It has been approximately one week since I learned the blob in my brain is not a brain tumor. More accurately, it has been one week, forty-eight hours and twenty-seven minutes. But, who's counting?
Conveniently, the day after I found about my non-brain tumor, the $300 in books I had ordered about, what do you know - brain tumors! - arrived from Amazon.com. I read them all. Admittedly a bit odd, I realize. But I have a curiosity in all things medical, even if such topics do not apply to me personally, so it is not that strange (for me) that I would devour stacks of med-type books. If I had been blessed with TWO extra brain blobs and a less squeamish stomach, I may have ended up applying to medical school.
The reason I went to law school is because I love to read. Love it. Always have. One of my earliest, happiest memories is being in bed as a young child, way past lights out time, reading books under the covers with a flashlight. I would start a story and want desperately to finish, struggling to keep turning pages until I could not hold my eyelids open for another second. I remember my dad taking me to the library where I would collect a towering stack to take home, only to be forced to set a dozen or so aside for our next library trip, since the policy allowed you to check out only twenty books at one time. Don't tell anyone, though, this bookworm nerd thing does not mesh well with the ditzy blond image I have worked so hard at cultivating over the years.
I am happy my ability to read is not in jeopardy. I am happy I can still read to Ethan, even if that means I am forced to read, "Go Dog Do!" for the thousandth time. Spoiler alert: It is about multi-colored dogs and where they go. There is a big "dog party" at the end. In a tree. With hookers (just seeing if you were still paying attention!)
But I digress ... after reading hundreds and hundreds of pages about the all-around ickiness of brain tumors, I realized that while it was awesome to not have my skull drilled into and fastened back together with titanium screws or go blind or lose my ability to speak or suffer grand mal seizures; I was most happy that (knock wood) I did not have to put Ethan through the trauma of any of that. Sick moms are hard on kids. He got upset the other day because I had on reading glasses and looked "different" - I don't think ICU tubes and such would sit well with a preschooler.
Even given the fact that I am borderline evil before 10 am and/or four strong cups of coffee, whichever comes first, Ethan declares ecstatically each day at breakfast that I am his "most favoritist." The other day he told me that "he loves Daddy one and Mommy a bagallion." He cried for half an hour last night when Jeff came home from work early and interrupted what Ethan thought was going to be a dinner "just for him and Mommy."
This mom-centric thing is sort of adorable when he is four - perhaps a tad creepy when he is fourteen. At this age, I'll take it. These moments of sweet make up for the other fourteen hours a day I am saying (yelling?) "No!" or "Stop!" or "What the hell are you doing NOW with that water from the toilet / the cat's head / that set of Ginsu knives!"
Did I mention Ethan weighed almost ten pounds when he was born? Uh-huh. Ten pounds. I will spare you the gory details about the damage inflicted upon a woman's body after delivering a baby the size of a Costco drum of industrial cooking oil, but suffice it to say that I probably deserve top billing for at least four to five more years. Jeff's role in labor: walking into the delivery suite with a twelve-inch meatball sub that reeked of garlic. For him. I got Jell-O, for eighteen hours. So, I am cool with being the favorite. Happy to be the healthy favorite, who can read. Go Dog Go.
Conveniently, the day after I found about my non-brain tumor, the $300 in books I had ordered about, what do you know - brain tumors! - arrived from Amazon.com. I read them all. Admittedly a bit odd, I realize. But I have a curiosity in all things medical, even if such topics do not apply to me personally, so it is not that strange (for me) that I would devour stacks of med-type books. If I had been blessed with TWO extra brain blobs and a less squeamish stomach, I may have ended up applying to medical school.
The reason I went to law school is because I love to read. Love it. Always have. One of my earliest, happiest memories is being in bed as a young child, way past lights out time, reading books under the covers with a flashlight. I would start a story and want desperately to finish, struggling to keep turning pages until I could not hold my eyelids open for another second. I remember my dad taking me to the library where I would collect a towering stack to take home, only to be forced to set a dozen or so aside for our next library trip, since the policy allowed you to check out only twenty books at one time. Don't tell anyone, though, this bookworm nerd thing does not mesh well with the ditzy blond image I have worked so hard at cultivating over the years.
I am happy my ability to read is not in jeopardy. I am happy I can still read to Ethan, even if that means I am forced to read, "Go Dog Do!" for the thousandth time. Spoiler alert: It is about multi-colored dogs and where they go. There is a big "dog party" at the end. In a tree. With hookers (just seeing if you were still paying attention!)
But I digress ... after reading hundreds and hundreds of pages about the all-around ickiness of brain tumors, I realized that while it was awesome to not have my skull drilled into and fastened back together with titanium screws or go blind or lose my ability to speak or suffer grand mal seizures; I was most happy that (knock wood) I did not have to put Ethan through the trauma of any of that. Sick moms are hard on kids. He got upset the other day because I had on reading glasses and looked "different" - I don't think ICU tubes and such would sit well with a preschooler.
Even given the fact that I am borderline evil before 10 am and/or four strong cups of coffee, whichever comes first, Ethan declares ecstatically each day at breakfast that I am his "most favoritist." The other day he told me that "he loves Daddy one and Mommy a bagallion." He cried for half an hour last night when Jeff came home from work early and interrupted what Ethan thought was going to be a dinner "just for him and Mommy."
This mom-centric thing is sort of adorable when he is four - perhaps a tad creepy when he is fourteen. At this age, I'll take it. These moments of sweet make up for the other fourteen hours a day I am saying (yelling?) "No!" or "Stop!" or "What the hell are you doing NOW with that water from the toilet / the cat's head / that set of Ginsu knives!"
Did I mention Ethan weighed almost ten pounds when he was born? Uh-huh. Ten pounds. I will spare you the gory details about the damage inflicted upon a woman's body after delivering a baby the size of a Costco drum of industrial cooking oil, but suffice it to say that I probably deserve top billing for at least four to five more years. Jeff's role in labor: walking into the delivery suite with a twelve-inch meatball sub that reeked of garlic. For him. I got Jell-O, for eighteen hours. So, I am cool with being the favorite. Happy to be the healthy favorite, who can read. Go Dog Go.
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