jennethink

THE CIRCLE DANTE FORGOT

I saw a cartoon once. It showed a man standing in front of two entrances. A stereotypical Old Scratch, complete with pitchfork and horns, is urging him to choose between two doors. Over one door hangs a sign that reads "Eternal Damnation" over the other "Kitchen Remodel"

 

A tough choice indeed.

 

About oh, three years ago, after one particularly frustrating chemo treatment, I decided to take a sledgehammer to the wall separating the kitchen and the dining room. This set off a chain of seemingly eternal events and a major case of the "while we're at its" around the Frommpound. Walls came down, beams went up, ceilings were removed, floors were destroyed and we learned to live in a constant state of not finished yet. What started as a quick project has grown and lingered. And grows and lingers still. In my business I call that "scope creep". In my house I call it status quo. Still on the to-do (too-due?) list: The installation of the oven hood. The cabinets need to be painted (for a third time and a third color). The concrete countertop for the island (that would be the countertop that was dropped during the first install and had to be recreated) still needs to get installed. The pantry needs shelving and the baseboards don't exist. And that's just off the top of my head.

 

However, today the floor in the kitchen was finally completed.

 

Did you hear me? THERE'S A FLOOR IN THE KITCHEN!

 

We're not in paradise yet, but we're one step further away from hell.

THE RESULTS ARE IN … SORT OF

There is part of me that feels badly for not adding a postscript to my last post ... just a little note to let readers know the tests for the lumps in my right knocker all turned out okay. Part of me feels terrible that I caused readers to worry. Part of me realizes it was almost cruel to leave a cliffhanger like that - to not give all the details. Part of me thinks I should have made that post longer ... so I could give all the ins and outs about the follow-up films and the 3 hours of waiting in that room for an ultrasound and a consultation and a rescan and finally the all's well. Part of me grimaced when I read sweet comments from anxious people and part of me apologized when I responded to emails and phone calls and texts that I received nearly immediately after posting that last post.

 

But only part of me.

 

 

The down and dirty is this: the one lump was a group a cysts - little tiny micro-cysts that are nothing to worry about. Cue the ph-shew sound. I was told the other lump is "a nothing thing". Which between me, you and the ultrasound tech, isn't comforting at all. What the cuss is a "nothing thing"? ... isn't the very fact that you're calling it a "thing" mean it IS something? Which is sort of what I asked ... sort of. Maybe not that tactfully. The doctor who read the films tried to comfort me in the room by saying "well, it could just be a lymph node." Oh. Ducky. Clearly, someone hadn't read my medical history. Telling a lymphoma survivor a lump is "just a lymph node" is a little like telling an agoraphobic it's "just The Duggers" coming over for dinner. Bottom line, as with many things, that lump is a "watch it and see". The doctor wasn't worried. My oncologist wasn't worried. We know it isn't breast cancer. And that's awesome. We know (since we've been monitoring it) it isn't growing. And that's awesome too. Sometimes I think my body just likes to keep me guessing. Likes the attention maybe. Dunno. All I know is since June 2006, partly because of situations like this, I haven't really fully exhaled.

 

So maybe that's why only part of me felt badly for making you wait for the news. And I know, it's not my job to teach you what a cancer survivor feels like or deals with, but a little empathy goes a long way in this world. And be grateful, I could have told you about the four days last month we thought I was going to have to have open heart surgery.

 

ABBY NORMAL

It's not surprising that I check myself often for lumps. Lumps in and around my neck - where 3 years ago, my cancer stood out like twin bolts and morphed me into some sort of female Frankenstein; lumps under my arms - where my father's cancer was discovered; lumps on my ankles and feet - where my cancer first made itself known by causing a secondary condition. Lumps in my groin, in my side, in my chest. It's not surprising that on any given day I'll reach up - nearly mindlessly - during a conversation, meal, while driving - and poke and prod around ... hyper-vigilant for any swelling, any inkling of swelling, the mere thought of swelling. It's become almost a ritual - this constant checking. I've memorized the bumpy feel of the hardened tissue beneath my biopsy scar. I know the exact size and position of my normal lymph nodes - so much so that when my lymph nodes do swell or feel the slightest bit enlarged my tongue darts frantically around my mouth looking for anything - a sore, a loose tooth, a cut gum - anything that could explain the benign nature of an enlarged lymph node. I know every ridge of my throat and the detailed topography under my arms and around my groin. I know how to distinguish between fatty tissue and thickened skin and anything more sinister. To say I know my body is an understatement. It would have to be, wouldn't it? Hourly my hands flit about - touching, feeling, resting, moving on ... checking, registering, making sure.

