Getting My Ducts In A Row

So, I took almost two weeks off. A health siesta.

I did not make a single phone call to even one doctor and sat around eating mayonnaise from the jar with a spoon and drinking absinthe spiked with aspartame-laden Kool-Aid while I chain-smoked cigars. I am very glad I did.

What was supposed to be an hour-long "second look ultrasound" appointment last Friday turned into one of those four-hour-long ordeals where multiple doctors march in and out while I lay prone on a table shivering in a paper napkin and flipping through a stained 1987 copy of Time magazine. Never had one of those? Trust me, they are crazy fun.

Jeff hung around in the holding tank of the aggressively PINK waiting room because no men were allowed back past the double doors into the inner sanctum that is The Breast Center. When I finally emerged, he asked what it was like back there, with the hint of awe and wonder that most men feel when confronted with an image of A BREAST (or, even, the word). A continuously-looping DVD demonstrating how to do a proper self-exam played for hours while he waited and I think he was at sensory overload.

I told him it was just like Key West in April, but with fewer tan lines and more sagging and grey hair. He then asked what a mammogram felt like. I told him when we got home he could remove his pants and I would do my best to replicate the feeling using equivalently-tender gender-specific organs and my two heaviest books from law school. The questions stopped there.

The general agreement among the whispering breast guys (and they were all guys, this struck me as a bit ironic given the no-male sign on the double doors) is that there is "something" in a duct. Confetti? An underwear gnome? A lost sock from the dryer? Your guess is as good as mine.

I am scheduled bright and early tomorrow morning for a repulsive-sounding procedure that involves threading a catheter into a place catheters ought not to go (one hint: it rhymes with "whipple"). Yeah.

I did my own research on-line about how this procedure may feel. "Mild discomfort" is what I uncovered; which, I have learned by now is medical site jargon for, Jesus God and Mary!! HOLD ON TO YOUR F$#%*$G HAT!!

Will keep you posted. If nothing else, I expect this will be good blog material.

Random Nibbles

The Kid:

My husband took our son to school the other day. I woke up and there was a message for me on the table. It was scrawled in multi-colored crayon, handwritten in his best approximation of that little-known MS Word font, Ransom Note:

Can I geT a ponee ?

I will built it A fence.

I was amused. I mean, my husband was not an English major, but still …

Cleavage and Emergency Medical Treatment:

Still intact. I had lunch with my mom last week and was falling the F apart. I had stuff going on at work, stuff going on at home, and just could not cope, right now. Just could not. She told me maybe I should just take a week off. One week would not make much of a difference one way or another, right? Just give myself a week with no medical appointments, no lab tests, no phone calls to doctors. Just pretend everything is OK and then re-tackle it next week. I told her that was the best idea I have heard all year.

On day seven of my self-imposed health sabbatical, we had planned a family trip to the zoo and instead took a family trip to the ER. For Ethan this time! It was nice to mix it up a little. Ethan had surgery for an inguinal hernia about two years ago and was experiencing severe pain in the same spot where the surgical repair had been. And he could not walk.

Jeff woke me up to inform me that, "We should call the doctor because Ethan cannot walk."

"Define for me 'cannot walk'?"

And then I heard Ethan howling at the bottom of the steps because he was stuck.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE CANNOT WALK!?"

The fine staff of the ER determined the cause was an inflamed tendon in his groin (how that happened is anyones best guess) and would be better soon with rest and anti-inflammatory medication. He gimped around for about a day afterward, but is now back in full commission, illicit couch-jumping and all. No permanent damage done. Except for my eardrums, those may never recover, as a result of those dog-whistle noises he made when they drew blood.

Again, thank you Amazing Health Insurance Coverage, we owe you a giant fruit basket this holiday season.

My Dad Is Older Than Your Dad:

My dad turns sixty this week. My mom and I are throwing a party. By that I mean, my mom is dealing with catering, bar, and inviting all the guests and I am going to the party discount store for a giant 6-0 balloon and maybe, some sparkly table confetti. She is an excellent co-host.

I think the event is supposed to be a semi-surprise. I am not worried about giving anything away with my blog because my dad not only does not own a computer but has a cell phone that he refers to as his "car phone." If you call him on the "car phone", you may leave a message asking him to return the call. He will then call you three days later and tell you that he heard his phone ring on Tuesday, was it you who called? He is not the person to try and contact if you are bleeding in a ditch and care about being rescued within the next seventy-two hours.

My husband and I are continually entertained by our home phone voicemail. Dad is so uncomfortable with modern technology that it still confuses him when he has leave a message on our automated "machine." He will clear his throat for about ten minutes before mumbling something indistinct and hanging up. Did I mention the man was a national champion debater in college? Yes he was. Just don't ask him to argue with you over voicemail, his head will explode.

That is not to say he is not intelligent … he is very very smart. Two verys. He was a professor at Georgetown Dental for twenty-five years, as well as a practicing dentist. In fact, he was Patrick Ewing's dentist in the mid-80s! He has not stopped talking about it. I suppose irrigating a celebrity mouth is as close as many dentists will get to their fifteen minutes.

What does one buy a technophobic ex-NBA star's oral care technician for such a big birthday milestone? So far I have a set of golf balls (when I first typed this I typed g-o-l-D balls. Gag. I do not want to further explore any Freudian subtext in that finger misfire but thought it was funny enough to mention. Because I have the same sense of humor as most eleven-year boys.) Moving on ...

Perhaps a book about the Kennedy family? He loves that crazy crew! Every birthday/holiday I wrap up a giant tome of 1,000 (give-or-take) pages of Kennedy non-fiction and he acts genuinely excited to receive it. You would think after the 180th Kennedy book, he would have learned everything there is to know about them.

It makes me sad that my dad has to stress about his daughter's serious health issues. He will often call me (from the house or office, never the car) to discuss new curative ideas.

Suddenly he is a Registered Dietitian: "I just read an article about the benefits of an all-organic diet on cancer. Are you eating an all-organic diet? What?! Put down those Cheetos and Red Bull this second, young lady!"

And a Sleep Specialist: "Are you getting ten hours of sleep every night? You really cannot heal if you do not get proper REM. Well, just tell Ethan he needs to walk to school ... a fifteen-mile hike never killed anyone."

And a Radiation Expert: "I hope you are not standing in front of that microwave while you are cooking? Did I just hear a 'beep'?!"

I joke but it is actually sweet. He cares. This has been hard on my parents too.

One More Random Quote:

Do not throw that turtle in the living room!! (Me to Ethan, not my dad to me.)

On Being Dead:

I have a real confession. My latest obsession involves staying up late and reading brain tumor blogs. I will spare you the time and Google search: They all end up dead. You just KNOW some of them are in bad shape when you read their diagnoses and treatment plans. But some of them deceive you. There's one where the woman had written eighteen chapters over the course of seven years since her diagnosis, a veritable Internet book. At her last appointment her doctor told her that the scans were all stable and she "had decades."

I clicked on her eighteenth chapter and felt as though I had been kicked in the throat. It was a eulogy written by her husband one month later. There were no details, just dates and a short memorial paragraph. I wanted to know what happened. It was like having the last chapter ripped out of the suspense thriller you borrowed from the library, but morose and sad, because it is (was) a life.

At night, I go to bed and cannot turn my disturbing inner dialogue off:

IhaveabraintumorIhaveabraintumorIhaveabraintumor ...

I can practically feel it beating through the floorboards of my skull.

I am constantly on guard for strange things that may kill me. If my nose is running, I worry that it is not a cold, but dripping CSF. If I have a headache, is it a hemorrhage? If my vision is blurry, is it pressing on my optic nerve? It can be tiresome. I do not voice these concerns to anyone but my husband, who has become my when-to-alert-the-authorities barometer.

I was half-heartedly watching TV the other night, while reading a book at the same time. My husband had gone to bed half-an-hour before. I noticed after he left that the actors on the show were speaking out-of-sync. Their lips were about one second off from matching the words coming out of them. I watched for about ten more minutes thinking, "I wonder if I should call my doctor? Is this some sort of seizure?"

