Yes, I Blogged my Mammogram

Well, we’re still talking about the girls here on Morningside Mom. As you know, I have been stressing about a mystery pain in rightie, so I went to the doctor last week. Two days ago, I had a mammogram. And in the name of promoting breast health everywhere (well… at least here on this humble little blog), I just gotta do it. I gotta blog the whole dang experience.

Now I shouldn’t get you too pumped up. It honestly wasn’t nearly as heart stopping of an experience as its reputation might lead you to believe. I think it took longer to fill out the paper work than to actually go through the entire mammogram itself. No, in fact, I am sure it did. But I do think it is worth sharing how its done. There are plenty of friends of mine who have yet to have their first. And I also think there are plenty of women who are afraid of going through with one. As my dear blogger friend Ilinap has described it, “who wants to go have a car door slammed on your breasts?” While I had a good laugh at her description, I swear on my left breast (the good one) that it’s really not that bad. So here we go…

Once my paper work was completed, I waited. And there is no doubt about it. Even though this was my second rodeo (I had a baseline mammorgram at 32 due to my family’s history), I was nervous. In fact, I had been nervous all day. What if while their scanning, the tech sees something? What if the tech, calls the radiologist and the radiologist calls a doctor and they all mumble in hushed tones from across the room behind my file, glancing over at me now and then, shaking their heads back and forth? What if? So I was all kinds of worked up.

And do you know the most irksome part of the whole process? I couldn’t wear any deodorant (powders and lotions are not allowed either). So there I sat in the waiting room, my stomach a pit of nerves, and generally feeling “not so fresh”. Thank goodness it is Florida’s version of winter. Can you imagine getting a mammogram in the dead of summer?

But I digress.

So, after staring at the same page in my book for about 10 minutes, the tech opened the door and called my name. In I went and I followed her to a dressing room where she asked me to take my top half of clothing off and put on a pepto-bismal pink gown, opening in the front. Once dressed, she lead me into the room where the mammography machine loomed before me. Ok, I am being dramatic. It was just a machine – a digital x-ray machine actually – that stood taller than myself, and across the room was a monitoring station where the technician can view each digital image.

It was thankfully fairly warm in the room. The technician was very kind and professional. She led me right up to the machine and asked me to lean forward while she adjusted the machine to my height. There is a horizontal plate that is chest hight and then there is a plastic plate above which is lowered down also.

Now, all I did was stand there. She did the adjusting and arranging. To get a good, comprehensive picture, every bit of me needed to be resting on that plate. And… well… let’s just say it didn’t take very long to get me all on there.

Once I was set, the plastic plate above was lowered slowly. That’s where the “car door” analogy comes in. But there isn’t any slamming. Its just lowered enough to… pancake you a bit.

How does it feel? How did I react? Well, it didn’t hurt. At all. Neither mammogram that I’ve had have hurt. But both times, my reaction has been to giggle. Its all a very strange situation, you know? And I would advise you not to do what I did and look down at the plastic square pancaking your chest. Oh goodness. I had to bite down on my cheek to keep from breaking into a long belly laugh. You know that “face pressed up against the glass” kind of look? Yeah, it’s worth a laugh in my book.

She took two pictures of each breast. I got the “pancake” first horizontally and then vertically. After each take, she checked the monitor (I assume) to be sure that the picture was clear. Once she was done, she lead me back to the dressing room to wait while she spoke to the radiologist. She said that she wanted to be sure he didn’t need any other shots taken before she could let me go.

Ok. So I sat again. And my wheels starting turning again and my heart rate jumped right back up. And I stared at the same page in my book. If the radiologist wants to take more shots, that must mean they see something… Right? So they are looking right now. They could see something at this very moment…

“You’re all set!” They didn’t need any more pictures? I was free to go? Ha! As I got dressed, I rationalized that this meant one of two things. Either there was a mass there so obvious that no further pictures were needed. Or there was nothing there that the radiologist could see. Or. The radiologist wasn’t very good at his job and he missed something that is there after all! There goes the heartbeat again. Cheese and crackers, get me home to me deodorant.

So that was that. Not so bad, I swear to you. I am going to call my doctor by the end of the week if I haven’t heard anything. I usually assume that no news is good news – but still. Peace of mind is a very valuable thing. Obviously, since I felt nothing and he felt nothing and the radiologist (assuming he or she is capable) didn’t need more shots, I am assuming all will be well. As always, I will keep you posted.

Now to those of you who have put off your mammograms? Make an appointment already. It’s not so bad. Besides, you could probably use a good laugh.

Further desciptions and FAQs about mammograms can be found here:

• Cancer.org
• Women’s Health.org

 

***UPDATE***

Best words ever to read in a letter from a Radiology facility:

“NO MAMMOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE OF CANCER”

Minding My Mammaries

Breasts are strange things. As the ultimate feminine accessory, they make outfits fit better, give us fabulous curves and restore wavering confidence. They can be worn to be oggled or stuffed away in a t-shirt and overlooked. Miraculously, after our bodies mix some crazy internal hormonal cocktail, these “accessories” can become endless kegs of milk at the ready for an infant looking to party into the wee hours. And then of course, they can be objects of intense and sobering concern.

I had a wonderful Christmas filled with family, fun, children and food. Even my breasts got a piece of the action. My mother took me to buy two new bras from Victoria Secret. Now you must understand. My underwear is the least of my concerns. I have two boys – I am focused on them and dinner and bills and keeping gas in the car. Fancy bras just seem silly and frivolous. And I hadn’t bought a new bra since before my two year old was born. I mean, get real. My other ones seemed just fine – they kept the girls in check and who needs all the lace, the fra-la-la and the frippery anyway. 

