Relieved. Grateful. Joyous.
Those are the feelings that directly follow after, "It's not cancer."
I'm kind of an expert on this topic. In the last 3 years, I've heard it twice.
The first time ended up being an endometrioma, which is the result of endometriosis.
This time, it was a little pea sized lump in my breast. After two months of mammograms, doctors, and ultrasounds, a breast cancer surgeon at a Nattional Cancer Institute accredited cancer center finally said those magical words that made everything else better. "This feels like normal healthy tissue", which roughly translates into "It's not cancer".
People keep asking me if I'm stressed about the wedding. Nope.
I refuse to worry about what will undoubtedly be one of the happiest days of my life. I worry about things like life altering health problems, not marrying my love surrounded by all my favorite people.
Today, I feel relieved and grateful and joyous. Time to polish my dancing shoes!
Friday, September 28, 2012
Friday, September 14, 2012
Violence. Part I
"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."
- Isaac Asimov
Leaving work a tiny bit late, on my way to meet friends to celebrate a birthday. Not wanting to be late, anxiety propels me down the steps to the underground trolley. A small crowd of people is gathered looking expectantly down the track.
Ugh. This means that there has likely been some problem with a trolley car and that there are people waiting at every stop before this one. The only thing I hate more than waiting for a trolley, is imitating sardines with strangers in a packed car.
I notice a co-worker standing on the platform, hanging back from the crowd. We smile at each other and chat a little about the pitfalls of public transit.
Eventually, a trolley car pulls into the station, already full. When the car stops, there is a mad rush for the door. People clamor to cram themselves into the car like salmon swimming upstream.
My co-worker and I roll our eyes and laugh. When this happens, the next trolley car that comes up is typically nearly empty. "No thanks! I'll wait."
A few minutes later another trolley car pulls into the station. There are some people in the car, but I do some quick calculating and figure that even with the small handful of salmon that were left behind from the last one, it won't be that full.
"You coming?", I say to my co-worker.
"Nah, still too full for me. I'm in no hurry. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow!", as I wave and hop on the trolley.
I find a seat next to a 50-something woman who is playing solitaire on her phone. She's petite, which is perfect because I'm less likely to elbow her while I touch up my make-up.
It's a typical after work train, people generally look a bit tired. Some are zoned out. Some reading or playing games on their phones. After the second stop, there's noise on the back of the train seems to be getting louder. The voices are not the average high-schoolers getting loud on the way home. The voices are more adult. More purposeful.
"Come on man. Why you gotta do that?"
"You got a problem. Mind your business."
etc. etc. etc. etc.
When people from the back of the train start to move towards the front, I feel compelled to turn around.
They're both standing in the middle of the aisle. One man facing the front of train, slapping his chest. Another man, dressed in all black, faces him. The rear-facing man picks up his backpack in a seemingly threatening manner.
In disbelief, I stare. How can a backpack be threatening? He doesn't really have a gun in there. He can't have a gun in there. People don't really carry guns in backpacks...do they?
The air on the train has shifted. What was stale and stuffy is now electric. Anger. Fear. Bravado. Panic.
The man in black unzips the backpack, reaches in and partially exposes a black gun.
Trapped on-lookers gasp. Out of my mouth spills, "Please don't shoot him!"
The man with the gun hears nothing, but the sound of his own heartbeat. He hears no voice of logic. He hears no rational thought. He hears no voice of love and compassion in his head. He hears only anger and ignorance.
The men continue their puffing at each other and the man with the gun takes it out of the bag.
I quickly make my way to the front of the trolley where I can see the driver is trying to watch the track in front of him and watch the scene unfold. He clearly can't see through the crowd.
I catch the driver's eye in the mirror and say in a loud clear voice, "That man has a gun. Out right now. Do something. Call whoever you need to call."
Just then the driver pulls into the station and open the doors. I say to the passengers around me. "He has a gun. Get off now." Again, they spill through the doors like salmon. This time in a very different kind of hurry. We tell the people who are waiting to board to get out of the way and stay off the trolley.