So I wake Jeff up and tell him, "This is going to sound weird, but …"

"Oh, I noticed it too. It is not you. It is the show."

And I was all, "WHAT? Why didn't you say something?! I was afraid to go to sleep because I was worried I would wake up with brain leaking all over the pillow. And you know these are our good sheets …"

On High School Revisited:

My fifteen-year high school reunion is at the end of this month. I think this should be causing some sort of angst, but so far, it is not (stay tuned: it will). My one concession to vanity is that I bought a new shirt which is likely as far as I will go. I should be dieting, but life is short, or something.

I have attempted to get my teeth bleached but my dentist is not returning my calls (see, "car phone.") I have large teeth, not EXTRA crazy large teeth, but large enough. They take up, maybe, 1/10th of the real estate that is my face.

In college, I used to hear that I looked like Jenny McCarthy ... I think it was my big teeth. Because she is known for those big teeth; it is common knowledge that showing them off made her famous. To be clear: I used to only hear that flattering(?) comparison from drunken guys in bars. I look nothing like Jenny McCarthy, except that we share similarly oversized mouths. In any event, I bet she does not have to argue with her dentist to get a little whitening action on those generous choppers.

My dad/dentist claims that bleaching ruins the enamel. My response is to tell him that I may consider a back-alley bleach job and might just pick up a $29.99 kit at the drugstore. He says he'll know, in some sort of omnipresent way that infers that if I do, not only will my teeth be irreparably scarred, but I will get caught and then grounded until my fortieth birthday.

Therefore, I am hoping my new shirt offsets my large and sort-of whitish teeth. It will probably be dark, right?

My Brother:

Where art thou. I have not been able to reach you via cell, girlfriend, or email. I am beginning to worry a shark ate you. Call me, you. I need to see if you want to go in on a Kennedy book.

Patriotism, Boiled Down

Alright, my little turnip. Listen up. You may wonder why I am now calling you my little turnip after calling you my little pumpkin for so long. Well it is because you recently proclaimed that you were "embarrassed" when I called you a pumpkin and requested that I not call you that anymore. So we are on to a different member of the squash family. You will not like it, that I know. But guess what: I am the Mommy and get to pick the nicknames! Deal.

This week was an historic one. But you knew that; you were as well-versed about this election as certain people of legal voting age. You knew that Sarah Palin was from Alaska and running for Vice - President. You knew that you have to be eighteen to vote. You knew that John McCain was "old … at least a hundred" (your words, not mine). You knew that Barack Obama was the first African-American ever to run for President. You knew that you enjoyed my response when you announced that you planned on "voting for McCain" … every eight seconds … since mid-October.

I told you that was OK! I was voting for Barack Obama and was proud to do so. But explained that when you were old enough to vote, you could vote for whomever you wanted. Even Ralph Nader! That is what is great about where we live. And if you want to join the Young Republic Club in high school, we will go together to pick out your boat shoes and crested ties. It is YOUR CHOICE and every person gets to make their own choice about their values, their beliefs, and their candidate. Democracy! Yay!

I took you with me to the voting booth to watch the process in action (also, because your dad was at work late and it is illegal to leave you alone in a parked car). You expressed disappointment that neither McCain nor Palin were there to greet us personally. You said you would have settled for an Obama sighting. You wondered what else they could be doing? Wasn't it Election Day? You perked up when the literature people outside the voting venue offered you a donut and a cup of juice. That was almost as good as shaking the hand of a real-live soon-to-be-President. You liked the sticker too. I let you wear mine.

You did not see me when the official announcement was made, later that night, that Obama was our next President. I cried – this would have shocked you. I do not cry at much - amend that, I do not cry at much in front of other people, especially you. It freaks you out. Tears over something like an election were uncharacteristic. But this election felt different, bigger, more important, and more personal … to millions who cast their ballots … and to me. I was moved to be a part of it and to watch history unfold.

I did not wake you up to see the election results but DVR'er the press coverage to watch with you the next day. Together we watched Obama's acceptance speech. I explained to you what an historic moment this was. How proud I was to be an American. How you should be proud to be an American too. How the right to vote is not something every person in every country has and we should be thankful. How the President-Elect had worked hard during his life and achieved something incredible. How I was going to try to talk Daddy into getting tickets to one of the D.C. Inaugural Balls so I could stimulate the economy and buy a new dress … maybe some shoes. I asked you what you thought of all of it.

Your excellent, insightful response showed me that the gravity of this moment in time had not gone over your head:

Does this mean we can have cupcakes for dinner to celebrate? With sprinkles!?

Motivational Quotes

Actual things I said today:

10) Mommy does have prickly legs ... Mmm - hmm, just like a porcupine.

9) Wow! A bag of snakes!

8) One more day until Halloween. Yep - that Great Pumpkin is keeping a close eye to see if you are being naughty or nice.

7) We do not lick our friends.

6) Why am I allowed to eat more Starburst than you are? Well, it is because mommies are taller than their kids and need the extra energy.

5) No ... Starburst are not a fruit.

4) I take it all back. You are not the worst secretary on the planet and you are not fired (to my husband, not to my actual assistant. I would never ever dare call her a "secretary." She owns me and she knows it.)

3) Of course I can tell the difference between a Spinosaurus and an Allosaurus.

2) I am done talking about penises. (This said with my best poker face.)

And ... my personal highlight:

1) Young man, I suggest you think twice before you TEST me! (Followed by subsequent phone call to my therapist when I realized that I have, in fact, become my mother.)

The Girls - Update

LIFE HAS BEEN CRAZY. Here I go with the caps again. In real life, I tend to speak in ALL CAPS punctuated by wild gestures which have been known to send objects within a three-foot radius flying (watching myself on video can be painful). One of my best friends banned me from red wine at her wedding reception for this reason. She wisely realized that the equation of wild hands + Merlot + white silk gown = potential unpleasant outcome.

As for this latest medical blip, I think it will probably be fine. The odds of me having breast cancer at my age are pretty low. But since my body seems to enjoy flashing the Big Middle Finger to medical statistics - with this one in two million brain thing! - it is certainly not something to ignore.

I saw the nurse practitioner at Hopkins Breast Center on Monday. She was not sure. So the Breast Cancer Tumor Board (bet that is one wild bunch!) reviewed the films. I just heard back that they would like me to come in for a "second look ultrasound" next week and then plan a course of action. Right now, the jury is out on whether to biopsy or not.

The mass is very, very small (@ 5 mm) so if it is something bad ... breast cancer at an early stage is usually treatable, so that is positive. The surgeons do not seem overly worried. I have experienced a "worried" doctor before and hope never to again. Last year when I got THE brain scan reports my then-neurologist cancelled her medical school lecture and all her other patients so she could get me into her office, the day before Thanksgiving. She also gave me her home and cell numbers during the appointment - it was at that moment that I realized, "Oh my, this cannot be good ..." Before I ever knew the rest of the grim facts, I found that singular act alarming.

At this point, I am viewing this latest medical blip as more of a hassle than something to stress intensely about. Not to minimize breast cancer; it is a terrible disease. I lost an aunt to breast cancer just a few years ago. I recognize it is serious - I mean, it is cancer. But I think once you find out that something is wrong with your brain, problems with other areas of the body - even serious ones - seem manageable. It may sound odd, but I am almost relieved that there may be a medical problem that I can actually DO SOMETHING about. Biopsy? Hell ya! Cut that lump outta there! It is a much better place for a Type A individual to be mentally than the watch-and-wait tumor approach.

Speaking of As ... I told Jeff that if I do need replacements, he should be prepared for me to go full-out with the double Ds (for some reason, he did not seem displeased by this prospect). I have always wondered what it would be like to be part of the traffic-stopping cleavage club. Might as well have big loud ta-tas to go with the rest of my ALL CAPS persona.

It Is Not Personal, It Is Business

Alright boob, have a seat. It is time we talked. I just made an appointment with the Hopkins Breast Center for this Monday. They wanted to get you in right away to whip you into shape. They are smart there – those Hopkins people – and they will not put up with subpar performance.

