Good news! No cancer!

My doctor’s office finally called back this morning. The Giraffe was upset that they didn’t call immediately last week, but I chose to believe what Angiela said—if it was bad news, they’d make a point to call right away. No call means better news.

The person who called me said “no cancer” and let me know that I’d need to follow up with a breast specialist. My doctor wants me to do this because of the history of cancer (including breast) in my family. So I expect to learn more about what the lump is and how to proceed from here at that appointment (not yet set). I’m very happy about this news and feel like it was all worth it to have peace of mind.

Despite the great news and the relief, I’m going to complain about something. It’s about how this boob thing is interfering with my Couch to 5K goal. I did the first workout of the first week on Saturday, February 28, and I haven’t been able to run since then. I was naive enough to think I’d be able to go for a jog THE DAY OF my biopsy, which was just stupid. Then I thought maybe later that week—if I could get the second workout in by Thursday, I wouldn’t be behind. When that didn’t happen, I thought I’d just do two workouts in a row on Saturday and Sunday. But Saturday my boob hurt so bad, I had to hold it with one hand the whole time I went for a walk with the Giraffe. Definitely no running.

On Friday I had called the place that did the biopsy to see how long I should expect to have pain, and I was told up to two weeks. Fun. But they said I could run if I could stand the pain and I won’t do any damange. Too bad I’m a wuss and so cannot stand the pain. I’m still showering with a bathing suit top on because the weight my own boob is too much. So running? With all the jiggling? No thanks. To be honest, it’s not a horrible pain, more like a discomfort that constantly reminds me of what went on there.

But. I think I’m going to try to get back on track this week. I adjusted my running schedule to still fit all the training in before the 5K I want to run in May, so it’ll be a little more intense, but I can do it barring any more setbacks. I wouldn’t call myself a severly dedicated person, especially when it comes to fitness. I don’t often set fitness goals because I know I won’t want to follow through on them. But damn it, I set this goal, and now I want to achieve it. To have such a big set back at the very beginning has been very discouraging for me. On the verge of tears discouraging.

The good news is that Emily, my sister who is training in the same way for the same run, has a big ugly blister on her heel and isn’t any further along than me. It’s mean to be happy about her blister, but I admit, it did make me feel a little better.

Well, I had my first mammogram today. That’s not what I was expecting when I started my day, but that’s where I ended up. With my left boob smashed between two plastic plates. I’ll tell you how I got there, but I also want to ask some advice. So if you have time, read the whole thing and help me out.

In December I was laying in bed on my right side, reading a book. I had my left arm propped up on the side of my left boob to better hold the book, and I noticed a pain. Hmm, my boob kind of hurts, that’s odd. So I felt around a bit, and sure enough, a lump. I showed the Giraffe who thought I should get myself to to the doctor that very second, but I waited and had my sister check it out for me the next time I saw her. She said it was probably ok to wait until my doctor appointment in mid-January. Well, you know how that went, and I ended up not seeing a doctor until mid-February.

The doctor felt the lump during my breast exam, but seemed very unconcerned. She had me set up an appointment for a breast ultrasound, explaining that it felt more solid than cancerous lumps usually feel, and that the ultrasound should tell us what we need to know.

This afternoon, I went into the Cancer Center downtown (that’s intimidating!) and was ushered into a small room to change into a gown from the waist up. By the way, most unflattering gowns ever invented.

(Could I look any wider?)

In the exam room, they looked at my breasts, felt for the lump and marked it with a pen. Then they propped me up so my left breast was easily accessible, squirted it with warm gel, and put the ultrasound wand to work. The screen looked like nothing to me. I have no idea how they can tell anything from this mess:

(Yes I grabbed my camera and took that when the technician left the room for a moment.)

After the technician showed the doctor (who I never even met) the scans, she told me they were inconclusive.

“The doctor wants you to have a mammogram to get a better look.”
“Um, today?”
“Yep. I’ll get the room ready and we’ll do it right now.”