But into Victoria’s Secret we stepped. And I found the BEST. BRA. EVER. I am now the proud owner of two Angel Airbras. Putting one on does not *poof* turn me into Heidi Klum. (Snorting my morning tea as I write this…) Yeah, not at all. But you know what? They have truly given me a little pep in my step. What an unexpected and welcome surprise to be sure. For so long, I have overlooked the shape of my chest thinking there is really nothing more I can do to give the girls any more “oomph” at this point. But whadda ya know. I have got myself a little “oomph” afterall. Again, there is no miracle involved. And similar to my wee but rallying chest size, the change is so subtle it may not be even apparent to the naked eye. But *I* notice a change and *I* feel better about myself. And that is worth its weight in gold. So here I write, smugly puffing out my somewhat puffy – but better shaped – chest.

However, in the midst of this little breast ego trip, I have been quietly concerned. You see, something seems a little …off… with one of my breasts. It’s probably no big deal. No lumps (phew, phew, phew, phew) but one is sore and just feels a bit different. I don’t understand why there would be any pain in one and not the other. I had convinced myself over the past couple weeks that maybe I had pulled a muscle from coughing or from running. But its still there. One boob. And I’m “aware” of it.

Honestly, I am fairly sure this is an over-reaction. But my over-reaction is comparable with a knee jerk reaction whenever “irregularity” and my breasts are concerned. With my family’s breast cancer history, I am am perpetually on watch – wondering when my turn is up. I almost don’t consider breast cancer an “if”, I consider it a “when”. So if something now seems awry – well, it’s time to ready the girls. Even as they are tucked peacefully in their padded lace, we need to prepare for anything. We’ll see what the doctor says in a few days but, in the meantime, here’s to hoping I am making a mountain out of a molehill… so to speak.

So, if I were to turn this post into a public service announcement, what would it be? Um, how about: “Don’t ignore your breasts”. Breast cancer is a real possibility for every woman. And ignoring something “not quite right” is never the answer. If you’re worried, just call your doctor. Rather walk back to your car after your appointment, hugely embarrassed, but with healthy mole hills than find out too late that your molehills are actually mountains.

And certainly don’t ignore your girls and forget to give them a fancy, fabulously supportive bra once in awhile. It’s good for them, it’s good for you, things fit better, you look better, it’s just a good idea all around.

Be well, my friends. I’ll keep you posted.

**Update**

No lumps. Phew. Next stop? I get to have a  mammogram next week. And I am even kind of looking forward to it. Once again, I’d rather over-react than not react. Plus… I’m gonna blog the whole experience anyway. In an effort to promote further boob health to all my readers, stay tuned for a breast by breast walk through of what a mammogram is really like. Don’t expect any pictures though…

Wordless Wednesday: Two Year Old Pathetic-ness

My poor sweet two year old boy. In my far from humble mommy opinion, there is nothing more pathetic in the world than a two year old with a 100.1 fever and a goopy case of pink eye.

My Baby Belly Battle

I loathe my baby belly.

And all the mother’s out there who have given birth to their children know exactly what I mean. It’s that tire of flabbed out muscle and mushy fat left over from carrying watermelon sized babies around in your abdomen. And even after you’ve breastfed both children (hoping they suck off the extra pounds), even after you patiently wait out the old mantra “9 months in, 9 months out”, even after everything else seems to have gone back to where it was… (eh… pretty much… good enough at least… if you squint with one eye… after your contacts are out) – that baby belly stays right with me like some trusty sidekick. It just won’t quit. It’s as if your abdomen is thinking “Hey, hanging out here in the wind really ain’t so bad after all. If it works for Homer Simpson, it works for me.” And you are left avoiding the empire waisted shirts or anything remotely maternity-ish for fear that if you wander too close to a Babies R Us, you’ll hear a squealed “ooooh, when are you due???” I’m not exaggerating either. It’s happened to me.

So I really loathe my baby belly. And I swear to you. I am not getting all vain here either. Honestly. I am not all into losing weight or getting some hard, Linda Hamilton type of bod. No way, being stacked like that just doesn’t get me that fired up. My body is my body, take it or leave it. All I reeeeally want to do is wear jeans WITHOUT the muffin top – do you catch what I’m saying?

So back to that damned baby belly. I want it gone. And how do I do that? Hold on to your hats folks, its a totally crazy concept for me. Here it comes… Exercise.

BOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Hiiiisssssssss…. virtual rotten tomatoes are being lobbed at such a concept.

But, heres the thing. Or irony of it all. I have a college coach for a husband. And he majored in – of all things – P.E. (For real, he did. Side bar I know, but he actually took college classes in badminton and ballroom dancing and teaching kids how to play kickball. And he ALSO took a lot of nutrition and physiology classes. Hence my perfect resource.) It’s crazy really. I had to marry a guy who is so damn physically gifted – athletics, sports, and physical fitness come as naturally as breathing for him. So, yeah, he certainly knows what it takes to get my flabby midsection back in the saddle again. I have an expert living right along next to me.

But can I also mention WHY I love my husband dearly? Because he NEVER, and I mean NEVER, has suggested I work on my belly by the way. He could care less if I do. He loves me as is. But when I ask questions, he is happy to provide information. Score for me.

So. Finally. I asked that husband of mine what I need to do to get my baby belly to bugger off. And he said two things. Aerobic exercise and toning my ab muscles.

(And then there is a third. Eat better. Whatever. Pass the Halloween candy.)

