ordered breakfast at 2 in the afternoon. We "toasted" my dad and I just let myself miss him before re-building that protective wall around my heart. Imbalanced on my best days, I have to carefully place the constant weight of worrying about, caring for, and loving my mother on one side of the fulcrum while the other side is counterbalanced by my confusion, my anger, and my childish frustration at our situation. 

I left the restaurant feeling much better.

Obviously no one can take as good of care of Vee DeLong as her husband, but I think that he knows how hard we are trying.

And I love how annoyed my dad would have been if he knew how much we'd just tipped for luke-warm coffee.