Attack of the Killer Boobs

Six months ago, I found a lump in my breast. I'm a big advocate of regularly feeling yourself up, because I've walked the breast cancer walk with my mom (not the fundraiser, the real thing) and I'm determined that my kids won't have to go through what I went through with her. So while it is empowering for me to regularly check myself for lumps, it takes some major courage to monitor that aspect of my health. Hands trembling, I do it anyway.

That night I hadn't expected to find anything, as a week before I had seen my doctor for my annual checkup and breast exam. So when I found this lump--this hard, marble shaped mass just below the skin, I freaked. I tried hard not to ask Dr.Google his advice, and I tried so hard not to compare myself to my mom. I'm 35 years old--I never smoked (like she did for 14 years), I breastfed my two kids for a year and a half each because I've heard it lowers your risk for breast cancer, and I eat my 5 fruits and veggies a day. I work out at the gym two to three times a week, unlike my mom who never exercised. I load up on antioxidants on a daily basis--turmeric, broccoli, kale, blueberries, you name it--I'm a walking farmer's market. My mom never did any of those things--I can't end up with her disease, right?

After a preliminary appointment with my doctor, faxed referrals and more scheduling, I'm finally standing in the mammography room. Not so bad--a bit of squishing, arranging, more smashing--whatever, just tell me what this thing is! Then an ultrasound--back to the scene of a happier time when I was pregnant with my boys--a dark room, warmed-up gel, gently whirring computers and sounds of the technician clicking and typing. After playing the worst-case-scenario scenes in my head (I'm really, really good at this), the doctor takes me in the dark image viewing room. The news is good--WHEW--just a fatty deposit. A big, round, hard? fatty deposit. After three years of breastfeeding and a bout of mastitis, it should be no surprise. A few clustered calcifications to check back on in 6 months and I'm good to go. So, so very good.

...and here I am, 6 months later! I'm just back from the re-check, and although I got no sleep last night and I was scared to death of what they might find, again I'm in the clear. Just a simple "Everything looks good, come back in six months so we can keep charting for changes, then every year after that!" from the doctor and I walk out of the Women's Imaging Center, a new (and very relieved) woman. When will I stop feeling like I'm walking in my mother's steps? When will I forget those nights spent by her hospital bed, the days spent in the chemo clinic with patients of all ages and ethnicities, fighting for their lives while the cars zoomed by outside on their way to work, ignorant (or perhaps not) of what life is like on that side of cancer?

Scary stuff, hard stuff to bear, but stuff that I need to start letting go. Although it is a tired metaphor, it is so very much like a war, and those survivors have all the battle wounds you would expect from someone who has stared death so closely in the face. It changes you. You never look at life the same way, you always have a sense of the fragility of life and if you let that sense become the center of your life, you run the risk of letting some of life's greatest moments pass you by. Others may not understand the fear you still carry around like an overstuffed purse, the anxious sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop, the heavy burden of memories that never seem to fade. But as life continues to (try and) teach me, it is meant to be lived. So here's to life, to hearty laughter, to becoming a better person, and to simply enjoying my good health. I lift my cup of green tea with a long sigh of relief.

Feelin Crafty

Since my school plans have changed, I've been craving a new project. After indulging in a day out with girlfriends (a rare treat!), feasting our eyes on fabric and handcrafted goodies, I've got the crafting bug again. Given my thwarted fall plans, the timing could not have been better. I've had my eye on a new etsy-competitor (http://www.artfire.com/) and am busy creating new inventory to start selling again. Since everything I posted on etsy sold, I'm hopeful that my new sewing projects will do just as well. So enough blahblahblah, here's a sample of what I've been working on:

The Inspiration Stash:


My first cuts:


Coming together...



The final product, along with a few others:



More handtowels coming down the pipeline!:


And more...

No News is Good News

It is the beginning of Spring and many folks have either started new resolutions for Lent or have abandoned those they began for New Years. While I haven't made any New Year's resolutions, I do participate in Lent and have decided to make this year's Lenten sacrifice (?) a giving up of my daily online news addiction. Truth be told, it really only included homicides, child abuse trials and middle eastern violence/politics). I'm a crime news junkie--and not one of those I-need-to-keep-up-with-what-is-going-on-in-the-world-so-that-I-can-feel-somewhat-socially-responsible, but an addicted to murder trials and the newest whooping cough tragedies type. It wasn't helping me develop as a person and it certainly wasn't helping me sleep at night.

The first few days were tough--my iPod is bookmarked and after reading my morning emails, my first impulse is to check the big mainstream headlines, then onto the independent news outlets. I could easily spend an hour or two scanning down the headlines, completely immersed in the tiny computer in front of me, unaware of the chalk designs my kids were drawing or the clouds speeding overhead or the smell of coffee in my kitchen. It was truly a waste of time, and while I at first felt deprived of knowing what was going on in the world, I told my friends that if something truly momentous occurred I would know about it. And the very next day--Japan had an earthquake. And I heard about it, within moments of it happening.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, but I didn't need those headlines in the first place. They didn't really add to my knowledge (just my anxiety), they didn't enrich my day, and they actually sucked hours out of my life that I could have spent breathing--really breathing--not poised over my iPod, brows furrowed, heart breaking at every little tragedy from here to Mumbai. I can actually start putting my time and energy toward making the world a better place, not despairing as I read about the world's sorry state. Those first few days of withdrawal were tough, but now that I'm free of the shackles, my morning coffee's never tasted so good.