Huh. Now lets back the truck up a bit here. I hate exercise. (Hence those lobbed tomatoes.) I was the dorky, awkwardly tall, uncoordinated kid in bad glasses who dreaded P.E. I have not one ounce of competitiveness in me. And so when a soccer ball hit me square in the face at age 6 and my glasses went flying – I cashed it in. I mean, ow. That hurt. I could care less which net the ball got into. Exercise, sports, getting all sweaty = NOT. FOR. ME.

Well, at the ripe age of 35 and after having two large boys, exercise is no longer optional. If I don’t want to look like a potato with toothpicks sticking out of it, I better get off my ass. (Note: yeah, yeah, I am sure I am exaggerating. While I may not look exactly like said potato, I feel like said potato – and THAT, my friends, is JUST as bad in my book.)

And let’s not forget that studies have proven that exercise lowers a woman’s risk of breast cancer – which my mother has had. And weight bearing exercise will build my bones now and help me avoid osteoporosis – which my mother has. It’s time to get out the door and get it done.

So after all this whining about my baby belly, what have I started doing about it? How do I get to work on kicking its ass when I have a coach husband who never works regular hours like 9 to 5 and is often gone weekends? When I don’t have the extra cash to join the Y (with the baby sitting included)? When I don’t have any fancy stair master in some personal gym in the basement? How do I commit to cardio and toning? This is what I do.

1) Do I have a half hour? Yup. All I ask myself is to spend a half hour of my day doing something that raises my heart rate above “yawn, stretch, thump, wassup, oh yeah right, thump“.

2) If I am by myself, I get out the door and walk. Fast. With music. Walk, walk, walk.

3) If I am by myself, can I dare myself to run, just a little bit? Yup. It sucks, but I get done faster.

4) If I have the kids, can I drag or push them in any way? I don’t have a jogging stroller but pushing a heavy sit-n-stand or pulling 75 pounds of children in wagon has gotta give me some kind of work out.

5) Can’t leave the house? Out comes my jump rope in front of the TV

6) Ab time? Groan. I ask myself to do 80 sit ups, 20 jack knifes and some minimal core work. That’s it.

So its not much, right? But its more than what I was doing. A LOT more. And the funny part is that its actually becoming addicting. I can’t wait to get out and do it – even if it SUCKS while I’m doing it. But I will do whatever I can to get out there.

This is all so UN-me, I am telling you. Like today, me, dragging that wagon full of my kids. Even trying to run while pulling it. I swear I must have looked like I was in The Worlds Strongest Man (Or World’s Lamest Mom) competition. You know, when they are pulling a car behind them? That was me and that wagon trying to run but really barely getting anywhere. It kicked my ass, I am telling you. And probably offered my neighbors some comedy in their day.

But I’m doing it. I’m trying.

Do I see any difference? Nope, not yet. No idea if I’m losing weight because I don’t care about that (I don’t even own a scale, I think they’re evil). I still have my tried and true muffin top rockin out of my jean top. But I remind myself that it can’t happen over night. (Not with that lovely, delish bowl of Halloween candy sitting right here besides me as I type this. Oh no.)

But I’m doing it. I’m trying.

Join an Army of Women.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and, obviously, I am anxious to spread the word about important causes or new initiatives. This one really caught my eye. Have you head about it?

Dr. Susan Love has recently started the Army of Women initiative. She believes that the answer to finding a cure for Breast Cancer lies entirely in research. Simply doing more research will give all of us important answers – and potentially even a cure.

However, to do research, doctors need participants. The issue? There are not always participants available for research, whether it be the number of women or the right demographic of women available to deem a study’s results significant or successful. And while they would like to see women with breast cancer participate, this project is about every woman. They need women from every background, with or without a history of breast cancer, of all different ages and races, found all over the United States (they do hope to find volunteers internationally in the future).

So, to find the numbers and types of participants needed for research, Dr. Love has started the Army of Women project. It is simply an opporitunity for women like you and I to truly make a difference as researchers find a cure for Breast Cancer. All we need to do is sign up and wait. In a few months, they will email us information about local research projects. If we would like to participate, we can. If we don’t feel up to getting involved in that particular study, we don’t have to. It is always our choice, we self select ourselves for whichever study we would like to be involved in. Regardless, this initiative will offer researchers a database filled with thousands of women. In fact, they are aiming for over 1,000,000 registrants. Pretty cool, huh?

An Army of Women may seem familiar to you. Did you see them on the Today Show? If not, watch it here. Dr. Love does a fantastic job explaining the goals of this project and how get involved.

(Forgive me as I offer a quick sidebar here, it will only take a sec.)

Surprisingly enough, back in the day, I was a science major. I spent hours involved with, participating in or reading about research. At the start of one of my very first research classes, a favorite professor gave all of us wise advice. Reminding me a bit of Gandhi, she said something to the tune of: “If you want to see change happen, if you want to see results, if you want answers – you need to be a part of the process that makes it happen. If you are ever asked to be a part of research, take the time, respond, do the survey, offer yourself. Your time will mean results and evidence. And ultimately, it could mean answers to important questions. Always participate.” And since then, if I get a market research questionnaire, a pop up, a phone call asking me to rate my experience on a scale between 1 and 10, I do it. It is our responsibility to find the answers to our problems. And breast cancer is one heck of a problem. If your involvement in research brings us one step closer to a cure, you would do it, right?

So, I am hoping you are interested. If you would like to sign up and join the Army of Women, click here and register yourself. It’s very quick. Honestly, being the science dork that I am, I’m excited to see what sorts of studies come my way. But more than that, I am excited to actually be able to DO something. No more waiting around, lets all jump in there – a whole army of us – and stop a cancer that kills 110 women every day.