Three minutes later and I was face-to-face with a big shiny mammogram machine. Oddly, I wasn’t really nervous. I asked her how long I’d be smooshed, and she said no more than 20 seconds. That sounded tolerable. She positioned my left breast on the shelf of the machine, lowered the top plate, walked away to push a button, the machine made a noise for about five seconds, and it released my boob. When it was done, I literally asked if that was it because I didn’t believe it was that easy. She had to do another one with my breast in sideways, and that was a bit more uncomfortable, but still very tolerable. When she told me that the side scan wasn’t good enough and we’d have to do it again, I admit, I was a little annoyed. But truly, the mammogram was nothing like I expected based on horror stories I’d heard. Supposedly breast size makes a difference, but for anyone with a D-cup, I can assure you, it’s not bad! In fact, because the top plate is clear, I was more fascinated by the sight of my pancaked boob than I was worried about pain.

Anyway! The unseen doctor was shown the results of the mammogram, and when the technician returned, I was told that I’d need a biopsy. They think it’s a fibrous mass, and they want to do a biopsy to rule out anything worrisome. A biopsy yo! A mother fucking needle! IN MY BOOB! My mother, who has had myriad health problems in her 49 years, has never even had a breast biopsy. I’m 29 and next week I’m gonna have a needle in my boob. A needle that will take a piece of boob away with it! The ultrasound and the mammogram didn’t scare me. This scares me. Not to mention, for the last couple months I was pretty confident there was nothing to worry about. Just a gut feeling. Now even my gut is a little worried.

So here’s where I need advice. Part of me thinks that a lot of this is happening because I handed over an insurance card when I checked in. If I didn’t have insurance, would they have done an ultrasound AND a mammogram AND request a biopsy? Do they just assume my insurance will cover it, so run all the tests in the world. No problem! If insurance really did cover all this, I wouldn’t worry, but if you remember, I have a high-deductible plan, meaning I’m going to be paying for most, if not all, of this myself.

If I were to call and explain that and ask if this biopsy is absolutely necessary, would they tell me the truth? Should I do that? There is some history of breast cancer in my family, and that makes me not want to mess around here. But how do I determine if this is really necessary and worth the cost? Do I just trust what the doctor (who I never met!) says and get it done whatever the cost?

I’m obsessed. With a baby. A baby named Brady. I babysat last night, and he was such a sweet boy. Last time I babysat he screamed and screamed till he wore himself out and slept, but this time he ate, slept, slept some more, stirred a little, gave me a smile, and fell back asleep. I mostly stared at him and stroked his hair and baby soft skin.

I’ve also been helping my sister out with getting him to and from daycare. Andrea went back to work this week, and though my mom is providing daycare, she can’t drive. And her house is 25 minutes in the opposite direction of Ann’s work. BUT! I drive right past Mom’s exit on my way to work, so a couple times now I’ve gotten up early, swung by Ann’s to pick up Brady, and dropped him at mom’s before work. And then I usually pick him up on the way home too. It feels nice to be able to help, and the extra driving and abbreviated sleep feels like nothing because it’s all for little Brady boy.

Lord, this is gonna turn into a frickin’ auntie blog. Like a mommy blog but worse because all I’ll do is gush. And it might only get worse because I think I can now officially announce that my sister Kelli is pregnant! She had a rough first trimester, so we were keeping in on the downlow, as they say, but things look ok and she’s started spreading the word. She’ll find out in exactly two weeks if I’m getting another nephew or another niece. We’ve been calling it a girl since the first positive pregnancy test, so it would be hilarious if she’s in fact a he.

I’ll try to keep the gushing to a minimum though because until I have my own kids, y’all probably don’t give a crap. But even if you skipped over the reading of this post because baby gushing is lame, hopefully you scrolled down far enough to see these:

His little grumper face.

Smiles for Aunt Nana. And also showing off his chunkittude.

Working out some gas on his tummy.

Thanks for all the comments on yesterday’s post. If you haven’t read them, you should. There’s some good stuff there. It meant a lot to read what you all had to say about an issue that has been on my mind for some time.

What I thought was interesting was how much of the conversation gravitated toward the issue of love for the child. I see now that I did set it up that way, but that just proves that I’m not as effective a writer as I’d like to be. The love issue is certainly an important one, but what was in my head was more about the excitement and acceptance of my adoption desires. Maybe it’s naive, but I’ve never really doubted that I’d love my children more than I can imagine, no matter how they came into my life. I accept and embrace that adoption is different than procreation, but love has never really been a concern for me.

I even believe that most of my family will love adopted kids as much as biological ones because my family is full of big-hearted people with lots of love to give. And if they don’t, well maybe they’re not the kind of people I want in my children’s lives anyway.

