Monday

            Monday morning we were running right on schedule. I should have known the day was not going to go according to plan. I mean, how often are you on-time if you have children? We had to be at Vacation Bible School early because I’m a volunteer. I sent the kids upstairs to plug in their hand held games and I put their breakfast on the table. I heard a thunk and a loud shriek of pain.

            I found Owen on the stairs crying and covering his face. He had dropped his PSP so I didn’t know if he was injured or simply in mourning for killing his brand-new game. He gets pretty dramatic about very minor bumps and bruises so I wasn’t concerned just yet. When he moved his hands away to talk to me I realized his shrieks were well earned. He had landed on stairs mouth first. He hadn’t broken or lost a tooth but there was a nasty cut inside his lip and lot of blood in his mouth. We thought his front tooth might be loose.

            I called the pediatrician’s office and spoke to the nurse. I didn’t know if we should go to the emergency room, the doctor’s office or the dentist. She was marvelous and patient and advised me to call the dentist—apparently they don’t suture the inside of the mouth unless it’s really serious. My next call was to the dentist who was able to see us right away.

            It turns out that there is a very minor crack in his front tooth—we could only see it when he shined an ultra violet light at it. The dentist said it probably won’t be an issue. He said in very rare cases it might mean a root canal down the line—but that was very unlikely. Owen doesn’t know what a root canal is, but the word made him burst into tears. Smart boy—maybe smarter than the dentist who said it in front of him.

            When we got home I let the boys watch old episodes of Sponge Bob and fed them a variety of easy to eat foods—smoothies, popsicles, Ramen noodles. I spent most of the day trying to make Owen comfortable. I managed to send out the following Tweets:

My 9 year old took a face plant on the stairs this morning. Emergency dental visit & now Advil, popsicles & Sponge Bob marathon. #rainyday

and

Plan for the day-do something fun b/f James' surgery on Thursday. Reality: injured Owen, emergency dental, raining & bickering. #awesome

            After feeding the boys and putting to them bed, Dan and I needed some time to chill out. We poured ourselves a drink and settled down to watch The Tudors—one of our favorite flavors of brain candy (did I mention how much I loved having Netflix instant view this week?). A little before 9:00 there was a quiet knock on the front door. It sounded like someone who didn’t want to wake the children.

            My husband opened the door. My best friend was standing on our front steps. She is a private person so, I’m going to call her Kate Sterling*. Kate and I have been friends since we rode the bus together in elementary school.

“A little birdie told me you were having a bad day,”  she said as she handed over a large shopping bag that contained a box of gourmet cupcakes, a bottle of really good bourbon, a bouquet of sunflowers, and cards for both of the boys. She had read about my day on my Twitter stream and came to cheer me up.

            I have a lot of blessings in my life that I talk about on this blog. My kids are (usually) healthy, we have nice home and plenty of food to eat. I have a great extended family and a fabulous husband. One of my blessings doesn’t get mentioned on my blog as often is this friendship that has lasted for over thirty years. Kate is as close to me as a family member. When describing her, I often say, “If I called her at 3:00 in the morning to ask for help, she’d be on her way before I could tell her what the problem was.”  This week, when I was having a rough time, I didn’t even need to ask for help and she was there. Kate Sterling, you are an amazing person. I’m so thankful you are in my life!

*Kate Sterling is a character we invented nearly a thousand years ago.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Mam

            This is a continuation of the blog post I wrote on Friday as I awaited a follow up appointment I was asked to make after my first-ever mammogram. If you haven’t read it, you can check in out here.

            I headed across town for my new appointment a little before 9:45. It isn’t far, but you either hit all green lights or all red lights crossing the City of Champions. I was lucky enough to hit all green lights, which I took to be a good omen. I have the unique ability to interpret just about anything into a good sign—I think I may put that on my resume one of these days.

            So I found a parking space (another good sign) and headed into the hospital. The Women’s Imaging Department is not far from the Emergency Room, but it has been clearly decorated to create a calm atmosphere. Rita (my new best friend) greeted me warmly. I thanked her profusely for getting me an appointment that morning. She assured me it was a win-win situation. Someone had cancelled moments before I called.