“Be the change you want to see in the world.”

– Gandhi

Three Bee Stings and a Little Crazy.

A bee flew into a craft store. No, this is not a dirty joke. This is what happened – this morning. So this bee, he flew right on in. Oh! Bright lights, lots of colors and – whats this? Aisle upon aisle of beautiful, blooming flowers! Can you imagine this bee’s glee? (I’m loving that rhyme.) He was probably flying swoops in the air and doing a little bee jig. And then, maybe after smacking his little bee lips, he dove right down into those flowers – perhaps eyeing one of those lovely, seasonally appropriate sunflowers.

Wait a minute. Upon landing, that bee realized something. The lovely sunflower didn’t smell right. In fact, it didn’t feel right. Horror of horrors, after further inspection, that bee found not one trace of pollen anywhere upon that flower. Miffed, he tried the next one. And the next. And then he realized, they were all fake! This was all a lie! A conspiracy – bees everywhere were being made fools of! Zooming around the store, his senses overwhelmed by fake flowers with no pollen, with no way to get out to the real flowers with real pollen… this bee was livid, seething, utterly enraged.

And then he spots us. He sees my son C. and I wheeling through the sliding doors. Clueless, innocently entering this store in our own right, we wheeled right by the flower section.

Just as we brushed past the glittery mums, he made his move. Attacking, taking out his rage upon a sweet, slightly plump, 2 year old who was actually behaving today for his mommy. He was going to bring “the man” (and that bee was betting “the man’s” name was Michael) down for every lovin’ fake flower in that joint.

C. grabbed his neck. And then his thumb. And SCREAMED. I was at a loss. Did a plastic flower bramble just scratch him? Did some extra large glitter on those mums cut his neck a bit? I looked and found two bites on his neck, both a bit puffy. And then, the thumb, which he was waving madly for my kiss, had that same puffy punctured bite.

What the hell? Michael’s employees gathered around, recognizing that special pitch of a child’s scream in pain. And then one woman saw it. The bee, staggering around on the floor. Probably screaming up to his pollen gods, “Why… WHY?!?!!!”

Smooooosh. And his agonizing final day on this earth was over.

Meanwhile, you should know, I am a mother of a son with a peanut allergy. I am the daughter of a man who has fatal reactions to bees. I swell for days if I get one bite. And now my son has two? On his neck? So who SHOULD be the most prepared mommy ever – with benedryl and an epipen at the ready in case of emergency? On most days, me. Not today you ask? Nope, not today. My allergy kit was home, in the swimming pool bag. Today. Of ALL days.

And when I realized this, panic set in. His screams were ear shattering, but I barely heard them. I grabbed him and made a run for my car. “Wheres the closest walgreens, WHERES THE CLOSEST WALGREENS??!?!??!?” Um, down there. Screeeeeeech, my 97 Saturn (step aside General Lee) did a Dukes of Hazard peel out of the parking lot.

And can I just say? I am usually a fiiiine driver. Honestly. I have even been complimented on my skillz before. Oh ho, NOT today. ‘Scuse me, pardon me, get the frock over, I AM COMING THROUGH DAMMIT!!!!!!

And then I thought, hearing him howl and hiccup and surely gagging and almost dying, that I should go the other way to the Urgent Care right by here. Hiccup, gasp. Oh sweet cheese and crackers… HE’S DYING!!!!!

‘Scuse me, pardon… GET OUT OF MY GODDAMN WAY MY CHILD IS DYING!!!!!!!!

Oh shit, the urgent care isn’t over here. U-TURN!!!!! SCREEEECH!!! (“Just the good ol boys, never meaning no harm…”)

Back at the same pissing redlight. Should I run it? COULD I run it? Could I? Damn, fate hands me a cop car in the right hand lane.

Then, as I am pulling into the Walgreens parking lot, watching my screaming and drooling 2 yo in the rear view mirror, a faint little bulb managed to blink on in the haze of my panic. Call the pediatrician. Oh yeah…

Well, I handled that like a pro. “My baby… stung… will he die?” Sob sob sob. Calm down she said. He is fine if he is screaming. SOBSOBSOBSOB. She said bendryl, baking soda, make sure he keeps breathing, if he doesn’t, call 911.

Wha? 911?…. SOB!!!!!!!! WAAAIIIL!!! MY BABY!!!! WAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

She shoulda been there. Really she shoulda. Because if I ever could have used a bitch slap, it would have been right about then.

So I hung up, grabbed my sweet bee punctured child, and ran for the pharmacy.

“BENEDRYL! ORAL SYRINGE! BAKING SODA! STAT!” Well, I didn’t say STAT but I should’ve, dontcha think?

I got what I needed, he got what he needed. The crying slowed. He was breathing. Oh lookee here, I was breathing. I even managed to fish a smooshed fruit bar out of my purse. Which he ate, smiling through boogers while caked bits of baking soda fell off his neck into his lap as he chewed.

We sang his favorite bumblebee song.

“I’m bringing home my baby bumblebee, won’t my mommy be so proud of me…”

He pointed to the scary monstews in the Halloween section and giggled.

All was well.

All was even better when he drowsily nodded off from the drugs in my car. I’ll be putting a mirror to his mouth to just make SURE I didn’t overdose the kid (I was a little shaky, maybe he got more than a teaspoon?) as soon as I press publish. (My priorities as a mom are right in check.)

But here’s my bottom line. It was a bee sting. OK, three bee stings. (And I am thinking maybe it was a wasp and not a bee, how can a bee sting three times?) But kids get stung. IT HAPPENS. And how did I deal with this fairly minor first aid incident? I flipped the FROCK out.