Once the kids are here, they’ll be loved. I’m pretty confident about that. But why is there so much excitement around pregnancy that doesn’t exist so much around adoption? Why is everyone cool with the idea of adoption but THRILLED when they think for a second I might procreate? It feels like procreation is this exciting milestone that everyone wants to be involved in, and adoption is just…something else. Maybe it has something to do with what Kt said:

“I think unless someone has witnessed a family adopting a child, that hearing about adopting is new. They know what it’s like to witness someone pregnant and have the child.”

Just about everyone knows someone who’s had a baby biologically, so they know how it goes, what to expect, how fun and exciting it can be. They know how and when to throw the showers, they know what questions to ask, they know what things should look like and how things should happen. It’s familiar and they know it’s exciting, so they can get behind the idea of others giving birth.

But adoption, for many, is new and foreign. What does it look like? How does it happen? What should we expect? How will we be involved? How will we feel about this new child? How will the parents feel about the new child? Will it be as exciting as all those times someone I know has had a baby?

So I guess what I’m saying is maybe I need to cut people some slack, not let everything I wrote about yesterday get to me, and trust that if/when adoption becomes real for us, everything will be as it should. You guys helped me come to that conclusion, so thanks.

Emily [while handing Brady over to me]: Doesn’t he just make you want to have one?
Me: Actually, yes.

But of course I didn’t mean that I actually wanted to have a baby. I’ve always wanted to adopt, and I still do if circumstances allow someday. What I meant was that it seems more realistic than it ever has (which isn’t saying much) that someday I might actually be ready to be a mother. As much as Brady has stolen my heart, my uterus is still not calling to me.

Later when I recalled the conversation, without context, to someone else, that person commented how until Brady was born, Andrea never thought she’d love being a mom. There’s just something about carrying a child for 9 months and giving birth to it that creates a deep instinctual love.

“Don’t you think it could be the same with an adopted child?” I asked.

“You can still feel that, but it’s not quite the same. Andrea can’t stand to be away from Brady for long.”

“But don’t you think I’d feel the same way with a child I adopted?”

“Maybe…”

I think what that conversation proved to me was that no matter what, some people just won’t be as excited about me adopting children as they would be about my birthing them. I’ve noticed this before. Little glimpses of pure joy when someone thinks it’s possible I might procreate.

One relative’s unfettered joy when I said future pregnancies are not entirely ruled out.

Another’s comments about how they’re sure I’m going to change my mind about having babies after seeing me with Brady.

They always try to backtrack when I remind them that adoption is my first and most likely choice, assuring me that they’re just as excited about that idea, and they’ll of course love my children exactly the same. But I can tell there’s a difference.

I’m not sure yet if this is a bad thing, an acceptable thing, or just a complete non-issue. Do I care that they’re eyes light up when they think for a second that I’ve given up on the whole adoption dream and replaced it with the possibility of pregnancy? Does it bother me that they can’t muster the same genuine thrill when I talk about adoption? I don’t quite know.

Part of it might be that I’ve talked about adoption for sooo looong, that the idea of changing my mind shocks them into excitement. In fact, I bet that’s a lot of it. Yet, still. Still, there’s something else there. I just have to decide what that means to me.

(Just to be clear, I’m not at all talking about the Giraffe here. After re-reading, I worried maybe someone would think that.)

On Christmas day, my dad said we should all go around and answer two questions:

1. What was your biggest accomplishment of 2009?
2. What is one thing you plan to accomplish in the future?

We never actually got to this activity because we waited for my sister and her husband to get there, who had another party and got there just about the time my Christmas Cold was kicking in and I had to go home to bed. But I thought I’d do it here.

1. My biggest accomplishment of 2009.
I hate to measure my successes through education and career, but I think this year I have to say my biggest accomplishment was getting a Master’s degree and finding a good job as a result.

2. My plans for accomplishment in the future.
In the next year, I hope to learn how to be a great partner in a marriage. I know it’ll take a lifetime of learning, and I still might never get it right, but next year will bring my first attempt.

Hope you all had a great 2009, and if you didn’t so much, I hope your 2010 is rockin’. I hope EVERYONE has a spectacular year, in fact.

A little craft update since I can’t sleep (again). As you know, my nephew Brady was born a couple weeks ago, and I embroidered his name on a (decorative, not functional) bib. I’ve done this for many of the special kids in my life. Here’s Brady’s:

Not my best work, but those bibs are hard to work with.