As I was going up the stairs to get above ground and to safety, I looked back to see a picture I won't soon forget. A dark subway tunnel from the side. Bewildered people standing around gaping. Two men at the back of an illuminated trolley car, one with a gun pointed. A few people still sitting on the car, waiting for the trolley to start moving again.
Those people, the people sitting still waiting, are the ones that haunt me. Totally desensitized. Perhaps uncaring. Perhaps they've just given up.
From the relative safety of the corner of 22nd and Market above ground, I called the police. It was clear that the trolley hadn't gone anywhere. Neither of the men had come out of the exits.
A few minutes later, it was clear that the trolley had started moving again, because a whole new crop of people were walking up the steps oblivious to what was happening a few yards in front of them.
Next thing I knew, I was on a bus heading in the same direction as my former trolley. More alert to my surroundings. On edge, but unharmed. Wondering, what could push a man to pull a gun on a stranger? This wasn't a robbery. There was no further aim. There was no goal. The only purpose for pulling that gun was to scare a stranger into shutting up.
As the bus passed 20th street, I saw a familiar face. The unarmed man from the train was running passed the bus.
Apparently no one noticed anything. There was no mention of it on the news or in print. It was as if it never happened.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Technological Tether.
Recently, My Love and I went to Atlantic City to celebrate my birthday. It was a lovely, warm spring day. I have no pictures to share because I didn't bring a camera. All day long we took one picture with a phone.
We got to town early in the day and parked the car at the Borgata. We wandered about the casino for a little while familiarizing ourselves with our new surroundings. We spectated some table games and then found our way to a few slot machines. We lost a little. We won a little. I ended up printing a $20 voucher for the same $20 I put into the machine a half hour before. It was pretty mello, but I was glad I didn't lose anything.
We decided to head over to the boardwalk. On our way out of the casino, I decided to play the $20 voucher in a $1 slot machine. For someone like me, this is the equivalent to the high roller table. But, it was my birthday, I had $20 burning a hole in my pocket, and Kenny Rodgers "The Gambler" was playing over the PA system. After losing $5 I was ready to stop, but My Love reminded me that it was my birthday and I had already planned on leaving that $20 in a machine at some point.
Two rounds later... Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
I won $77. I grinned from ear to hear. My Love took my picture. It's a picture that will stay private simply because we don't have to share it.
Other than that one picture, we didn't concern ourselves at all with how anything would look or how it would sound to anyone else. We just plain had fun. At one point, I checked my phone and responded to a text message. My Love actually took my phone out of my hands and said, "It can wait." He was right. It waited. No one perished because of it.
I didn't realize how disconnected for individual moments I've become by hiding behind a camera or a phone. It was a good reminder to leave the camera at home and turn the phone off a little more often.
We got to town early in the day and parked the car at the Borgata. We wandered about the casino for a little while familiarizing ourselves with our new surroundings. We spectated some table games and then found our way to a few slot machines. We lost a little. We won a little. I ended up printing a $20 voucher for the same $20 I put into the machine a half hour before. It was pretty mello, but I was glad I didn't lose anything.
We decided to head over to the boardwalk. On our way out of the casino, I decided to play the $20 voucher in a $1 slot machine. For someone like me, this is the equivalent to the high roller table. But, it was my birthday, I had $20 burning a hole in my pocket, and Kenny Rodgers "The Gambler" was playing over the PA system. After losing $5 I was ready to stop, but My Love reminded me that it was my birthday and I had already planned on leaving that $20 in a machine at some point.
Two rounds later... Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
I won $77. I grinned from ear to hear. My Love took my picture. It's a picture that will stay private simply because we don't have to share it.
Other than that one picture, we didn't concern ourselves at all with how anything would look or how it would sound to anyone else. We just plain had fun. At one point, I checked my phone and responded to a text message. My Love actually took my phone out of my hands and said, "It can wait." He was right. It waited. No one perished because of it.