 

It is always a relief when I come away clean. When my hands drift back down to my lap, my fork and knife, the steering wheel - I know, at least for the moment, that I'm okay. Still here. Still okay. Still cancer-free.

 

It's not surprising I often check for lumps. It was surprising when I found one. Make that two. Both in my right breast.

 

Cue mammogram. My first.

 

I know. Seems crazy that I haven't had one yet. Seems almost like it should be a job requirement of mine since I spend a good deal of my year flitting about the country telling everyone else in the whole ding-dong world to get one. But, since I was diagnosed with my own lymphatic cancer at 36 and since I get regular PET scans to monitor that cancer (or rather absence thereof) and since PET scans show active cancer in your body (well, not YOUR body ... I'm sure your body is fine, I just mean anyone), a diagnostic mammogram wasn't necessary. Until now.

 

I've had many, many medical tests in my life. Pap smears, ultrasounds, x-rays, needle biopsies, surgical biopsies, even a lung washing (always knew I had a filthy mouth … never knew I had such dirty lungs!). EKGs, EEGs, MUGAs and echocardiograms. Pulmonary functions tests, CT scans, MRIs, endoscopies, IVPs and a lovely little test called a cystogram involving a tube, a camera and a very full bladder. It would be difficult for you to name a diagnostic test I HAVEN'T had at one time or another. All of them have their little rituals. None of them are terribly comfortable or terribly uncomfortable. They just sort of are what they are. And all of them, in a way, make a lot of sense. To test your lungs, for example, you breathe into a tube. That makes sense, I can understand how someone designed that test. Good going. And to test the electromagnetic activity of your heart, electrodes are hooked up to your skin that can monitor your hearts' electric signals. Yep. Got it. Totally makes good sense. Nice thinking there Mr. EKG. But how in the hell someone thought it was a good idea to smash the ever-lovin life out of two perfectly good tits is beyond me. Really? THIS is the best we can do here? And I KNOW why. I get the whole concept. But man oh man. Those were some flat knockers. And AND the whole routine is just ridiculous. Move here, hold this, turn that way, no not that way, too much, lift that up, hang on let me move it, on your toes, now put your chin here, no not there, keep holding that handle, your chin's in the way again, shoulder back, not too far, right there...

 

NOW HOLD THAT POSITION.

 

And in that moment, I stood there thinking… I should try out for Cirque du Soleil. I'm a friggin' contortionist! A contortionist with really flat funbags. They pay big money for that in Vegas, babies.

 

On that day, my mammogram dance is pretty straightforward. Smash em this way, snap a picture. Smash that way, snap a picture. Smash em this way again…WATCH THAT CHIN!...snap a pic. Once I'm released from the jaws of the machine and my partner the technician and I part. I'm given instructions to wait and I'm led into a tiny room. She leaves to show the films to the radiologist so he or she can check them to make sure they got what they needed. My history with tests tells me there are two reasons the tech will poke her head into my tiny room and ask me for another dance.

 

1) She's no good at her job and the films are lousy.

2) There is something there and they need more pictures of it.

 

 

I love courtroom dramas. I grew up watching them. True life or fictional, I'm all in. I just get caught up in the story of it all. I especially love the moment when a jury leaves to deliberate and the tension builds - both for the prosecution and especially the defense. I love watching the clips of the innocent-until-proven-guilty party sweat. I love scenes where the team of lawyers plays and replays their strategy ... Did we do enough? Did we make a compelling case? Was that witness to be believed? How strong is the evidence? I love hearing theories about the length of deliberation ... some say when a jury takes a long time, the verdict will be Not Guilty. Some say the opposite. Some say there is no way of telling. One thing is sure. The longer it takes, the more the tension builds.