Also, I finished my dad’s christmas gift, and now that he’s opened it, I can share:

I think he liked it. The idea was to spend no more than $4.44 on a gift, and since I had all the materials for this on hand – fabric, embroidery floss, frame – it was basically free.

Next I’m working on some gifts and some decorative stuff for the wedding. And eventually the “Unity Quilt” of course.

I just got home from my second ever professional massage. The Giraffe’s mom generously gave me a gift card to a spa for my birthday, and I used it to get an 80-minute massage today. It. Was. Heaven. I want one every single day. If I ever hit it rich, that is one thing I’ll splurge on – daily (ok, maybe weekly) massages. Here are some of my thoughts on this massage compared to the last one:

- Thirty minutes are awesome, but 80 minutes are spectacular!

- This masseuse didn’t talk to me at all during the massage. I think I liked it that way.

- The music, though meant to be soothing, was distracting. I would have preferred ocean sounds or something.

- There were a few parts of my lower back that actually hurt when she massaged them. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, so I just gritted my teeth and waited for her to move on.

- I couldn’t shut my mind up. I didn’t do any productive thinking, but my mind was turning the whole time. I tried to internally yell at myself to SHUT UP AND RELAX! but it didn’t work. Next time I get a massage, I need to figure out how to quiet my mind.

- She massaged almost every inch of my body. Including my butt. Very tastefully, of course.

Overall, it was an incredible experience and I can’t wait until I can go again.

Dear Brady,

You were born into love. Not all babies are. Many are born into hatred, neglect, abuse or loneliness. But you, lucky boy, were loved by so many before you were even born. We whispered to you through your mom’s belly, we felt you kick and imaged what you’d look like. We waited eagerly as you spent 19 hours pushing your way into the world, and we lined up to meet you when you were only minutes and hours old.

We love your mop of dark hair and your little button nose. We love your tiny toes and fingers, your fragile limbs, your baby soft skin. We love the child you are now and the man you will become.

When you were just three days old, I tucked you in my arms and watched as you woke from a long sleep. Your brand new eyes of the deepest grey struggled to focus, and then finally settled on mine. You studied my face and I studied yours. And in that moment I loved you so fiercely, my nephew, my sister’s son, the newest member of our family.

We may be strangers to you still, but we promise to protect and love you always. You will never be alone. Not as a tiny baby or a curious child or a stubborn teenager, not even as the well-adjusted adult I’m sure you’ll someday be. You were born into love, swells and mountains of love, and you’ll never have to go without. We love you not just because you’re an adorable sweet baby, we love you because you’re Brady.

Love (always),
Your Aunt Nana

My nephew was born today. My sister went into labor last night at around 9, and he wasn’t born until 4:30 this afternoon. My sister is a fucking trooper!

I haven’t yet gotten permission to share details or pictures, but I’ll tell you this: he is tiny and adorable and perfect and he smells like a divine little baby. And he has a head full of dark wavy hair.

Also, Andrea is amazing, truly. I’m so happy for all of them.

Updated:

Brady Douglas [Lastname]
Born: 12/14/2009 at 4:31 p.m.
6lb 11oz, 20.5in

When I started my job two and a half years ago, it was with the mindset that it would get me through my Master’s program, and then I’d be on to bigger and better things. But then the economy fell out from under us, and I found myself living in the state with the highest unemployment rate in the nation. When I finished my degree in August, I began to make new plans: I’d stay at my job until the Giraffe was done with school, then we’d open up our job search beyond this city, beyond this state, beyond this country even. There were no job openings around here, and I didn’t want to move away months before our wedding, so I was stuck until he could come with me. It was discouraging and disheartening to know I’d have to stay at a job that was far from where I wanted to be in my career, especially since I just spent two years and too much money on a degree that was supposed to move me forward.

Although I was resigned to my situation, I did still keep my eyes open for local job opportunities, only applying for those I’d be truly interested in accepting. But my hopes remained low when rejection after rejection rolled in. Then, suddenly, last month I found myself at an interview, and then a second interview, and then I was on the phone accepting a new position. It has its downsides, but the job is at a nonprofit (which is what I went to school for) and it’s in a field I’m really excited about. Just when I had accepted that I’d be in a holding pattern until at least June, this incredible opportunity was given to me, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

The biggest downside is that it’s not quite local. It’s in a city a little over an hour away from home. The Giraffe and I tossed around several ideas, but in the end we decided I’d commute to work until he finished school in the spring, then we’d reassess. So just as winter is setting in, I’ll be driving to and from work, an hour each way, every day. I’m not looking forward to it, but for such a good opportunity, it’s worth it.