Do not think you cannot be replaced. We have logged many hours together watching Dr. 90210 and we are both aware of the incredible things that can be done with silicone and a few stitches. If I may be so candid, I have always thought you were slightly under qualified for this position. There are thousands of "D" cups out there and your resume is not at that level.

So consider yourself on notice and get it together, do you understand? This organization cannot afford to put up with any other slacker organs or body parts. The notes from this meeting will go in your permanent file.

Enjoy your weekend.

WTF?!

Universe? Hello. It is me, Jenny. We both know that you have kicked me about a lot recently. And then while I was trying to catch my breath, you sucker punched me. And then you slashed my car tires. Apparently, your momma did not teach you how to play nicely with others.

But that is not altogether negative, because tough experiences make one a better person. More empathetic, more kind, more generous. All good stuff. So I get that. But I think I have had enough for right now. Karma-wise, I should be fine. I pay my taxes in full and on time, I let people holding only one grocery item jump in front of me in line, I like babies and kittens, I floss regularly. I know I am a strong person and all of that stuff, but I am getting a little worn out trying to prove it to you. So I would like you to officially note the following objection, for the record.

I am saying Uncle. OK?

Uncle.

UNCLE UNCLE UNCLE!

On "normal" days it is easy enough to pretend all is well with me. Try to hold it all together and balance all the spinning plates, hoping none fall. This week has not been a normal week. On Tuesday, it was Hopkins in the morning for IVs and scans, American Radiology for x-rays (re: lymph node involvement) and Centennial Medical for heart monitor fitting. The exhaustion level has been bad and getting worse, so my doctor wants to start me on Provigil to help combat the severe fatigue. Provigil is a stimulant and carries with it a small risk of heart explosion – not his exact words, but the gist. Since I have a benign murmur, it is prudent for him to check out my heart rhythm to ensure it would be safe with the stimulant meds. If these meds work, it may be bad news for Starbucks shareholders. Right now, my daily latte intake single-handedly funds Mercedes leases for at least three of the junior VPs. Throw in my morning bagels and the occasional scone and I am also paying for their childrens' private violin lessons.

Tuesday evening it was off to my therapist for some long overdue mental tweaking. Our appointments have taken a turn for the ridiculous. She used to hold me to high standards and push me. Lately I think she considers it a success if I show up and she can see that I am not actively trying to chew off my own hands. On my last visit, I caught her up on all the latest medical details. "So," I began breezily, "Here are my records … they are thinking subependynoma ... they cannot operate …"

Her pen stopped scribbling and hovered above the paper. She peered at me over her glasses with a flash of unrestrained expression before she composed herself. My therapist is a psychiatrist, an M.D., who has been practicing for thirty years. A large part of her practice deals with the truly "abnormal" along the spectrum of mental health. She professes a special fondness for her "schizophrenics – so fascinating!" When I first started seeing her and opened with, "I don't want you to think I am crazy but …" she countered with, "You don't even come close to crazy. A patient this morning thought he was John Lennon and that he could fly. It takes a lot to shock me." That fact that I could, for one brief unfiltered moment, alarmed me.

The breakthrough moment of this appointment was when she urged that I needed to "figure out [my] best life and live it."

I challenged, "You want me to live like I am dying?"

Pause … one second, two seconds …

"Yes," she replied evenly, "like you are dying."

The next day it was back to the regular docs for more heart monitoring and lab testing. I had to wear this heart thing for twenty-four hours. It attached to my chest and under the rib cage with adhesive electrodes that sprout rope-thick cords. The cords connect the electrodes to the actual monitoring device. The monitoring device itself resembles a large Walkman. This got strapped into a fanny-pack belt around my waist. Every time I peed it threatened to fall off into various public toilets. I think I would have left it there.

Between the chest electrodes and dangly cords and lumpy wire bumps and fanny pack, there was no discrete way to model this contraption. Since I was advised to go about my normal daily activities with this thing on, I went to lunch with my dad, to work and ran a few errands about town. The public reaction to my Bionic Woman look was mixed. Some gentler souls held doors for me and offered to carry my packages. They seemed unsure what exactly was so wrong that it would warrant such medieval and extreme medical intervention and took pity. The alarmists were a different matter. In our post 9-11 era, not every stranger looked at my possible Unabomber (female edition) device with kind eyes. I felt as though my moves were closely documented to ensure that I was not about to self-detonate in the Tampax aisle of Target.

Today it was back to Hopkins for evaluation by a new neurologist. I expected a strong talking to because I have not yet done the lumbar puncture. The logic behind the LP is to see if the tumor is shedding cells and infiltrating the spinal cord. If it is, then I don't even know what they would do, remove my spine? No, that cannot be right. In any event, he was fine with holding off on the LP since the MRI of my spine was clear. This makes me absurdly happy since I am breaking into a panicked sheen just typing the words "lumbar puncture." The thought of having my lumbar "punctured" makes me want to vomit, pass out and then buy a bus ticket to Mexico far, far away from organized medical care. Not necessarily in that order.

I have been told that the LP is really no different than an epidural. That, however, is factually untrue for one simple reason: An epidural is provided when one is in more pain that even the Devil himself could imagine. I knew labor would hurt but I had no IDEA how MUCH it could hurt. During labor, if the anesthesiologist had shown up with a pair of forks and told me the contractions would feel better if I would just stick the tines into my eyeballs, I not only would have complied, I would have asked him when the set of butter knives would be arriving so I could do the same with those. But to take a perfectly good spine and just PUNCTURE it … I don't know … the thought squicks me out.

But don't you worry your pretty little head that I get off scot-free in the bizarre medical test department for more than one full week. Nope. He thinks I may be experiencing seizures and wants me to have an EEG. You would think an event such as a seizure would be easy to discern -– one is either foaming and writhing about on the floor or one is not. Apparently, though, there are many flavors of seizure. My muscle twitching, word misappropriation, and the driving near-miss could all indicate seizure activity. It is also possible that I could be having sub-clinical seizures at night while sleeping and this is contributing to the endless fatigue, so I will likely do a sleep study as well.

Since we were at Hopkins anyway I decided to pick up my scan report for my breast MRI. I saw a breast specialist recently because I had a lump that was not going away. My OB checked it out and when it started to get bigger, he recommended more testing. I knew the radiologist's report would be ready, but had not heard from the Breast Center doctor yet. One guess what the report says? I can only assume that my boobs have felt left out from all the fun because they (well, one) has developed its own mass. I have a mass in my freaking breast. To match the mass in my freaking brain. Matching masses.

Now I have not TALKED to the doctor about this report yet since I picked it up at 5 today. She said, before, that scans can pick up false positives but if the scan came back abnormal, the next step would be a biopsy. So I wait. This is how all this brain nonsense started almost one year ago. Right before Thanksgiving. With a report. And a mass. A reported mass. And now I am tired. TIRED.

Hear me Universe, cut it OUT. Shakes fist at sky. Ok? Please?

This girl needs a break. And a stiff cocktail - Grey Goose, extra olives.

A Smile in My Liver

If you have not read Elizabeth Gilbert's novel Eat Love Pray, I suggest you drive to Borders immediately and then call in sick tomorrow so you can stay in bed and devour it. It is warm and witty and funny and poignant and delicious. If you do not love it too, I owe you a chocolate martini.

Without ruining the story, the author travels to several places and the last stop on her journey is Bali. While in Bali she studies with a medicine man who advises her that part of her meditation practice should include sitting and smiling everywhere ... even in her liver. I am trying to force the smile in my liver thing lately and hope it catches on to the rest of me. I'll keep you posted on how that works out.

The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget

A moment of levity on a self-absorbed day. If you read nothing else this afternoon, read this.

The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers."