Did he/Didn't he?

Will they/Won't they?

 

 

I sit in that tiny room and I go through all the arguments. But I can come up with no good reason why this is taking so long. The longer it takes, the more the tension builds:

Is it/Isn't it?

Do I/Don't I?

There is a small one-hanger closet in this room. There is a 2 foot wide bench. There are 2 doors - one from the lobby into the tiny room and one from the tiny room into the exam room. If both doors are open at the same time, their locks brush each other. Above the bench is a mirror. On the bench is a box of wipes. There is a single canned light in this room. It casts a feeble light and makes everything shadowy and dim. On the opposite wall is a framed print ... it's pink ...it has a butterfly on it...it has words in a curly font that say something about empowerment, which is the last thing I feel.

 

Is it/Isn't it?

Do I/Don't I?

 

There's not a lot to do in this room. Sitting on the bench, I can literally touch the opposite wall. Standing in the middle of the room I can touch both doors. The framed print is the only reading material in that room. I read it twice. I hate it both times. The canned light has cobwebs. Not a lot. A few. There is a hamper in the bottom of the closet. I assume it is for the half-gown I'm wearing. It has a label that says "soiled laundry" which makes me wonder just what happens in these gowns?

Is it?

Do I?

 

I can touch the top of the cabinet if I stand on my toes. It's dusty. The framed mirror hangs by a wire on a nail. The mirror is heavy enough that if nudged by the corner, it will stay crooked. I pass some time by unfolding and refolding my clothes since I'm not allowed to dress. I remain clothed in the sideless sleeveless drape I was given. I feel disposable. I'm covered, but just barely. It's not cold but I have goosebumps. Every time I fold my arms under my drape my fingertips brush the lump that brought me here.

Isn't it?

Don't I?

 

I sit.

I stand.

I sit again.

 

And that's when it hits me -

 

I will be in this room for the rest of my life.

 

 

I will be waiting to hear

Waiting to know

Wondering

Pondering

Hoping

Scoffing

Speculating

Planning, preparing, pleading, praying.

 

There are two doors to this room, but no way out.

OPEN LETTER TO THE 20 SOMETHING YEAR OLD WHO IS TALKING ON HER MOBILE TO HER OH MI GAWD BFF WHO SHE CANNOT WAIT TO OMG SEE IN LIKE 30 MINS TO HAVE A REAL BONDING SESS WITH!!!!!!!

It's a telephone. Not a megaphone.

Love,
Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

PUSS FACE 2009

Well, it's clear I have an issue. The thing is, I'm not aware I'm doing this face. I mean, yes, I know I HAVE done it, occasionally, but in the moment, I think I'm just being fun and pose-y. I have no clue until download later that I've done the face again. But I didn't really grasp that I had an issue until I was searching through the files for my year in review pictures. Seems like Puss-face had a very good year indeed.

In no particular order …

Puss Face eats some amazing pizza

Puss Face competes in the Dirty Duo

Puss Face goes to Chicago

Puss Face doesn't realize how ugly she can look

Puss Face tries on her new sunglasses

Puss Face gets ready for Camp Show

Puss Face dances in Atlanta

 

Puss Face continues to dance in Atlanta

Puss Face … still dances in Atlanta (man that was a good weekend)

Puss Face completes the half Ironman in Augusta

Puss Face contemplates another margarita

Puss Face - decision made

Puss Face reads her friend, Ann's, book Not So Fast

Puss Face waits at the airport

Puss Face counts her winnings in Vegas

Puss Face eats too many cupcakes

Puss Face goes to the monster truck show

Puss Face gets highlights

Puss Face plays the Wii

Puss Face pulls on her wetsuit

Puss Face thinks about … something

 

Puss Face shows off her cool watch

Puss Face does a post-tri victory dance

Puss Face wears a pink shirt in the off season

 

And my personal favorite …

Puss Face sits too close to the flash.

 

Man. I really need to figure out a new pose.