I didn't realize how disconnected for individual moments I've become by hiding behind a camera or a phone. It was a good reminder to leave the camera at home and turn the phone off a little more often.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Mouse Coroner
I'm a grown woman. Independently minded. Early 30s. Engaged to be married. Good job. Eat healthy food. Work out regularly. Awesome family, of both the born into and chosen varieties.
This actually happened.
Background Note: I have historically had some problems with anxiety and panic. Being alone at night heightens those sensations.
Recently, My Love was out of town on business. I was having a surprisingly relaing evening. Early in the eveng, I had the pleasure of picking out a birthday gift for my neice, pretty bathing suits. Followed by a visit some friends and to hang out with their newborn baby. It's tremendously difficult to be upset when you have just snuggled a newborn. All of that followed by a dash to the grocery store to buy fresh produce and super cheap 12-packs of Diet Coke (score!).
Back at home, I nestled into the couch to watch the season finale of Once Upon a Time with a bowl of Butter Pecan ice cream. Ahhh....rest. Breathing easy and actually enjoying my time alone, I finished up the evening with a phone call to My Love to whisper sweet nothings and say goodnight. I felt peaceful and full and grateful for all the good in my life.
Just after I hung up the phone, I wanted to check my email one more time before heading up. I hear the cats, Lula and Annie playing. This is a totally common occurence in our house. It starts out with some simple batting at each other and usually ends with one of them hissing and one of them running upstairs. No big deal.
Tonight was extra fun kitty playtime because of the four 12-packs of Diet Coke stacked near the kitchen door. Lula LOVES boxes. Full or empty, makes no difference. If it's a box, she's going to sit on it and play queen of the mountain. Earlier, I swiped a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, so one of the boxes was open on one end. This made Lula's day, becuase this means there is a place for her to stick her little paw and play with the cans.
I made my standard rounds of email, Facebook, etc...Crash! Bang! Kitties scatter. I roll my eyes and chuckle, "Did we get scared of the soda boxes, kitties?"
Lula is crouching in the middle of the room, looking scared...wait, not scared but triumphant. Panic sets in. Oh god, please tell me that's a hair tie sticking out of her mouth. No such luck, that's a tail.
Next I do what any logical independently minded grown woman in her early 30s would do, I grab my phone and stand on the furniture and start yelling at the cat to "drop it".
My mind is racing. My Love isn't going to be home for 2 more days, I can't stay here that long. That Coke is going to cause a peeing issue sooner than later and eventually I'll need a snack. Shit. Shit! Ok, calm down. What is the next most logical thing to do?
Get off the chair and get a broom and a dust pan. That's what My Love does when he's home. I know it. I always see him grab the broom and the dust pan as I'm running up the stairs to go hide in our bedroom until it's over.
Shit. What does he do with thes things? I might as well have a chain saw and dental floss in my hands. It's clear at this point that I have no real plan. Instinct sets in, don't let anything die. Clearly, my job is now to save the baby mouse from the evil kitty agressors. In order to do that, I have to get the cats away from tehe mouse. Now, I'm using the broom to chase the cats away from this poor little slober covered mouse. Great idea...now what? Oh yes, when in doubt, call the man (my foremothers are rolling over in their graves). I fully expect Gloria Steinem to show up at my door and slap me at any given moment.
My Love: "Babe? What's the matter?"
Bold Brave Well Adjusted 30-something (BBWA30s): "They have a mouse!"
My Love: "Ok. Get the broom and the dust pan."
BBWA30s: "I did that! Now, I'm chasing the cats and the mouse!"
My Love: "You have 2 choices. Use the broom and the dust pan to capture the live mouse. Or, wait until the morning and pick up the dead one. I'm going to stay on the phone while you try to get it."
BBWA30s: "AHHCK!!! Now it's hiding under the vaccuum cleaner...sniffle."
