Stress? Me? Nah!

            I’ve been toting a four-inch thick three-ring binder everywhere with me these days. It contains the script and vocal score of the production of The Secret Garden I’m directing for a local community theatre group. I’ve been spending my lunch break pouring over my script and it has attracted some attention. Some coworkers sit elsewhere assuming I’d like to be left alone but others ask about it. I really don’t mind either way. I do most of my work at home but if I can block a page or two in the break room it is just a little bonus for me. If I’m interrupted, that’s fine too. I’m as eager to talk about my show as a grandparent showing off pictures of their newest grandchild.

            One of my coworkers caught my eye as I was pulling the binder out of my locker the other day. “How’s your show going?” she asked me.

            “It’s going really well,” I told her.

            “I bet it’s really stressful,” she said.

            I thought for a moment and said, “You know, it really isn’t.”

            I’m definitely under stress. It’s no easy trick to juggle a show, my blog, my family, my home, and my job. But the show itself isn’t particularly stressful. It seems like it ought to be—doesn’t it? I have a cast of thirty actors (some of them children), plus stage parents, plus crew and a thousand decisions to be made. How high should this platform be? How white should Lily’s costume be?  Do we want floor microphones or stand microphones? Would my character touch his character? What color should the flowers in the garden be? What should the clouds on the backdrop look like? Can I get a haircut? Do I have to shave my beard? Should we go out for a beer after rehearsal? Obviously, some decisions are easier than others.

            I listen to these and a thousand other questions at each rehearsal and production meeting. I get them as e-mails and text messages and on my Facebook wall. Do they stress me out? Nope. They are like oxygen. I am back in my element and I have missed it. I can be exhausted from dealing with customers and helping my children with their homework and getting dinner on the table. But the moment I start working with the cast, I am invigorated.

            Managing to get everything done—that’s stressful. Helping the boys with homework while making dinner and realizing I am missing a single key ingredient to every dish I can think of because I didn’t get to the grocery store—that’s stressful. Trying to make lunches for the kids to take for school while I’m making breakfast because I was too tired to do the night when I got home from rehearsal—that’s stressful. Running out the door on a Friday to work a night shift and saying goodbye to my husband whom I have hardly seen all week—that’s stressful. Coming up with a really great idea for a blog post and not having time to write it down—that’s stressful. But the show? Not stressful.

            I am blessed to be working with a cast and crew that is not only talented, but thoughtful, hardworking and dedicated as well. There is not one prima donna among them. The stress of juggling it all would no doubt be too much without my remarkably supportive family. My husband has helped out in a thousand ways both small (like encouraging me to nap on Saturdays) and large (like taking on the Cub Scouts). He is there with an encouraging word and the occasional cocktail at the end of the night. The boys don’t quite understand why theatre is so important to me yet. But someday they’ll find something they are truly passionate about and they’ll understand. Unless they don’t. Now that will be stressful.

RemembeRED: Sleepy Time

            This week's memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club was: Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself. Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self. Word limit is 600. Constructive criticism is most welcome. I must admit I had a hard time choosing one scene from my life for this assignment.

Sleepy Time

            According to the unkind digital face on my bedside table, it’s almost 3am. When I first started working a nightshift it wasn’t unusual for me to have trouble falling asleep when I got home. Now two years have gone by and I can usually get to sleep within an hour or so. But tonight I had a difficult and angry customer. I replay the scene over and over again in my head—things he said, things I said, things I wish I had been clever enough to say. As I lay in bed the need for sleep becomes urgent. A mother can function on very little sleep but she can’t do without it altogether. I try to push the confrontation out of my mind. My skin should be thicker after all these years in customer service, but it isn’t. I’m angry at the customer and frustrated with myself. I take way too much to heart. So I’m still awake when James comes in the room.

            “Mommy?” he says, unable to see me in the dark room.

            “Are you okay Sweetie?” I ask.

            “I had a bad dream.”

            I pick him up. He clings to me. His skinny legs wrap around my waist and hold on tightly.  He’s shaking a little. “Let’s get into your bed,” I tell him. “We’ll cuddle up and you can tell me about your dream.” He rests his head in the curve between my shoulder and neck and I feel him begin to relax as we walk down the hall. He is four years old, but in these hours between night and day he is still my baby.

            The boys’ night-lights make the apple green walls glow softly. I put James into the lower bunk and climb in after him. There is plenty of room for both of us—neither one of us is very big. I pull the Lightning McQueen blanket over us. He still clings to me while as he tells me his dream.

            “There were monsters,” he whispers.

            “What were they doing?” I asked him.

            “They were chasing me.”

            “Maybe they just wanted to play tag with you,” I said.

            I feel James shaking again, but this time he is giggling softly, “Mommy! Monsters don’t play tag.”

            “Are you sure? Did you ask them? Maybe they were bored.”

            “I’ll ask them next time,” he says. “Mommy? Will you stay with me?”

            “Of course Honey,” I tell him. I plan to go back to my own bed after he drifts off to sleep.

            He cuddles closer and plays with my hair as he falls asleep. It is something he used to do when he was nursing. I think about our late nights together. My elderly pediatrician told me I’d miss those moments. As a sleep-deprived new mother, I didn’t believe him. I was wrong.

Sleep finally finds me in that darkened room with my baby in my arms. I comfort him. He comforts me. My frightened child has exorcised the angry customers from my mind.

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

             

RDC: Normal at the Beach

      This week's Red Writing Hood meme: Water gives life. It also takes it away. Write a short piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements. Word maximum is 600.    