What am I going to do? When the stitches and the broken legs and the rest of it happens. (I have two boys, its not a matter of *if* , its a matter of when.) That epipen BETTER stay in my purse because judging from today’s complete and total over reaction, *I* will need a shot of epinephrine and a call to 911 more than my child with a broken limb will. I did a horrible job today. I screamed at stop lights, I panicked and drove all over the place, I cried as if *I* were the one stung when talking to the triage nurse. I looked like a craaazzeee woman tripping and running through Walgreens with my screaming kid, holding onto my shirt, now exposing most of one bra cup. What a fiasco. GET A GRIP WOMAN!!!

Maybe it takes practice. Maybe I need to read more stories of inspiring “keeping their shit together when scary stuff happens” moms likes this one and this one. Maybe if it were MORE than a bee sting but something really legit like a gaping wound, I would be cool, and totally together and summon the spirit of Miranda Bailey (my favorite Greys Anatomy character) and it would all be taken care of quickly, calmly and effiently. And I would even say “STAT”.

Who am I kidding. I am a fiasco in emergency situations, and thats that.

Thank God for triage nurses and 911. And vodka.

Cancer. Get Up, Stand Up.

In the spirit of Stand Up to Cancer today (click above and learn more), I am posting the story of cancer in my family. It is probably no different than the stories of cancer in your families. It seems Cancer affects all of us in some way. Daily, we live with screenings, lumps, scares, treatments, survivals, and deaths. My story can be lined up next to my neighbor’s whose sister in law is undergoing serious treatment for breast cancer, my playgroup friend whose husband recently made it through testicular cancer, and my childhood friend who recently and very suddenly lost his mother to breast cancer. My story is just another story; unfortunately cancer is among all of us.

Growing up, my family traveled and lived abroad – at times for as long as 5 years. My father worked for the State Department and, before we could leave to any country, we were expected to endure a litinay of health tests before we were cleared. Once cleared, the government allowed us 2 years of travel before having to come back to the U.S. for another health screening.

In 1992, my family went through the paces of our screening. I have explained before that my family has a long history of breast cancer. My mother knew her chances of finding a lump after menopause would be high. And due to her health history, my mother had her annual mammogram. This time a very small mass was found. These doctors, however, cleared her for travel. They were convinced this lump was nothing to be concerned with.

My mother knew better.

She had another mammogram and sought out a second opinion. Indeed, the lump was something to be concerned with. Not only was the lump cancerous but it was starting to metastasize – there was a threat this cancer would spread shortly. My mother had a lumpectomy and her lymph glands in her arm were removed. She experienced radiation and more than 6 months of horrible chemotherapy. She lost her hair, her body struggled, it was a very difficult time. She beat it, however, and has been in remission now for 15 years. 

But let me be very clear about one point. If she had not been pro-active about her health, had accepted her health clearance, and then lived abroad for another two years with her lump ignored, she may not be with us today. We all must be our own health advocates. Ask questions, get second opinions. This is your body not your doctor’s.

While fairly minor, I have also had my own cancer scare. At 28, precancerous cells were found on my cervix. A quarter sized portion of my cervix was removed. Needless to say, as soon as I was healthy, my husband and I started a family. If those cells were to return, I didn’t want to have to lose anymore “quarter sized” portions of my cervix before my babies were born. And you can be sure that I never postpone my annual PAP smear – and so far so good.

Now that I’ve shared these personal stories of mine, I am guessing you are thinking about your own experiences. Like I said, my story is one of millions, and we are at least grateful for our healthy outcomes.

Tonight, take the time to watch Stand up to Cancer. It’s Friday night for crying out loud. Nothing else is on anyway. Think about what you can do to Stand up to cancer.

What, you don’t think that there is anything we can do?

Watch this amazing story about a cancer survivor who did stand up to cancer. My mother stood up to cancer, she survived. Even if we aren’t fighting with cancer personally, by having annual PAP screenings, doing breast or testicular exams, and following up with our own health care on a regular basis, we are all standing up to cancer.

Wishing you health and peace today.

Holding on to my Breasts.

This week, Christina Applegate shared with the public that she has undergone a prophylactic double mastectomy. A month ago, she confirmed that she did have breast cancer and also tested positive for the BRCA1 gene mutation, which means she may have as high as an 85% chance of developing breast cancer and a 55% chance of developing ovarian cancer. Yikes. So Christina chose to have both breasts removed to assure her recovery from breast cancer; she is also beginning the long and painful process of breast reconstruction. (An excellent and informative article about Christina’s process of a double mastectomy and reconstruction can be found here. Please read!)

I have to say, reading about her choice has had me sitting and thinking.

(Sidebar: What is it about hearing “real life” stories from a celebrity that makes something like breast cancer more real? I am kind of annoyed at myself for that but, regardless, she got me thinking about my boobs again.)

You all know I have a special little closet in the back of my mind where I store all of my breast cancer stress. So, Christina and her recent news have led me back to my little closet to nervously peer inside there once again.

Hi boobs of mine! How ya doing? Ok. So. Any lumps today? (Quick self exam… no lumps… oh HI, the neighborhood crazy guy is walking by. Yes and I’m in front of the window. Hello, I am feeling myself, now go back to being crazy…) So yeah, breasts of mine, whats going to happen to you? Do you have anything you want to tell me? Any gene mutations you might want to share with me? Yes? No? Do I need to go in there and check for myself?