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Get OUT Of The Car

So far the one true benefit I have observed from private school is the drop-off/pick-up function. The idea is brilliant. School employees manned with walkie-talkies stand by the front doors of the school. There is a sign that attaches to the dashboard displaying your child's name so when you pull up an announcement is transmitted to the employees inside, "Johnny Walker is now entering the building. Johnny Walker is entering the building." When you arrive in the afternoon, it is the same concept. You simply pull up to the drive-through window, err, I mean front door, and place your order. "One blonde kindergartener with a red backpack! Hold the pickles!"

The first week of school, I walked Ethan into the classroom during the morning and then waited for him outside the class in the afternoon because I knew he would not go for this drive-through idea. But at Back-to-School night the teacher encouraged the parents to do the drop-off/pick-up line to "facilitate independence." Alright - teacher-mandated parental laziness! I love it. Now I don't have to fuss with make-up or clothing choices or talking to anyone before 9 a.m. I simply pull on some yoga pants and slap on the giant black "I am so mysterious and glamorous with half of my face covered" sunglasses and out the door we head. If I wanted to, I could even drop him off while not wearing any pants at all! Not that I would – that would be weird – but it is nice to have that option in a pinch.

Ethan has been all bright and eager to do it himsel (!) and has taken pride in exiting the car alone and then reemerging, alone, at the end of each day to find me waiting. He scans the horizon each afternoon while he tries to pick out which granite-colored SUV is mine (truly, they all look identical) and when he sees me, his face relaxes into a combination of relief ("Whew! She came AGAIN today."), delight ("Yay! Mommy will have snacks and a juice box!") and a touch of smug superiority ("It is so nice to have my own private car service on demand.")

Ethan has gotten accustomed to an earlier bedtime and has been dare-I-say – cheerful? - during recent mornings. After he has been safely deposited at school in the morning, I return home and shower and dress without my captive audience barging into the bathroom with important questions about "my balloons" (use your imagination on this one) or my favorite, "What happened to my penis to make it look so funny?" (My mom said to tell him, "A boating accident.")

So I thought we were getting the new routine down. Until this morning, that is, when Ethan woke up on the wrong side of bed. By wrong side of the bed, I mean the possessed-by-the-devil, whining, everything-you-do-MOM-is-wrong side of the bed. Without boring you with too many details, by the time we got out to the parking lot, he had removed his pants twice ("NO PANTS! You promised … SHORTS!"), flung a bag of Cheerios under a couch cushion ("I wanted LIFE cereal…") and thrown himself onto the bathroom tile because his hairbrush was "too scratchy!" Super fun morning for all involved. Do not ask me why his head was spinning around and he was about to projectile vomit green pea soup this particular morning because all week he has been Little Mary Sunshine with beams of light coming out of his ass. There is no rhyme or reason. I only have a B.S. in psychology so I will not even attempt to speculate.

Eventually Ethan has been secured in the vehicle and we are hurtling toward his 8:25 a.m.-3:25 p.m. destination, as I am counting down the minutes until I can mainline a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte. YES, whipped! We pull up in front of the school and he will not get out of the car. Here's how it works: You pull up in queue. A teacher opens the car door, unloads the child from the back, helps them adjust their backpack, and leads them on their merry way into the school. But Ethan would not get out. He was holding onto the interior of the car for dear life, SCREAMING. When we had a cat and needed to load him into the carrier to go the vet, the cat suddenly developed fourteen arms and tentacles and it took two of us to smush him into the carrier while he made sounds so ungodly that they haunt my nightmares to this day. It was just like that.

At this point, cars are lining up behind me, some moms are honking, and no doubt wondering what I have done to induce such hysterics. Finally I wrench his little tentacles off the car seat and give him a (gentle) push while the teacher delivers the rest of the dead-weight out of the backseat. Somehow he manages to sit down on the ground in front of my car and is now sobbing with such theatrical vigor that he is going to be a shoo-in for the Oscar category "Best Impersonation of a Prisoner of War – Ages 6 and Under."

I hope he thanks me before his agent in his acceptance speech.

Keeping the Face

One of our neighbors has three children. The middle child's name is Ava Faith. For as long as we have known this little girl, Ethan has referred to her as Ava Face.

"So then Ava Face got on her bike …"

"Ethan, her name is Ava Faith … THHH."

"That's what I just said! Ava FACE!"

My husband and I have adopted this moniker when speaking within the privacy of our house. Outside we call her by the correct name. Last night I came home and Ava Faith was playing in her yard. I asked Ethan if he would like to go out and say hello to Ava Face.

Ethan shot me a "Whatever am I going to DO with you?" look. He patted the empty space next to him on the couch with one hand. It is a sit-down-and -talk-to-me gesture that I use often. I sat.

Ethan placed one hand on my arm and said solemnly, "Mommy, her name is Ava Faith … THHH. It is not nice to call her by something other than her real name. How would you feel if I started calling you Mummy?"

The Lump

The weekend is here. Delicious.

This week was Ethan's first week of kindergarten. There is no bus service for his school, so I have been dropping off (8:25 a.m.) and picking up (3:25 p.m.) since my work schedule is the "flexible" one. Flexible means that when I am not sitting at my desk, my clients only call my cell once every thirteen minutes, as opposed to when I am in the office, and then they call my office phone every four.

The school has sent home approximately 7,000 documents this week, give or take a few hundred. 6,998 of them are about what happens if your child arrives "tardy" to school in the morning or the parent is "tardy" for pick-up in the afternoon. From what I can discern, the punishment is VERY severe, and may or may not include leeches and/or some form of Chinese water torture.

I am not good at being on time. I have never been good at being on time. I could generously be classified as "not a morning person." I think "mornings" should start sometime around 11:30 a.m. and involve brunch and two to three mimosas before requiring any heavy lifting on my part. If I ever become President, that will be my first piece of legislation. All of these factors conspire to make getting out of the house in the early morning exceptionally difficult for me. The other factor conspiring against promptness is the five-year-old involved in this process who is, incidentally, also not a morning person. Given his druthers, we would be in our pajamas, eating Cheerios from the box, watching cartoons until sundown. This, actually, sounds fabulous right about now.

My week in review:

At 6:30 a.m. I have looked at my alarm and thought, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

At 6:40 a.m. I have coffee'd up, showered, dressed, and slapped on a little make-up so as not to scare the other moms at drop-off with the depth and breadth of my undereye circles.

At 7:10 a.m. I have prepared a breakfast chock full 'o nutrients and the proper balance of complex carbohydrate and protein for sustained long-term academic performance (for Ethan, not me - typically I "eat" only coffee until about 2 p.m. This is not because I do not enjoy breakfast - I do! - but because I am always at least ten minutes behind schedule).

At 7:15 a.m. I have made efforts to rouse the troop (singular) with a cheery morning greeting. The Snoring Bed Lump ignores me completely.

At 7:20 a.m. after seeing no activity from The Snoring Bed Lump, I have repeated cheery morning greeting, this time with a firm edge to my voice.

At 7:25 a.m. I have started making empty threats to The Snoring Bed Lump about things that will be taken away if The Snoring Bed Lump does not get up RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND and I MEAN IT. "No bike riding after school! And that pony that someday you might get if we win the lottery? Not now, Mister. And you can FORGET about that drivers license when you turn sixteen … "

At 7:30 a.m. The Lump is now sitting at the table. He is upright and out of bed but for all intensive purposes, still asleep, although not now snoring. I have enthusiastically tried to coax him to take a bite of each item on his breakfast plate. "Try the mango! Look – it so ORANGE! And ORGANIC! And TROPICAL! You will like it! Just one bite! Half a bite! A quarter of a bite? Ok, just put it in your mouth, suck on it for five seconds, then spit it back out on your plate?" The Lump's response: "AHH! The mango is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:37 a.m. I have given up, rinsed off the plate, slammed the last swill of my coffee from the mug and thrown a handful of Mini-Wheats (frosted, of course) in a plastic bag for The Lump to eat in the car. The Lump has now put his head down on the table and appears to be snoring, again.