      I've been playing with this character Michaela, a young widow, and her family on and off for a while. I'm hoping some day they'll come to life in a novel. Here is the first time they've appeared in public. Constructive criticism welcome!

Normal at the Beach     

“Mommy! Look at the size of the fish I caught!” yelled Brianna. She led me over to the old pickle bucket that held the day’s “catch”—minnows, tiny shrimp, hermit crabs and periwinkles. One minnow, slightly larger than the rest swam in frantic circles around the edge of the bucket.

            “Wow, Sweetie. He’s huge,” I said. She grinned at me her and eyes nearly disappeared into her chubby cheeks—the last bit of baby fat left on her. Brianna was getting leaner and taller by the day and leaving babyhood behind.

            “Mom! Can you help me?” called John. “I need to build a moat and make the wall stronger. The tide is coming close to my sandcastle.”

            “Can I help too?” asked Brianna.

            “Yeah, come on! We need to hurry,” he yelled.

            We followed John as he ran through the salt marsh back towards the beach.

The rising tide was only five or six feet away from the thick walls of his castle. A moat and a retaining wall would buy his structure a little time. John, our seven-year-old foreman directed us where to dig and where to pile the sand higher.

           

My mother, as usual had been right—it had been a good idea to come here. After this winter, we needed to just play in the sun for a while and try to find a new version of normal.

            “You should go down to the cottage as soon as school is out,” she said to me. “Take the first two weeks of July.”

            “I don’t want you losing out on renting it for July 4^th weekend Mom.”

            “This is more important than some rent money,” she insisted. “You and the boys need a break. They need to go somewhere they can just be kids—play in the sand, eat pizza and fish and chip, see some cousins, get some air. And you need it too Michaela. You’re too thin.”

            That caught me off guard. My mother had always noticed when I gained weight,. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I was too thin. But then, I had never been a widow before. Barry died in September and we limped through the school year. Sometimes pretending to be a normal family and sometimes not even bothering to pretend.

           

            John piled more and more sand on the retaining wall while Brianna and I dug the moat. “Do you think this is deep enough John?” I asked him. He scrutinized the trench we were digging.

            “Yes,” he decided. “It’s deep enough, but I think we should make it go around the perimeter of the castle wall.”

            I smiled at his intensity and his vocabulary—so much like his dad. I thought about the last time we were all here together. The two of them working side-by-side all morning building a Cape Cod Camelot. Barry had made sure the castle was built further away from the water—something I had failed to do this time. “Come on Mom!” John insisted. “We need to dig all the way around for protection.”

            We got back to work until the moat surrounded the castle. Tired and hot, we rested on our blanket while the water swirled into the trench. The castle was safe from the tide for now.

            “Thanks Mom. Thanks Brianna,” John said. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”

Yes Mam

 

I had my first mammogram earlier this week. I had no intention of bringing it up in my blog—I thought it was too personal. Then I realized that if I’m writing a blog to chronicle the journey from the 30’s into the 40’s mammograms deserve a mention. It isn’t all about realizing that confidence is sexier than a tiny waistline. Parts of this journey are not as much fun.  Besides, if I’m going to write about my children’s love life or my miscarriage, a mammogram really isn't that personal.

            The first thing I’m going to say about mammograms is, it isn’t as bad as you think it’s going to be. If getting a little squish means detecting something early, it’s certainly worth some discomfort. For me, it was much easier than getting a pap smear. I think a lot depends upon the technician doing the test. Bonnie was professional and relaxed and seemed to make it her business to make the test as comfortable as possible. After the test she told me that they would make sure the picture came out okay and I’d get a call if they needed to see me again or I’d get a form letter saying everything was fine.

            The other reason I changed my mind about writing about the mammogram experience was the message waiting from me when I got home from work yesterday. It was the Women’s Imaging Center (that sounds so much more glamorous than a place that does ultrasounds and mammograms doesn’t it?). They wanted me to call back right away. Um… I was really looking forward to receiving that form letter.

            I spoke to a lovely receptionist named Rita who booked an appointment for me for Tuesday at 1:00. I had today off but she had just booked the last Friday appointment. That means waiting through Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and half of Tuesday. I’m a “worst case scenario” kind of person. I can’t help it. It’s a genetic gift from my Irish grandmother. Nana would be convinced one of her kids had wrapped their car around a tree if they were fifteen minutes late for a visit. I’m not the only one—the branches of my family tree are heavy with tiny, stubborn, brunette worrywarts.

            So I called Rita right back with my cell phone number and assured her that I could be at the hospital at any time today at a moment’s notice if they had a cancellation. I explained that I’d be obsessing about this the entire weekend. She took the number and then said, “Call me back first thing tomorrow. You never know.” 

            I called while I was waiting for the school bus to arrive and God bless Rita! They can see me this morning. I almost cried with relief when she told me—Tuesday is so far away. Do you know how much bourbon and how many cheeseburgers I could consume yoga and meditation I would have to do between now and then to alleviate my anxiety?

            I realize that this could be absolutely nothing. It could be a shadow on the image or some kind fibroid or calcification. Or it could be something that isn’t nothing. Fortunately I won’t have to wait until Tuesday to find out. Rita assured me that they wouldn’t let me leave until two radiologists had looked at the pictures and someone would speak to me. It’s only about an hour or so away at this point. I think I can wait that long.

            On a MUCH brighter note. It’s time to announce the winner of my give-away! I took a very scientific route to choose the winner. Each entrant’s name was written down on a little scrap of paper, dropped into my favorite Red Sox cap and blindly selected be me. The winner is…Ryan! I will e-mail you the gift code today.

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