Now as I have mentioned before, while I have had stacks of breast cancer in my family, it has all occurred post menopausal. And, my understanding is that none of my relatives have tested positive for this gene mutation. But. There is always a but. Does that mean I shouldn’t get myself tested for it? My doctor gave me a little pamphlet about it at my last GYN exam. It’s certainly not an impossibility. Again, we have stacks of breast cancer in my family. Something is up. And even assuming the best case scenario with negative test results, that doesn’t mean I won’t get breast cancer eventually anyway.

In fact, I even happened to check out a little Breast Cancer Risk Assessment Tool found at the cancer.gov website. And here’s what they told me:

5 Year risk

• This woman (age 35) 0.6%
• Average woman (age 35): 0.3%

Explanation

Based on the information provided (see below), the woman’s estimated risk for developing invasive breast cancer over the next 5 years is 0.6% compared to a risk of 0.3% for a woman of the same age and race/ethnicity from the general U.S. population. This calculation also means that the woman’s risk of NOT getting breast cancer over the next 5 years is 99.4%.

Lifetime Risk

• This woman (to age 90): 19.7%
• Average woman (to age 90): 12.6%

Explanation

Based on the information provided (see below), the woman’s estimated risk for developing invasive breast cancer over her lifetime (to age 90) is 19.7% compared to a risk of 12.6% for a woman of the same age and race/ethnicity from the general U.S. population.

Not horrible results. Just a 7% chance more than the average woman. But they only asked for first-degree relatives, so they only noted my mother. They didn’t take into account my aunt (two lumpectomies), my grandmother (one mastectomy and one lumpectomy), or my grandfather’s sister who died from breast cancer. I’m just saying. It’s a small, very general internet tool. I should hardly be lulled into a comfy “only 7% increased chance” sense of security.

When friends hear about my breast cancer history, they sit right up and start fretting. And often they do ask me “Would you ever consider a double mastectomy? If it could possibly save your life, if it could mean you wouldn’t have to face even post menopausal breast cancer, why wouldn’t you consider it? Don’t you want to be around for your family?”

(Hmmm, I wonder if this is actually my conscious talking. I’m suspicious. It sure sounds a LOT like her.)

But, ok. Chop my boobs off? I mean, c’mon. Wow. Yikes. Owch. I just. I mean. …I don’t *WANT* to! (Insert “whine” here.)

My breasts, while hardly heaving masses of flesh attracting eyes for miles around, have been really good to me. They fit my frame, they have never been in the way (now THAT’S a “glass is half full” way to look at my size B size A cups), and they are kinda cute. Well, they were at least before I breastfed my kids. But, THAT is their greatest feat yet. My girls, petite as they are, managed to nourish my two wonderful boys for 14 months each. They gave me an awesome supply and they withstood the abuse they endured from freakishly hungry babies. I feel some solidarity for all that we have been through.

Granted, they could just turn around and stab me in the back someday with a sudden small possibly metastasizing lump. Shoot. They could just up and kill me.

Ugh.

So, Christina Applegate has got me thinking about them. And chopping them off. I’m certainly not ready for something so dire and don’t have any current reason to consider it yet. (Like a tree falling in the woods, if you don’t test for a gene, is it still there?)  I suppose I will hold on to them for now. Keep doing my breast checks, getting mammograms and hassling my doctor.

I may even do that gene test after all. I want to know.

And if a double mastectomy were ever something I should seriously consider, I would absolutely weigh the options. So, friends and conscious of mine, I would do it if I had to. 

As long as I could get the perfect size B cups size C cups (which would still fit my frame. Sure. Absolutely. And I bet my husband would agree wholeheartedly).

(Another Sidebar: Reconstructive surgery is not the instant fix for a mastectomy that you might think it is. It can take over a year or more of painful surgery to bring your breasts back to fighting form. In the article I referenced above and noted here, Dr. Avisar is even quoted as saying about reconstructive surgery: “The majority of patients … don’t go the whole 9 yards. …Many of them never come back to have the nipple and areola reconstructed. They are just tired and they have had enough.” Reconstructing two breasts after a mastectomy is not, by any means, your typical boob job.)

Finally, I just want to give a shout out to all of the bloggers out there supporting efforts to prevent breast cancer. I am a bit late to the party here but I would like to spread some breast cancer linky love.

First of all, if you ever want to raise money for Breast Cancer awareness, please visit the Susan G. Komen For the Cure website. In case you have been living on the moon and didn’t know, there are annual runs and walks to raise money for the cure.

Also, a fellow blogger at Toddler Planet has done amazing work spreading awareness about her own fight with inflammatory breast cancer (symptoms for this form of breast cancer are not lumps as you would expect). Please read her story here. She also has a wonderful section of her blog dedicated to how to help a friend who has been diagnosed with breast cancer with excellent links and suggestions. Read this information here. She has a group of bloggers – team WhyMommy – supporting her. Bloggers such as Dirt and Noise raced for the cure in her honor.

And what, in my humble opinion, do I think is the best way to spread breast cancer awareness? Well, blogging of course! Here are some great breast cancer blogs that I found through Jayne’s Breast Cancer Blog. (I am sure there are hundreds more out there too):

My Breast Cancer Blog
Mothers with Cancer
A Different Road Altogether
Biography of Breast Cancer
Can I be Pretty in Pink?
Gotta Keep on Keepin’ On
Reconstruct This
So, is Today a Good Day?

And I am loving the “Save the Ta-Tas” gear found here too, buy something.

Do you have any other important links to share? Post them.

Keep feeling those boobies, girls. I know I am regularly feeling mine. And holding on to mine – for dear life.

(Note: The image above was taken from The Breast Cancer Fund website.)