At 7:38 a.m. I have put toothpaste on the brush because The Lump claims the tube is "too hard to squeeze in the morning when I am soooo tired!" I have coaxed The Lump, unsuccessfully, to engage in a thorough tooth brushing. Response: "AHH! The toothpaste is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:42 a.m. I have given up on efforts at oral hygiene and am making empty threats about rotten teeth and eventual root canals. "Fine, you only want to brush one tooth? When the other nineteen fall out, you are going to be the one to explain to Grandpa why your teeth are now missing." Grandpa is - by trade - a dentist, not just some weird guy interested in teeth. Although, as I type this I realize "some weird guy interested in teeth" is, by definition, what a dentist is …

At 7:43 a.m. I have attempted to sunscreen The Lump, while avoiding direct contact with his breath, since he has only brushed one tooth. Response: "AHH! The sunscreen is TOO cold! It smells funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:45 a.m. I have requested that The Lump get dressed, please? The Lump has collapsed on the floor, spent from resisting everything for the past thirty minutes and from lack of food since The Lump only consumed four calories at breakfast.

At 7:50 a.m. I have asked The Lump, "Why are you still in your underwear?! Please, please, please put your clothes on."

At 7:55 a.m. I have asked The Lump why he still does not have any clothes on and why he has now removed the underwear he had on five minutes ago.

At 8:00 a.m. I have walked out the door with his backpack, his lunchbox, my laptop bag, my purse and my sanity balanced precariously. The Lump has followed holding his pants in his hand, which he will then put on while standing on the front porch. I have smiled cheerfully at the neighbors, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

At 8:02 a.m. I have been stuck in traffic, gritting my teeth, and find myself questioning whether I, after all the oral demands made of the Lump, have brushed my own teeth yet this morning?

At 8:10 a.m. I have restrained myself from pounding the steering wheel with my fists – still in traffic! -- and started to break a sweat thinking about all those anti-tardy leeches.

At 8:20 a.m. I have been responsive DJ for all The Lump's requests. His favorite to groove along with: "Momma, Don't Ya Tickle My Ticklish Toes." [Chorus: Don't ya don't ya don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ... momma, don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ...] Door to door, we can play this nine and one-third times. This song also gets played on repeat all the way home. One week, two round-trip drives per day. You do the math.

At 8:25 a.m. I have peeled rubber pulling into the school lot and dragged The Lump, his backpack, his lunchbox, my purse, and my sanity out of the car and hauled some serious ass into the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at other parents, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

In between drop-off and pick-up, I have worked, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, visited the doctor (always – does anyone else under the age of eighty-eight go to the doctor this much?), and procured more coffee along the way. Notice I do not mention "eating." This is because I have not eaten much of anything until dinnertime, with the exception of a few sad stale Altoids fuzzy from rattling around in the bottom of my purse since 2006. I believe the clinical diagnosis is insane schedule induced anorexia. At this rate, I will be smaller than my high school size by my class reunion in November!

At 3:15 p.m. I have returned to gather Ethan (magically, he transforms from The Lump into a smiley, happy kid sometime around morning snack – his teacher reports how "charming" he is), his lunchbox, his backpack, his homework and my sanity from the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at the other parents, "Good afternoon! How was your day?"

Beginning at 4:00 p.m. I have started supervising homework, lunch packing, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, prepared dinner, run bath, read bedtime stories, tucked in, stalked some people on Facebook, and maybe indulged in a little chocolate and some wine.

At midnight … I have CRASHED.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Jeff noticed my frayed-around-the-edges look tonight and kindly suggested that maybe I wanted to sleep in tomorrow? Until noon?

And I was all ... tomorrow ... until noon? Right now, I want to sleep from tomorrow until June.

Phobia

My friend just sent me an e-mail questionnaire about fears. As a general rule, I do not respond to e-mail surveys. I would like to pretend it is because I am too busy at work to be bothered, but it is more likely because I am too busy at work screwing around on Facebook to be bothered. For some reason, I guess I was in the mood to ponder what scares me. I post below because after spending a full fifteen minutes (a.k.a. $75 in billable hours) completing it, I realized I have been wasting time all day and felt guilty. But if I POST it - I feel less like I am wasting time and more like I am ... Oh, I don't know. I needed a mind break. That is my story and I am sticking to it.

Things I am really scared of:

1. Spiders
2. Terrorists
3. Wal-Mart
4. People that use phrases like "I doesn't …" (see Wal-Mart)
   
5. My bikini wax lady
   
6. Dog ick on public sidewalks (Ethan's shoes always find it and it makes me gag. Bring a baggie, people.)
   
7. Nuts (and Epipens)
   
8. Certain judges
   
9. Blue food
   
10. Bats (the flying kind)
    
11. Blood (mine or that of others)
    
12. Raw chicken (so … eww… sinew-y)
    
13. Visible panty lines (a public health crisis)
    

Things I am not scared of:

1. Roller coasters and upside-down amusement park rides
   
2. Heights
   
3. Dentists (Hi Dad!)
   
4. Horses (or jumping horses over 4-foot fences)
   
5. Big dogs (either the animals or the 1980's T-shirt brand)
   
6. The number thirteen
   
7. Tequila shots
   
8. Aliens
   
9. Rabies (I have been through the full complement of rabies anti-serum, thanks to my ill-fated attempt to rescue a Baltimore stray cat)
   
10. Knock-off handbags (ChanNel – good enough!)
    

Things I am little scared of:

1. Flying (Actually, it is more the crashing that concerns me. The flying part is fine.)
   
2. The teacup ride at Disney World
   
3. Sharks (BUT I would go on a Great White cage dive in a heartbeat. Awesome.)
   
4. Jogging at night (Ok – jogging, in general)
   
5. The fact that I suspect that my Blackberry is smarter than I am and would win in an IQ challenge
   
6. The "7s" question at the neurologist (if you are not lucky enough to have your own neurologist, this makes no sense to you)
   
7. When my husband says "Oh, I can fix THAT!" (if you are lucky enough to have your own husband, this makes perfect sense to you)
   
8. When my husband goes to the grocery store and I actually need specific items (Milk!? What!? And WHERE am I supposed to find something like that?!)
   
9. Raising a teenage boy (someday)
   
10. Not raising a teenage boy (someday)

Regarding said boy, he has his own fairly significant and creative list of fears. Ethan does not like to sleep in his room at night, alone. I wish it were just a simple fear of the dark we were dealing with. But if you met me, you would realize that with my "worry" genes, it likely goes much deeper than that. I (foolishly) thought that we could have a rational discussion about "scary things" by talking about them and thereby alleviate some of the fear. Umm. No. And no.

Salient highlights of this conversation:

Good mother attempt: "Why don't you tell me what scares you and then we can talk about it?"

"Nooooo! I am too scared to talk about it!"

After much cajoling on my part, the list began with, "Seals in the bathtub ..."

Me, confused: "Um? Seals? Like Navy Seals? Like, Miss Rachel's husband? Because he is really nice!"

It turns out he was referring to the "Ark, Ark" kind of seal, the ones that like fish and balancing balls on their noses. Those vicious, blood-thirsty monsters of the deep.

I tried. I pointed out how cute seals were and how they only ate fish and how they like ocean water, not bath water ... but, ultimately, I could not satisfactorily reassure him that I was 100% SURE that there was NO possible way EVER that a seal could not get into our bathtub. Maybe one would escape from the circus in Baltimore and hitchhike thirty minutes up I-95 to our suburb where it would notice that our front door was unlocked and turn the knob with its big flipper then flip up the stairs and discover our bathtub, where it would lay in wait until Ethan's bath that night. Unlikely? Yes. But could it happen? I suppose it could. I just read an article about a woman in Maine who found a 9-foot python in her washing machine. Things happen. And so we moved on to ...

"Men on stilts looking through my bedroom window at night while I am sleeping ..."

Um? I asked (gently, while biting the inside of my cheek) whether he had even SEEN a man on stilts. In our neighborhood. Looking though his window?

He replied, gravely, that he had not. But that he thought about it ALL THE TIME.

I told him that I was fairly certain that men, even those on stilts, were not tall enough to reach up to the second-story window and that if they tried to they would probably be unsuccessful because the window is so high.