            I took a seat in the waiting room and took out my journal to write. I only jotted down a paragraph or two before Karen, the tech who would be taking my new mammogram called me in to change into my elegant hospital robe. She reminded me in voice and demeanor of my friend Pat who has stage-managed many of the plays I’ve been involved with. Pat is in the medical field herself and has a great balance of authority, compassion, and no-nonsense practicality. I felt instantly comfortable around Karne and found myself telling her the same sort of inappropriate jokes I would with Pat.

            “I want to explain why you’re here,” she said. “There was some calcification in the last picture we took. Most of the time that’s normal. Since that was your first mammogram we have nothing to compare it to so we want to take another picture with the magnifier so it will be bigger.”

            I stifled a giggle, “I’m trying not to make a crack about you taking pictures that will make my breasts look bigger. Besides, you’ve probably heard them all.” I said.

            “I probably have,” she laughed. “But don’t let that stop you.”

            Karen asked if I had any discomfort with the first mammogram. I told her that I hadn’t—in fact it was not as bad as I had anticipated. She looked slightly impressed.

“Maybe nursing my kids for a couple of years desensitized me a little,” I suggested.

            “Could be,” she said. “But I don’t think it makes much difference.”

            She took the first picture with the magnifier on the machine. It did was a bit more uncomfortable than the time before. Normally, if something hurts—like a blood test or an injection, I take a big breath. But being pressed up against the machine made inhaling almost impossible. The second picture was done at a different angle and I had to have my arm outstretched. It was not enjoyable. “Oooooh,” I said as the machine was pinched down.

            She seemed impressed again, “Wow, all she says is oooh.”

            I wonder what other women say? Do they swear? Or yell? I was too busy trying to not do either so I didn’t ask.

            When the mammogram was over Karen said, “You were awesome. I really mean that.” I don’t know if they say that to everyone or if I really tolerated the test better than most. I’m choosing to believe that I’m a bad ass.

            I was brought back into the waiting room and told to relax.

            “That’s an order?” I said.

            “I was just going to add that,” said Karen. The radiologist is going to look at the pictures now.” She went on to tell me that most likely it was just calcification and they’d have me back in six months to make sure nothing has changed. I jotted down a few more sentences in my journal. There was a set up in this waiting room with coffee, tea and little packets of graham crackers and saltines. I hoped that didn’t mean I was going to be in here for too long.

            Karen came back in and sat down next to me. She said there was calcification and some other very small spot they wanted to have a look at. Most likely it was a lymph node or a small cyst—both of which were nothing to be concerned about. It became very clear to me that Karen had been very well trained in preventing patients from freaking out. She was absolutely calm and reassuring. “We’d like to do an ultrasound as well,” she told me. “We can do that right now if you want.”

            “Why not,” I said, gesturing to the hospital johnny I was wearing. “I’m here and I already have my shirt off.”

            She laughed and escorted me to the dimly lit room where the ultrasound was to be given. I had an ultrasound in this same room after I lost my first pregnancy ten years ago. If you had asked me the day before to describe the room I couldn’t have told you anything about it at all. But the moment I stepped in I remembered it clearly. Fortunately, I hardly ever see bad omens in anything.

            After a mammogram, an ultrasound is almost relaxing. The tech was a young woman who was just as reassuring and professional as everyone else I had encountered. She couldn’t find the spot the radiologist had seen on the mammogram and wanted to have him take a look. “I’m going to go and see if he’s available. If it’s going to be more than a couple of minutes, I’ll come back and let you know.” 

            He came in moments later, introduced himself and repeated the ultrasound. “It looks like a lymph node,” he told me. “That isn’t unusual. It can be hard to tell on a first mammogram because there is nothing to compare it to. I’d like you to come back in six months just to be sure nothing has changed” He made sure I understood and I was free to go after I had another lovely chat with Rita to make my appointment for September.

            The sun was shining when I went out to my car. I was relieved and tired and ready for lunch. I stopped by the packie* and picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon. It’s the good stuff for when my husband and I want to splurge a little. When I was checking out, the clerk asked to see my ID. Apparently, I look pretty young. Now that was a nice follow up to my follow up.

*That’s Massachusetts speak for liquor store