My Love: "Sweetheart, why are you sobbing?"
BBWA30s: "I don't want it to die."
My Love: "It's hiding now. Go to bed. Lock the door, in case the cats try to bring it to you as a trophy. It might just hide long enough to get away."
Feeling torn and unreasonably upset, I slink off to bed. Feeling like a coward for not saving the mouse. All I can think of is the poor baby mouse dying a slow terrifying death with psycopaths, Lula and Annie stalking it.
Laying in bed, my mood lightens tremendously when I realize that I'm not afraid of being alone anymore. That's so strange. Normally when I'm alone, I lay in bed trying not to be scared of the home invasion scenarios running through my head. After much internal debate, I normaly end up sleeping with the bedroom door open running with the (oh-so logical) theory that I'll hear an intruder and react faster if the door is open. Tonight, I could care less about intruders. I'm much more concerned with the baby mouse.
In the morning, I awoke to find my sweet Lula curled up outside my door. She looks peaceful and precious, not at all like the evil murderer I saw last night. She's clearly annoyed that she was locked out, but equally grateful that I finally emerged to scratch her ears. I get ready for work upstairs, knowing the job that awaits. With a heavy heart, I trudge down the stairs. Lula eagerly races ahead down the stairs to show me where she left my trophy. At the moment, I'm grateful she didn't bring it upstairs.
I grab the broom and the dust pan. This time I know exactly what to do. I assume the role I vowed never to play; Mouse Coroner.
Subject: Furry baby mouse
Time of Death: Sometime between 11:30 PM and 8 AM.
Cause of Death: Likely cardiac arrest caused by ...gulp...torture.
Case status: CLOSED
This actually happened.
Background Note: I have historically had some problems with anxiety and panic. Being alone at night heightens those sensations.
Recently, My Love was out of town on business. I was having a surprisingly relaing evening. Early in the eveng, I had the pleasure of picking out a birthday gift for my neice, pretty bathing suits. Followed by a visit some friends and to hang out with their newborn baby. It's tremendously difficult to be upset when you have just snuggled a newborn. All of that followed by a dash to the grocery store to buy fresh produce and super cheap 12-packs of Diet Coke (score!).
Back at home, I nestled into the couch to watch the season finale of Once Upon a Time with a bowl of Butter Pecan ice cream. Ahhh....rest. Breathing easy and actually enjoying my time alone, I finished up the evening with a phone call to My Love to whisper sweet nothings and say goodnight. I felt peaceful and full and grateful for all the good in my life.
Just after I hung up the phone, I wanted to check my email one more time before heading up. I hear the cats, Lula and Annie playing. This is a totally common occurence in our house. It starts out with some simple batting at each other and usually ends with one of them hissing and one of them running upstairs. No big deal.
Tonight was extra fun kitty playtime because of the four 12-packs of Diet Coke stacked near the kitchen door. Lula LOVES boxes. Full or empty, makes no difference. If it's a box, she's going to sit on it and play queen of the mountain. Earlier, I swiped a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, so one of the boxes was open on one end. This made Lula's day, becuase this means there is a place for her to stick her little paw and play with the cans.
I made my standard rounds of email, Facebook, etc...Crash! Bang! Kitties scatter. I roll my eyes and chuckle, "Did we get scared of the soda boxes, kitties?"
Lula is crouching in the middle of the room, looking scared...wait, not scared but triumphant. Panic sets in. Oh god, please tell me that's a hair tie sticking out of her mouth. No such luck, that's a tail.
Next I do what any logical independently minded grown woman in her early 30s would do, I grab my phone and stand on the furniture and start yelling at the cat to "drop it".
My mind is racing. My Love isn't going to be home for 2 more days, I can't stay here that long. That Coke is going to cause a peeing issue sooner than later and eventually I'll need a snack. Shit. Shit! Ok, calm down. What is the next most logical thing to do?