I knew I had lost this match when I saw his expression change and yet ANOTHER terrifying thought crossed his mind .... Men on stilts falling off their stilts into crumpled heaps!! INJURED AND BLEEDING men in a giant tangled human pile outside of his bedroom window!! While he was sleeping!!

At which point I had no choice. I was forced to concede that indeed, the world could be a horrifying place, and perhaps he should join Jeff and I in our bed tonight. Just to be safe.

Birds And The Bees

Conversation from the car this weekend:

"Mommy, are you pregnant?"

"Nope."

Long pause ... "Mommy, am I pregnant?"

"If you are, Ethan, you are totally grounded."

Why I Blog

I have been on a blogging siesta. It is summer, after all. There have been other reasons; I have been feeling awful lately – just awful. Poor Jeff is tired of hearing me complain recently that I "feel like I am dying." I have not blogged about it because who wants to read about how I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton and my body is full of lead? How, on weekends, I can sleep for fourteen hours straight and still feel like I have pulled two all-nighters in a row. How I agreed to help my friend out and babysit her one and three-year children and then, in the middle of the day, called my husband at work – sobbing – because I felt like I could not physically keep up with them and was SO MAD at that moment at my ridiculous body, my ridiculous brain, my ridiculous diagnosis.

The second reason stems from an issue more complex. When I started this blog, I did not set "rules" about what I would and would not post. I was strictly in survival mode. I had just been handed a life-altering diagnosis and I had two simple goals: 1) keep family and friends updated because I knew I was in for a roller coaster ride and 2) venting. I had a lot to vent about. I still do. I did not think through the potential implications of posting about family or friends or intimate details or sex or whatever. I just did not. Going forward I feel like I have an obligation to pause and reflect on what I say.

A recent post caused great upheaval in a relationship that was already, at best, fractured. I will not get into messy details (though I would LOVE to) out of respect for certain persons involved. Those in my "real life" know what has transpired and why because we have discussed BlogGate 2008 and the fallout ad nauseam. While I do wish that certain relationships were and could be different, they are not. So I have thrown up my hands and cut my losses. I do not need (extra) negativity in my life at this time (ever?). It is difficult to accept that there are some people who will never treat you the way you wish they would. On the flipside, there are those that will treat you 200% better than you ever expect them to. With my new "life is short" mantra, I prefer to focus on those relationships.

As a result of this tsunami, I debated removing my past blogs. I debated password protecting my posts. I debated stopping blogging altogether. After some serious internal wrestling, I have decided to do none of those things. Here is why:

Blogging is great therapy. I like to write. I enjoy the creative process of sitting down with my computer and committing my thoughts to print. Legal writing is not the same as personal disclosure and analysis.

The sense of community is amazing. It is wonderful to hear from people I have not spoken with in years – people that are thinking about me, praying for me, cheering for me. Thank you, all – your messages make it easier to get through the tough days.

My son. I may need some Kleenex by the time I am done this part. Assuming worst case scenario, I worry about my son. My husband; he'll be ok. He has had ten plus years - and counting - to enjoy (?) me and all my neuroses and personality and company. He'll be just fine ... but my son. My son?

I worry about death. It just seems so – I don't know – final. To be more precise, it is not death per se that I worry about. I worry about the process of death. All the inevitable losses - the loss of independence, the loss of communication, the loss of self. I worry that my son's last thoughts of me might be in this state of decline. I worry that he may never know me as a real person. I worry about my legacy. I want him to know about me. I want a record of my thoughts, my jokes, how much I loved him. Are you crying yet? I am.

So I will BLOG! I will BLOG for me! For the First Amendment! For women with brain tumors and overpriced shoe shopping addictions, EVERYWHERE! I will persevere.

Parting thought: If you do not like it, then stop reading it.

Emmy Material

Grey's! Shame on you! REALLY??! You are my favorite show! Haven't you beaten the proverbial dead horse last season when you killed off all those poor brain patients - slowly, one after the other - in the clinical trials? Except for on the season finale, that plucky virgin/non-virgin poor man's Jennifer Hudson got to live because she SO WANTED TO LIVE, and because she had a nice smile. You did kill off the deflowering boyfriend and the love of her life, however, and that was kind of rude of you.

I so miss the unexploded-bomb-in-body-cavity, man-and-woman-cojoined-by-wreckage-from-horrible-train-accident, how-many-of-the-teeny-tiny-preterm-quintuplets-will-survive storylines. You know, real stuff that actually happens.

Grey's. Seriously. We may have to part ways. It's not you, it's me.

Ok, who am I kidding? I will probably still watch this fall, soley because my neurosurgeon does NOT look like Patick Dempsey (if he did, I would demand tri-weekly house calls). That "doctor", in and of himself, is a fine piece of ... umm? ... entertainment ...

Following material copyright of www.thesuperficial.com - July 17, 2008

After dropping out of the Emmy race and announcing she "wasn't given the material to warrant a nomination," Katherine Heigl basically s*** in the corn flakes of the Grey's Anatomy writers. And now they're striking back:

*Spoiler Alert*

HER CHARACTER GETS A BRAIN TUMOR.

*End spoiler.*

Did I do that right? Us Weekly reports:

“[Producer] Shonda [Rhimes] and the writers are pissed at her,” the source tells Us. “It’s their way of screwing with her. She won’t know whether she’s going to live or die.”

While I admire the writers for exacting their revenge, I'm a little disappointed. A brain tumor? (Oh, s***, SPOILER!) I mean, is that the best they can do? I was hoping for something along the lines of Katherine's character falling in love with Osama bin Laden. Together they try to make things work while balancing their careers. (He's a terrorist; she's a doctor. Wacky!) And, of course, there'd be several subplots where it's revealed her character hates puppies, freedom and the laughter of children. I should really write a pilot.

Surprise! We're at Outback!

Hey 100% Crazy!

I hope you are, right this very second, partying like it is your birthday! Because it IS. But you knew that.

When we first met, you were not sure you liked me that much. Alright, you did NOT like me at all (you admitted this to me later, well after the friendship had been cemented). Because at the time you were a Refined Serious Law Student working at a Major DC Law Firm so someday soon you could have a Big Legal Career doing Important Legal Work and Making Lots of Money. And I was all long blonde hair and lip gloss, ink still setting on my college diploma. I could (and did) spend an inordinate amount of time discussing matters like whether the toenail polish I was wearing was "too red." Sometimes, in my youth, I could be ... sort of ... vapid. Or something. And we had to share an office. I would borrow the stapler and Post-its from your desk and forget to put them back.

Our friendship did not happen overnight. I think, slowly, you got used to the idea of me in your space, not unlike how gradually a toddler realizes that her new little brother or sister is not going back to the hospital, so they may as well make the best of it and stop hitting them over the head with their blocks (at least while mom is looking). Over time, we bonded over our shared horror of certain firm partners' fashion sense (I mean - an electric blue skirt-suit?!) and our shared hatred of interoffice birthday cakes and certain words (you are one of the only people who not only appreciates, but understands, my visceral reaction to words such as "pot roast" or "moist").

You introduced me to the wonders of the Coach store and sauce spoons at Citronelle and lobster lumps (hold those flippery things!). I knew our relationship was serious when you risked your enviable career to commit a minor trespass on my behalf. You know what I mean. (HEY! I wonder if Cabbage is on Facebook yet? I'll be right back ...)

And then, one day, just like that, the two of realized we had become actual real-live friends. We made excuses to stay late at the office so that we could order dinner together in the conference room with RG and talk about things like how my borderline roommate would steal ketchup packets from 7-11. And we would laugh and laugh and laugh and talk and talk and talk. Sometimes I would talk and talk and talk and you would listen. Then we would IM, because one of us (usually me) still had things to say.

On a tangent here: You are the BEST gift-giver I have ever met. On the surface, it seems like giving good gifts might be a shallow remark about you as a person. But, it is not. It is a reflection of how you care so very much about the important people in your life that it brings you joy to give them That Perfect Thing -- that thing they would LOVE, but may not get for themselves. Just this past Easter, you sent me the most gorgeous bouquet of rainbow orchids. Like a party in a vase! When I asked why - for Easter? - you said that I deserved to have something pretty and nice for myself. Just because you wanted to.