Sometimes, this is what love looks like

I attended a women's retreat at a Franciscan retreat center when my youngest was just a few months old, toting him along with me and sharing a room with a friend of mine who had also just had a baby. I remember those early days with my son, staring at his tiny new face, marveling at his fingers, his toes, his wispy dark hair and feeling an overwhelming sense of mama-bear love. It's the love of fabric softener commercials, Hallmark specials, baby announcements and the first buds of spring. But there are other kinds of love, of devotion, of moments that you find yourself willing to do whatever it takes for another person. A tougher, more raw kind of love. A love that has grown strong, shredded, raspy with time and pain.

That weekend at the women's retreat we listened to a story about a woman caring for her alcoholic husband, and one thing the speaker said really hit me. She said, Sometimes, this is what love looks like. It hit me because I know what it's like to love someone who is in the pit of despair. I know what it is to feed a loved one, pull down the shades when he wants them pulled down, put away fresh groceries while praying that they are eaten, putting dishes away quietly so as not to disturb troubled sleep. And at the end of the day as I drive the hour back to my own home, to hope that I've made a difference. But the almost impossible challenge? To know when it's time to step back into my own life, to care for myself in the same tender way, to remember that my life is just as important. And the even harder part? To acknowledge the fact that I did not cause this, and I cannot control it's outcome. In the meantime, I'm learning these lessons and doing the best I can to live life with gratitude and the enthusiasm that life deserves.

I'm Getting a Boob Job at 40

Hear me out. I'm 35 now, but I already know what I'm getting myself for my big 40th birthday: a BRCA test. Usually covered by insurance if you have a strong history of breast cancer in your family, it is a blood test that will tell you your likelihood of developing breast or ovarian cancer. More info can be found here: http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Risk/BRCA

After testing, they send you to a genetic counselor, who advises you of your options once your test results are in. If my test were to come back with no BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation I would let it be, and continue to keep up on all of my healthy habits as its still no guarantee that I'm not at risk. If it were to come back positive for the mutation, I'm preparing myself for a prophylactic mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. Breasts seem to be a pain in the ass these days for a lot of women, and I'm prepared to replace them with some fakies.

The good news is that my mom is the only one in the family who has had cancer. Also, hers was estrogen positive, likely caused by the hormonal replacement therapy she was on in the 80s and 90s, like so many other women in this country. (There was a steep drop in breast cancer rates once women started dropping their HRT regimens.) I likely do not have the genetic mutation, but if I do, I'm whacking these things off and getting reconstructive surgery. I will not let this effing disease bite me in the ass. I'm sick of seeing pink on every package of Oreos. I'm sick of hearing about breast cancer foundations. I'm sick of women getting sick. And I'm sick of time standing still each and every time I run my hands over my boobs feeling for something that shouldn't be there. A mastectomy may seem pretty drastic, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. And I end up with new boobs, so I have the cleavage of a 40 year old when I'm a healthy, active, alive 80 year old.

A little Urban Archaeology to Start off your Weekend...

A friend of mine just posted this story on Facebook (you know who you are!:), which fascinates me and every other history geek/art buff/europhile in Cyberville. Here's the scoop: an old woman died in the south of France recently. She just happened to be the granddaughter of a 19th century socialite who counted a famous artist among her many lovers. What makes this story so great is not just the fact that they found a 'lost' painting worth 2 million euros among her belongings, but that when they unlocked her apartment, they were the first to step foot in it since the 1930s. But it gets better: the granddaughter had inherited it from Grandma Socialite and barely accessed it herself prior to the 30s, which means that this apartment looks just as it did around the year 1898. Holy crap, Batman! This is a major treasure trove, and I hope they turn it into a museum or something. If you're a freak and into abandoned buildings and secret rooms like I am, I encourage you to google more on this story--there are more pictures out there of this place.


CrabbyGolightly: You Can Have The Masterpiece: I'll Take That Parisian Flat

I wrote my Mom an email today.

Yeah, you read that right. It just felt like something I needed to do.* I'm one of those grievers who doesn't care what the experts say is the normal time frame to grieve. And if someone tells me that it's been four years and that I should just get over it already, well, fuck 'em. If I need to spend a day talking to my mom out loud, I'll damn well do it. I'm not ashamed of looking like a crazy lady.

Only now do I realize what my Nina told me in the days after my mom's death is true--that grief never really goes away. At the time she told me that, I thought, Well that sucks. My second thought was, That can't be true. All the books clearly state that grief has a one-year average shelf life. Four years out now, and I can attest to the fact that my Nina was right all along. It never really goes away, does it? It just burrows in deeper, settling into your heart like a kitten in a bed of newspapers. There are certainly days when I don't notice it as much--when the sun seems to shine brighter, when I can laugh easily, when I can't recall all the details of an earlier life. And then there are the days like today, when I can hear her voice again just on the edge of my dreams, when memories of a day we spent together or a conversation we had come back with ringing clarity. Those clear memories are both a blessing and a curse. So I toss aside the books on grieving, and I stop listening to the experts, and I just go with that shit. I cry all day if I feel like it, and I talk to her, and turn up her favorite music and I write her an email. It hurts on a level I never could have imagined, but it feels a little like healing.

* No, I didn't get a response. Can you imagine if I did? That would have made the papers. Instead, though, a dragonfly whipped by my face about seven times, the most insistent, persistent, consistent dragonfly I've ever seen. He was all up in my grill. I'll take it.