The Son and The Stars: The Birth Story of my First Child.

I wrote this birth story for a writer’s contest in a magazine. The topic was : Describe the best day of your life. And I did. But there were many days leading up to that day that were the worst days of my life. To revisit such an overwhelming moment in my life was much more emotional than I anticipated. My poor son, T. During breaks from writing this, I would find him minding his own business and interrupt him with a slew of hugs and kisses. He was not particularly impressed, and I left him alone, understanding his annoyance but feeling unfulfilled. How could I possibly express how much I adore him and how grateful I am that he overcame the odds against him? I’ve come to the conclusion that I will never show my gratitude enough. So I peck away at it everyday, smothering him with sappy displays of affection whenever I can corner him.

But I should go and post this now. My wonderful 5 year old T. is jumping up and down on my Aunt’s pristine white couch and yelling “Beach beach beach!!!”. Vacation time (otherwise known as time spent away from the computer) beckons. My wonderful boy. He is perfect, and fine, and I thank my lucky stars every day for his health and well-being.

 

During the nine months leading up to the birth of a woman’s first child, one would assume that the most wonderful moment of her life would happen the day her child was born. Of course, May 26th is the day we hoop and holler and celebrate my son’s birthday. And like every other mother on her child’s birthday, I sniffle and take pictures and wonder where my baby has gone. But my most life changing moment occurred eleven days after my first son was born. June 5^th to be exact. That day, a day which still makes my heart skip a gleeful beat, was the day we were allowed to bring our baby boy home from the neonatal intensive care unit.

 

I had a fairly routine pregnancy after a fairly easy try at getting pregnant. As my belly grew, so did the stacks of pregnancy magazines and the number of bought-on-a-whim-because-it-was-so-darn-cute onesies. I experienced the miracle of hearing my child’s heartbeat patter away for the first time. I watched him tumble about during an ultrasound. He was healthy, he was growing well, he had ten fingers and ten toes. There was absolutely no reason to think there should be any cause for concern on the day of his birth.

 

On the evening of May 24^th, weary and resigned, I hauled my then 60 pounds heavier bulk to bed. I gather the fist shaking towards heaven and demands for labor were heard; I awoke a few hours later with wet sheets and the full realization my baby was on his way. With a rush of adrenaline, my husband and I giddily made that middle of the night dash for the hospital. It was finally happening; we were going to meet our first born son.

 

Looking back, I often explain that the stars just weren’t aligned right that day. My son’s birth trauma resulted from a number of smaller factors which eventually culminated into one ill-fated outcome. The first possible factor may have had something to do with the weather. You see, it was raining outside. Pouring in fact, dumping huge cats and dogs like I’d never seen. Apparently there were two low pressure systems swirling over the state of Massachusetts. “Yup, I should’ve known” one nurse clucked next to me. “Low pressure systems bring babies”. And sure enough, that maternity wing suddenly filled to capacity with women in labor. It was also Memorial Day. Was the hospital fully staffed? It was hard to tell. Nurses and doctors, distracted and impossibly busy, scurried about. Women in various rooms hollered out and my disorganized labor pattern stumbled and hiccupped along.

 

As the day wore on and other mothers had their babies, I did not. The Doctor informed me that a c-section at 6pm was probably in the cards. My heart stopped, as if a c-section was the worst possible outcome. I looked to the nurses besides me. “Don’t worry, hon.” one whispered, “We’ll get you there. We’ll keep the Doctor distracted and see if this baby comes on his own”. She indeed stayed distracted and another star aligned itself. Sure enough, 6pm came and went.

 

To progress my labor, the nurses encouraged me to roll on my side. However, at one point, the heart monitor slowed and became erratic. Then it steadied itself. But those stars were lining right up, and my son’s fate was being determined in those very moments.

 

By 10pm, against expectations, I was fully dilated. And pushing! “What a head of hair!” the nurse declared. Oh, she could see him! Another nurse casually placed a blue cap on the warmer – he should be here at any moment…

 

And that’s about when fate showed its hand. That’s when they saw the meconium in the fluid. That’s when I spiked a fever. That’s when his heart rate plummeted and remained unchanged. That’s when the smiles stopped, the whispers started, nurses began to run around, papers were madly signed, my bed and I were unhooked and I was rushed into the O.R.

 

My son was born at 12:20am on May 26^thby c-section. The final star slid into place – his cord was found partially wrapped around his neck. He was not breathing. They started CPR in the O.R. and whisked him away to the nursery where he was intubated. As I laid in the recovery room, I was given uneasy words of comfort and a haphazardly taken Polaroid picture of my son. My baby. He was not well. And so, around 2am, my boy was evacuated to Boston’s Children’s Hospital across town. My baby, who I had only seen briefly in passing, covered in tubes and monitors while the paramedics rolled him into the elevator, was not well at all.

 

The next morning, pediatric doctors said the words “Hypoxic-Ischemic Encephalopathy”. In layman’s terms, our baby had been deprived of oxygen for too long during delivery. And then the seizures started. His brain was wounded and it was reacting. We had to wait another week or more for the final prognosis. Under the enormous weight of this information, I was finally wheeled over to meet my child. There he lay. My son. His arms and legs drawn up to his side (“that’s a result of high muscle tone due to brain injury”) and he was completely still (“the anti-seizure medications will keep him deeply sedated for sometime”). I wanted to hold him. Very gingerly, three nurses transferred him and his accompanying tubes to my arms. He didn’t move. I stared at him. What had happened? I had a sudden desperate urge to ask the doctors if they could put him back inside. He was fine there. Nothing was wrong until they took him out. Just put him back! But I didn’t say a word. I cried some, though. My tears fell onto his face. And he still didn’t move.