I would be remiss if I did not tell you that I think you are one of the most elegant, generous, and supportive people I have had the pleasure to know. I treasure our long friendship so very much. I value and respect all of your advice and your selflessness with your time and spirit.

And ... you totally crack my ass up. I hope we are still laughing together when we are old, old, old ladies (even older than right now).

Hugs (and shit) - J

NO EASY ANSWERS

I am in a rough place right now. I am tired, and sad, and a little bitter. I am trying to go through the motions, and hope it will be alright, but am having a tough time putting on a cheery face. I am, as a result, also having a hard time ignoring the YELLING CAPS LOCK FUNCTION ON MY COMPUTER, either on my blog or my personal emails. I am eating brownies in numbers not recommended by either the American Medical Association or the National Diabetes Board.

The reason for the angst, the CRAZY CAPS TYPING and the chocolate binges: As of two weeks ago, I no longer have a simple neoplasm, mass, or lesion. I "officially" have a non-simple diagnosis: Brain Tumor (inoperable). My job, my life: it is all about semantics.

I am on a watch-and-wait treatment plan for a ... Jesus Christ ... brain tumor. Did I mention the inoperable part? How do doctors even consider something a "treatment plan" if there is no actual treating being done? Nationally Ranked Tumor Board #1 votes scans every three months. Nationally Ranked Neurosurgeon #2 votes scans every year. The only solid consensus is that surgery, given the tumor location, is not viable. As explained to me, over and over, cutting through all that "good brain" will likely kill or disable me. Both options would impair my ability to enjoy either fudgey baked goods OR THE CAPS LOCK FUNCTION.

My June 2008 MRI showed a mass that measured twice as large as it did in November 2007, though there is some debate as to whether that is a significant measurement. November scans were done at UMD. The most recent, at Hopkins. Not even the MRI machines can agree.

None of the neuro-people even know what kind of tumor it is because tumor type cannot be definitively diagnosed without a surgical biopsy. But - they have all guessed (in an educated fashion, I would hope) - AND NONE OF THEM HAVE SAID THE SAME THING. One of my first opinions had me dead at six months, another in the same time period was going to send me home to forget about it and watch "Friends" reruns -- something about laughter and medicine. My cell phone has SIX neurosurgeons' phone numbers programmed into it. I would wager that the general, non-tumored public does not even KNOW a single neurosurgeon.

I guess I should get on with my life, my job, my kid, my fattening desserts and MY RECENT ENJOYMENT OF THE CAPS LOCK KEY, but ... I almost drove into my son's school (more on that later), sometimes I cannot see - only for a second, like a long blink (more on that later), I am forgetting common words, like broccoli (more on that later), I am having large muscle spasms (more on that later). And the fatigue ... the fatigue ... like a bad case of the flu with a side of the flu, at times, I feel like I am seven thousand years old (no more on that later). None of this seems to excite any of the neurosurgical people, probably because I am much much better off than 99.9% of people with brain tumors. But for how long? HOW LONG!? There is no concrete answer. Months, years, decades?

I posted the essay below because it explains the nebulous, frustrating and inexplicable medical reality better than I can right now, and people, who care, keep asking (thank you, to those who ask - and care - I appreciate it).

Bravo to the eloquent author, Neal P. Levitan, Esq. Please take it away, sir:

Copyrighted material: National Brain Tumor Society (2008)
Survivor Stories - Searching for Consensus
By Neal P. Levitan, Esq.

The dictionary defines consensus as a "collective opinion" and "general opinion or accord." My very first encounter with an irresolute opinion was that of a neurologist reading a CT scan in 1982, who diagnosed me as having either a stroke, dementia, or a brain tumor. The diagnosis was further refined after a week-long stay and many additional tests at the Massachusetts General Hospital when I was told I had a tumor in my left temporal lobe that appeared to be very close to the speech center and right motor strip; it was probably a slow growing astrocytoma or mixed glioma, and was probably infiltrating the "good" brain cells with its characteristic octopus-like tentacles; thus the risk of a bad surgical result outweighed potential benefits. The conclusion: I had an inoperable brain tumor. A wait and observe approach was recommended. Although I had tremendous faith and respect for my doctors, I felt I had to take my own initiative to investigate my disease and to manage my own health.

Thus began an extensive search for answers. With the help of a loving family and supportive friends, I garnered the strength to seek additional opinions, and to hopefully find the latest and best treatment modality. I quickly realized that such a search was very idealistic: there was no collective opinion or single new treatment. Rather, I encountered vast disagreement about my disease and the proper course of action to defeat it. This was, at first, very unnerving!

The myriad of treatment options suggested ranged from immediately starting radiation therapy to having a biopsy to determine the exact pathology. One doctor said that "the tumor was there to grow," and recommended immediate partial resection rather than waiting until it became more infiltrative and perhaps more aggressive. Another warned that a partial resection in and of itself may make the remaining tumor more aggressive. Still others recommended new (and in the mid 1980's, experimental) forms of radiosurgery, and one doctor said that regardless of what action I took, I would not be alive in five years.

I also struggled through numerous medical periodicals and research studies, many of which had varied results and conclusions. This further confounded my attempt to ascertain the primary treatment available for my disease.

With all of my research and through all of my meetings and conversations with some of the most renowned neurologists and neurosurgeons in the country, I could not find consensus. What was imparted to me during this process was a wealth of information. With each new consult I learned more about the disease and became better equipped to ask more informed questions. Becoming well acquainted with the different schools of thought on my tumor type, I came to view each new resource and the multitude of information collected as part of a learning curve that would assist me in making the most important decision of my life. While I could easily have been frustrated by the lack of consensus, there was some benefit from all of the disagreement in that I learned about the risks and potential benefits of each treatment option. In the end it was this process that enabled me to evaluate the treatment choice with which I would be most comfortable.

Regrettably, not everyone diagnosed with a brain tumor has the opportunity of time; some are faced with life-and-death decisions which may be ultimately made for them and not by them. For many patients, however, there is some opportunity to learn more about the disease and varied treatment options. The fact that different protocols are available may be regarded as a positive factor; considering that apart from statistics that tend to eclipse the individuality of a person and his illness, there really is no way to guarantee how a particular treatment will affect an individual or his disease.

The challenge of coping with the absence of consensus certainly can be daunting. At first it can seem to pre-empt all hope for recovery. It may be possible to mitigate this negative spiral by focusing on the management of your situation, hopefully with the assistance of others that you are comfortable with. First, it is critically important to maintain a positive attitude and never dismiss the power of hope. Next, it is necessary to secure as much information as possible from reliable sources, including unbiased caregivers as well as patients and families who have knowledge and experience with the same tumor classification. It is similarly important to logically discuss and analyze all of the information obtained with family and trusted friends.

The final step, and in my opinion the most crucial, should be accomplished with a delicate balance of determination and respect. Challenge your physicians to respond to the opinions of their colleagues as well as to your own concerns, so that all of the issues are clear to you or someone you can rely on. Only then will you be armed with the resources necessary to make a decision in the absence of consensus.

Today, I am a thirteen year post-treatment survivor. Fortunately, for those going through a similar experience to mine, the combination of specialized organizations such as the Brain Tumor Society and the internet revolution make it much easier to access information about treatment options, to locate other patients with similar diseases, and to receive support and guidance, than ever before. Such organizations exist to provide help and purvey hope. Hope is an invaluable asset to us all in coping with illness, as well as with the frustration of not being able to identify a single best treatment option. And, hope becomes even more vital when affirmation as to the most appropriate measures for managing your disease does not exist.

Missing The Point

We are at a loss for how to keep Ethan in his own room at night. We have tried time-outs, reassurance, bribes, tying him to the mattress ... we are out of ideas. Without fail, we wake up in the morning (usually around 3 a.m.) and he has wedged himself right into the middle of our bed. And by middle of our bed, I mean he is sleeping on my back (I guess there is also some sort of Oedipal thing at play).