OPEN LETTER TO JACK FROST

You've done lost your damn mind!

Love,
Jenne


Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

OPEN LETTER TO THE CARDIOLOGISTS WHO TREAT THE ALL THE OCTOGENARIANS WHO WORKOUT AT THE REHAB GYM WHERE I WENT TODAY TO RUN ROUND AND ROUND ON THE LITTLE TRACK

Deepest apologies. When I used the shirt I was wearing to wipe the sweat off my face, I swear I thought I had on my sports bra.

 

 

 

THIS IS MY FIRST POST OF 2010 (not off to a real creative start title-wise)

Not too long ago I was in the kitchen of my mom's home in Florida making a sandwich for The Kid. I reached on top of the fridge to grab the bread only to find the only bread available was Five Seed Bread.

 

Now. I love Five Seed Bread. My mom, she loves Five Seed bread. The Hub loves Five Seed Bread. It's totally yummy and toasts up perfectly and has a great texture and is full of, well, seeds. And did I mention it's yummy? If you're an adult. However, if you're a kid, a slice of Five Seed bread would be right up there with a slice of toe. And serving your sandwich on it would pretty much guarantee an empty tummy and a full garbage disposal. Five Seed Bread is not what you'd call "kid-friendly." Kid-friendly food items have to be "normal" and "plain" and they must MUST look like what they are supposed to look like. Or at least what a kid is used to seeing. In fact, the less interesting it is, the better. Kid-friendly food is simple. Plain. And has lots of ketchup. And kid-friendly bread really should be only two things, 1) soft and 2) white. I mean there IS a reason Wonder Bread is so popular with the kids … mainly, it doesn't have 5 seeds.

 

So, sensing this wouldn't end well, I told The Kid we only had two choices for the sandwich, Five Seed Bread or in a pita. Which would she like? She said (a little too quickly) "Bread, please." Remembering the last time she misunderstood what we were having (and having my chicken and dumplings called "that dirty soup") I thought I should be sure she understood what I was offering. So I took a slice out of the bag and showed it to her. "This" I said, "is Five Seed Bread."

 

She turned from the turkey and looked over her shoulder at the bread slice. I saw her examine it. Saw her take in the rough texture. Saw her eyes skip over the many seeds and husks and other various lumps in the middle. Watched as her lips pursed out a bit when she glanced at the thick dark crust. I waited for the obvious verdict and was half in my purse to get my keys to run to the store when she moved her eyes from the bread to me and said, "Do we have mayonnaise?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Lots of mayonnaise?"

 

"Yes."

 

She turned back to the turkey. "Then I don't care what kind of bread it's on."

 

Today is January 1. No one I know can keep from making resolutions or thinking about what they'd like to accomplish in this next year. Some of us are more formal about it. My sister, for example, takes time every holiday to write out her goals and put them in her planner. Some of us are less grandiose – like The Hub who when I asked him on the way to the gym this morning what his resolutions were said wistfully, "Stop eating brownies for breakfast…. But I blew that one already." Regardless of how we do it, most of us spend some time thinking about what we want to accomplish. We plan and plot. We scribble on post-it notes or in journals. We join gyms and hang new calendars and dust off cookbooks. And yet, for all our planning and hoping most of us won't keep our promises to ourselves. We won't take the weight off, or we'll put it back on. We'll work way past 5 o'clock and we'll travel too much. We'll spend far too little time with our partners and far too much time complaining. We'll let negative thinking and criticism creep back in and we'll say goodbye to pan after pan of breakfast brownies.

 

And when that happens we'll do one of two things. We'll beat ourselves up because we didn't do what we set out to do and blame the plan. Or we'll let ourselves off the hook and blame the goal.

 

Maybe it's neither. Maybe it's not a problem with the goal or a problem with the plan. Maybe it doesn't matter what the goal is or how you go about getting there. Maybe what's stopping us isn't the obstacles after all.

 

This year I'm going to spend less time thinking about what I want to do and how I'm going to do it and more time figuring out what my mayonnaise is. Because I think if I can figure that out, I can swallow just about anything.