 

Over the next eleven days, my husband and I spent every waking hour in that NICU. We learned about each tube, monitor, medication and testing procedure. We took an infant CPR class (breaking into frantic giggles as the instructor demanded that we yell “Baby! Wake Up!” to our plastic dolls). We began the process of signing up for early intervention and other services we might qualify for. Words like “Cerebral Palsy” were carefully mentioned – they were preparing us. Doctors, medical students and nurses shuffled about, nodding their heads, taking notes, and moving on. And the NICU, like some subdued casino, melted day and night together with its blinking lights and beeping sounds. It hissed and hummed and carried on, while fates were determined by the roll of the dice for each child that occupied bed after bed after bed.

 

On the morning of June 4^th, I stared down at my beautiful son. By the grace of God, he was no longer intubated. In fact, he was in my arms, nursing. Move aside Einstein, my son had figured out how to suck and swallow. No doubt about it, he was brilliant. But I stared at him, concerned, rocking, waiting for another shoe to drop.

That morning, we had a round table meeting where test results and my son’s prognosis would finally be shared. My father and aunt were there, acting as our voices, while we sat in our own emotional stupors. Call it denial, but I was secretly hopeful. He was alert and moving in my arms, he was nursing, and he just felt well.

 

I don’t remember much about that meeting except for one important moment. Bow-tied and stern, the head neurologist began rambling various technical terms – but the nurse besides him started to smile. Was this good news? And then, Dr. Bow-tie looked up and said, “We do not use the word ‘extraordinary’ around here very often, but that is how I would describe your son’s recovery. His MRI only shows signs of ‘normal’ birth trauma now. He is free to be discharged.”

 

Call the mayor, call the newspapers, stop traffic, declare a holiday, gather a “rolling rally” parade and have the Boston Pops strike up a celebratory concerto. My son had recovered! The paperwork began while the nurses whispered; smiling about miracles. Our boy was going home the next day.

 

June 5^thwas the day. The doctors did their rounds, final checks were made, prescriptions were written and we readied his car seat. And do you know what else? Our son was watching it all go on around him. I distinctly remember him following my husband’s bright red Red Sox hat move across the room and back. Our son really had recovered.

 

Later that morning, we gleefully fled the hospital grounds with our precious cargo unplugged from the NICU and on his way home. What had we gotten away with? At any moment I expected a call to return him, a mistake had been made, he needed more care. But I am not sure we could have turned around. Like high stakes thieves, we knew we had miraculously snatched our baby from a life of potential disability and struggle. Yup, thieves we were, a regular Bonnie and Clyde, laughing madly at the bullet we had just dodged. It was the most wonderful, exhilarating moment in our lives. So, finally, the stars had moved on and re-aligned themselves, designating something hopeful. Down I-95 we sped, where promising destinies were finally awaiting all three of us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blogging for Boobies

Breast cancer is an absolute reality in my family. My maternal grandmother had a mastectomy and a lumpectomy. My mother had a malignant tumor and lumpectomy when I was in college. Her sister had the same not far after her and I am fairly sure she has had more occurrences since then, although they may have been benign. My maternal grandfather’s sister also had a malignant lump. All of these women found their lumps when they were post menopausal. In the next generation, there are four women – myself and my three cousins. None of us are post menopausal. None of us have had any brushes with breast cancer – yet. But we know there is a ticking time bomb amongst us. It seems as if it is just a matter of time.

So today I had my annual gynecology exam. A thrilling day, no doubt. Gotta love those scratchy paper robes and the cold lubricating gel. Ew. But I am religious about going. I also had a cervical cancer scare before T. was born. So pap away, Dr. I have no reservations.

After the exam was over, the Dr. and I got on the topic of breast cancer. I am 35 in a month. (…dramatic pause… 35. Older-than-35 ladies, please don’t be annoyed when I say this but 35 seems like a gateway to “old”. 40 is just years away. What the hell! Ok, I’m over it.) I already had a baseline mammogram before C. was born. All was well. He said we could probably wait until I was 40 (gulp) before we did one again. But he was very adamant about the next bit of advice: “Do your breast exams.”

And you know what? I haven’t been. I know, I know! Its like playing Russian roulette – what am I, nuts? Nah, just clearly in denial. Breast cancer is for old women who don’t get their period. Not me. Not a… 35 year old. Uh oh.

So seeing my face, the Dr. told me a little story. And I want to share it with you all. He told me about a 41 year old patient this past March who got her mammogram, and it was clear. In April, during a self breast exam, she felt a lump. By the end of that month, she was diagnosed with malignant breast cancer. It was early but she probably saved her own life. Think about it – for a lump to show up so fast (also taking into account that mammograms are by NO means perfect) – well, it’s a real lesson for me. I MUST check my boobies. Once a month. When? He said after your period. Or a good reminder is the day you start your first pill pack. So, this is my resolution to myself, heading into 35 in almost a month to the day. I WILL CHECK MY BOOBIES. And if you got ’em, you should too.

Another point about this. Did you notice how unsure I was about my family’s history at the start of this post? Interestingly, one of my cousins (the daughter of my aunt who had breast cancer) just happens to be in Florida for a conference and is coming for dinner on Saturday. I have decided to hassle her for her family’s entire breast cancer history. And I will get together mine. My plan is to collect it all and compose some sort of document that we four of cousins can share. Its time to buck up.

B.R.E.A.S.T. C.A.N.C.E.R. , dude. Its not just for old ladies, anymore. It’s for people like me.