So I have this bright idea that the beginning of kindergarten this fall can coincide with the purchase of a new bed. Right now, Ethan has a very cool bed in the shape of a race car, but it is small, and he is starting to lop over the edges. We go to the furniture store to check out bunk-beds. Ethan is so excited - the height, the ladder, the novelty - he decides bunk-beds are AMAZING and cannot believe we are just now considering one.

When I ask him his thoughts on this bunk-bed purchase, he is overjoyed, "That would be SO great!! Then the WHOLE FAMILY could sleep together in MY room!"

Good To Know!

Ethan told me this morning, randomly, that a Great White shark is "larger than a pick-up truck but smaller than a luxury SUV."

Wonder how much it costs to gas up a Great White shark?

Happily (?) Married

Dear Husband,

Happy Anniversary. On our wedding day seven years ago, I was worried about Very Important Stuff. Like whether the square Swarovski crystals on the bodice of my dress caught the light in photographs, whether my pink lipstick looked too tarty with my white dress, whether your notoriously flaky best man would show up on time AND bring his tux, whether it would rain and force our gorgeous outdoor ceremony to be moved inside and whether my deodorant would hold up through the DJ spinning "Shout" and "We Are Family." You know, the Big Things. We said some stuff about sickness and health and richer or poorer. You cried (perhaps because we footed part of the bill); I did not (perhaps because I did not want to ruin my $200 make-up application). We partied and then we went on a trip and came home and opened presents. Yay! You had a shiny brand-new bride. I wrote you notes and signed them "Your New Wife." Life was good ... and easy.

If we could have predicted the next seven years ... we were aware of certain life hurdles yet to come: finishing law school, studying for the bar exam with a baby to attend to, buying our first house, changing jobs, losing two grandmothers to old age, losing one beloved aunt to breast cancer at an unfairly young age.

But it was what we could not have known that pushed the limits: that my mom would get lymphoma and go through aggressive treatment while our son was still an infant, that I would have a high-risk pregnancy and be sentenced to bed rest for one month before delivery, and then another two months after the baby was born. That I would go on to develop the "worst case" of postpartum depression my doctor had ever treated (hey - you know I play hard or go home). You learned that I had the impressive capacity to cry for seven hours straight without passing out. And you wondered whether the shiny, happy woman that you married would ever return. That our beautiful blonde son, so perfect and lovely in so many ways, would develop a life-threatening medical condition which could stop his breathing and his heart within minutes if he puts the wrong bite of food into his mouth. And that it is now a full-time job - to not just parent, but to make sure he stays alive - every hour, every day, every birthday party, cook-out, play date and amusement park trip. That I have had to inject medicine into his little leg - twice - while he screamed and begged and hit me with his little fists because it hurt so badly - and then rush him to the ER via ambulance to save his life. It takes a toll. Some parents have it harder, no question, but some do have it easier.

And then there is what we could NOT possibly have known, and that if you had told me I would not have wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing myself: In our sixth year of marriage, I would have $25,000 of MRI scans (literally, I just got our health insurance invoice) and a brain tumor diagnosis. That we now have fights about whether you would miss work to visit me in the ICU and that we joke about things you should not do on dates with your future hypothetical second wife (no bringing half-price dinner coupons on the first three dates; she will run screaming). That I cannot get it out of my head that when you left your last firm it was because the owner and President had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor and the firm was going under. That my best friend, not a surgeon at the time, but still in medical school, told you "Find another job now. He has months." And he did. I recall it was less than three months from diagnosis to his funeral. But before that, he had painful disfiguring surgery and lost his ability to work, and then, to walk and to speak. And this is where I wish I could say something inspirational and uplifting, but you know by now, that I am not a "motivational quote" sort of person.

So I will leave it at this: thank you for sticking around, for better or for worse. And all that jazz. It has been quite a ride, so far. I hope we get to toast to another seven, and then another seven after that. I love you.

Your (slightly used and tattered) Wife

Overprotective

Jeff and I celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this weekend. We dated for three-and-a-half years before we made it legal, so I think I should get credit for that time, too. I am all about the numbers.

To celebrate the milestone, we planned to go away to the inn where our wedding was held. We have returned every year for our anniversary, even the year when I was newly pregnant with Ethan and wanted to do nothing but stay home and throw up in the wastebasket, between bites of Ben and Jerry's. This year, I was beyond excited for 600-thread count sheets and a mattress minus its own five-year-old as permanent fixture. (My close friends may recall the recent difficulties we have had convincing Ethan to stay in his own bed at night. He is winning the battle and ensuring, by default, that he will NEVER have the little brother he keeps begging for. On the upside, we are saving tons of money on birth control.)

We arranged for Jeff's parents to watch Ethan while we partook of high-thread count linens and kid-free bed. Ethan has stayed with Jeff's parents in the past, but before we ask them to baby-sit, we always have a serious discussion about whether or not it is worth the headache to try and make plans with them, or whether we just should roll the dice and take our chances with Child Protective Services by leaving Ethan home alone. Without fail, there is AT LEAST one major "issue" that needs to be addressed before Ethan heads up there. And without fail, Jeff and I get so worked up about it, we spend the first day of our trip ignoring each other while we unclench our teeth.

This time it was the guns. When Jeff and I started dating a million years ago, Jeff's dad took me on a tour of their house and proudly introduced me to his cache of weapons --the large gun, the little gun, the mother-of-pearl handled gun, the loaded handgun (stored in the nightstand next to the Kama Sutra manual). When I asked what the nightstand gun was for, he replied, without a trace of irony, "for protection." Which I get -- they live about two minutes from Amish country and it is common knowledge that those crazy Amish are notorious for looting and violence. One can never be too careful.

Fast forward years later, Ethan is born. Before baby Ethan spends time over at his parents, even though Ethan cannot yet hold up his head or focus his eyes, Jeff and I request that the guns be removed from their home. Why take chances with kids and guns? Jeff and I both agree that this is a non-negotiable topic. We talk to his dad, his dad seems to get it, and he tells us he will move the guns to one of his off-site storage units. Fast forward again, five years later, while reading about the recent Second Amendment Supreme Court ruling, it suddenly occurs to me that Jeff's dad owns a garage where he restores old cars. I wonder if this is where he currently stores his guns; I know that while Ethan is visiting, his dad will likely take him to the garage to see the old cars. Jeff and I want to ensure that Ethan is not running around playing at a location which houses an arsenal of unsecured firearms. Call us overprotective.

I ask Jeff to call. This immediately causes Jeff to break out in hives. I am allergic to the environment; Jeff is allergic to talking about anything remotely controversial with his parents. Because they can be mean and scary and have guns. So, after much foot-dragging, he phones and asks his dad where the guns are now stored. It turns out his dad NEVER removed the guns from the home and the guns are in the basement of his house! AND when Jeff asks him, nicely, to remove the guns, for the second time, his dad responds by telling him the guns are in the basement and Ethan never goes into the basement. When Jeff INSISTS that the guns be moved before Ethan's visit, his dad tells him that he can put the guns in the trunk of his car. Which is the same car his dad will use Ethan to drive back and forth to our house ...? And the same trunk where he will throw Ethan's overnight bag ...? Note: the man is not stupid. He has a PhD which he did not get from a correspondence school. The end result: We could not get to the same place on this gun thing so Jeff and I cancelled our trip to the inn at the last minute. I think we probably got charged for it, too, because we cancelled less than twenty-four hours out from the time of our planned arrival. I plan to invoice my in-laws.

The weekend was not a total wash, however. We went to a friend-of-a-friend's Fourth of July party. During the day, it was family pool party time, with hot dogs and popsicles and kids in life jackets and floaties cavorting around the deck. By the time we left after the fireworks, it was full-on grown-up time, with body shots and several couples appearing to fornicate in the shallow end. Not us, I should add. We threw a towel over Ethan's head and bolted. Then we stopped for Taco Bell on the drive home. So that was romantic ...