Get off the chair and get a broom and a dust pan. That's what My Love does when he's home. I know it. I always see him grab the broom and the dust pan as I'm running up the stairs to go hide in our bedroom until it's over.
Shit. What does he do with thes things? I might as well have a chain saw and dental floss in my hands. It's clear at this point that I have no real plan. Instinct sets in, don't let anything die. Clearly, my job is now to save the baby mouse from the evil kitty agressors. In order to do that, I have to get the cats away from tehe mouse. Now, I'm using the broom to chase the cats away from this poor little slober covered mouse. Great idea...now what? Oh yes, when in doubt, call the man (my foremothers are rolling over in their graves). I fully expect Gloria Steinem to show up at my door and slap me at any given moment.
My Love: "Babe? What's the matter?"
Bold Brave Well Adjusted 30-something (BBWA30s): "They have a mouse!"
My Love: "Ok. Get the broom and the dust pan."
BBWA30s: "I did that! Now, I'm chasing the cats and the mouse!"
My Love: "You have 2 choices. Use the broom and the dust pan to capture the live mouse. Or, wait until the morning and pick up the dead one. I'm going to stay on the phone while you try to get it."
BBWA30s: "AHHCK!!! Now it's hiding under the vaccuum cleaner...sniffle."
My Love: "Sweetheart, why are you sobbing?"
BBWA30s: "I don't want it to die."
My Love: "It's hiding now. Go to bed. Lock the door, in case the cats try to bring it to you as a trophy. It might just hide long enough to get away."
Feeling torn and unreasonably upset, I slink off to bed. Feeling like a coward for not saving the mouse. All I can think of is the poor baby mouse dying a slow terrifying death with psycopaths, Lula and Annie stalking it.
Laying in bed, my mood lightens tremendously when I realize that I'm not afraid of being alone anymore. That's so strange. Normally when I'm alone, I lay in bed trying not to be scared of the home invasion scenarios running through my head. After much internal debate, I normaly end up sleeping with the bedroom door open running with the (oh-so logical) theory that I'll hear an intruder and react faster if the door is open. Tonight, I could care less about intruders. I'm much more concerned with the baby mouse.
In the morning, I awoke to find my sweet Lula curled up outside my door. She looks peaceful and precious, not at all like the evil murderer I saw last night. She's clearly annoyed that she was locked out, but equally grateful that I finally emerged to scratch her ears. I get ready for work upstairs, knowing the job that awaits. With a heavy heart, I trudge down the stairs. Lula eagerly races ahead down the stairs to show me where she left my trophy. At the moment, I'm grateful she didn't bring it upstairs.
I grab the broom and the dust pan. This time I know exactly what to do. I assume the role I vowed never to play; Mouse Coroner.
Subject: Furry baby mouse
Time of Death: Sometime between 11:30 PM and 8 AM.
Cause of Death: Likely cardiac arrest caused by ...gulp...torture.
Case status: CLOSED
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
So...I started reading again.
It's been a big year for me personally. Lots of growth. Lots of yoga. An engagement. Oh yeah, and I started reading again.
My beloved Mr. recently asked me why I don't blog anymore. My answer, "Writing takes head space."
Last year around this time my excuse was, "I don't read anymore."
I'm reading again. Lots and lots. Now I'm finding that all the time I would spend writing, I'm spending reading. The difference is that now my head is full of ideas and bursting at the seams. Alas, perhaps I'll start writing again.
I recently took a trip to the salon from Jerseylicious. It's a tale worth telling. As soon as I finish Pillars of the Earth.
My beloved Mr. recently asked me why I don't blog anymore. My answer, "Writing takes head space."
Last year around this time my excuse was, "I don't read anymore."
I'm reading again. Lots and lots. Now I'm finding that all the time I would spend writing, I'm spending reading. The difference is that now my head is full of ideas and bursting at the seams. Alas, perhaps I'll start writing again.
I recently took a trip to the salon from Jerseylicious. It's a tale worth telling. As soon as I finish Pillars of the Earth.
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