The strange thing about getting a job right now is that along with feelings of elation and relief, I feel very guilty. I know so many people who have been laid off, are underemployed, or are stuck in jobs they loathe because they can’t find anything better. I often feel like I want to apologize for my good fortune. It’s a strange internal conflict between joy and guilt. I know I worked hard for this position – two years of school, making connections, etc. But so did many other people who aren’t being rewarded in the same way. I’m having a really hard time reconciling it with myself.

For a long time, my family had a tradition of going Christmas tree shopping soon after Thanksgiving. We’d all load up — aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, siblings — and head out to a tree farm. The tradition has sort of waned in the last few years as we’ve all grown up and gotten busy, but my sister Kelli made an attempt to get some of us together to shop for trees this year. Despite busy and conflicting schedules, a few of us were going to go out this afternoon.

But then it started raining. Pouring actually, and my dad said we should probably reschedule. Except I didn’t know that, so the Giraffe and I sat around waiting for someone to call us and say we were ready to go (we were waiting for Kel’s husband to get out of work). Finally at 1:30 I called and asked what was up. Oh, we’re rescheduling, didn’t you know?

No, we didn’t. The Giraffe and I were eager to get a tree this weekend, so we decided to go to Lowe’s, where we picked up a Scotch Pine for $15. When we got it home though, it didn’t fit in our tree stand. So back out we went to return the stand to the same store we had visited this morning for groceries. I hate return trips on the same day! We bought a new tree stand, got it home, put the tree up and realized, holy shit, it’s crooked as hell! The whole trunk, from base to top, is a complete bow. We had to stick the trunk base in at a severe angle just to get the top to point toward the ceiling.

But it’s up! We’re letting it dry out a little (all that rain earlier soaked it) before we decorate. With Christmas music of course. This is a fun time of year.

Edited to Add:

Right now, I have to admit, I’m most thankful for a four-day weekend and the fact that I got to sleep in until 10 this morning. Family, friends, food, shelter, health, wealth… definitely appreciate that stuff too. I try to never take it for granted. I know I’m blessed in so many ways, and as I head off to a Thanksgiving celebration with my whole family, I’m reminded of that.

But this morning I can’t help but say a big THANK YOU for feeling rested and for the long weekend ahead of me.

Last night was Sister Night. We all got together, just the four of us, for dinner and ice cream and gut-splitting laughter. We haven’t done that in awhile. Just the four of us, I mean. We see each other often, but usually in the context of larger family functions or at least with our significant others in tow. But sister time is special. These three ladies are my best friends, my closest confidantes, and the people who make me laugh more than anyone else in the world.

(This is from the other day when we were all hanging out with our mom. From left: Andrea, Emily, Shannon, Mom, Kelli.)

Two of my best blogger buddies read my post yesterday and wrote their own accounts of adolescent insecurity. You should check out Katie’s post (at Willikat) and Angie’s post (at Found Out About Me).

That got me thinking more about this topic. I think a lot of my insecurities were wrapped up in my comparison to my younger sister (Andrea, the hot one). She was pretty and skinny and popular and athletic and artistic and talented. I, according to my own thoughts, was none of those things.

Even though I can see now that I had it pretty good then*, it was never enough because my sister always had more and better. And the worst part is that she and I didn’t get along, so not only was I painfully jealous of my younger sister, but she really had no use for me. A lot of my self-confidence, or lack of it, resulted from how I related to Andrea.

Surprisingly I was rarely teased or mocked or bullied by classmates, so very little of my insecurity issues spawned from my peers. Sure, I felt ridiculous in gym class and I shied away from direct contact with the “popular” kids, but I was spared a lot of the pain that many teenagers cause each other.

For me, it was all about crying myself to sleep so many nights because even though I was the older sister, I was much less important in the world. Looking back, I think I had some issues with depression in my adolescence, and I think a lot of it manifested itself in my feelings about self-worth compared to my sister.

Oddly though, it was that summer we spent in Yellowstone together that brought us closer. We spent nearly every day together, and we had lots of fun. We came out of that experience closer than we had ever been. It took a couple more years before I stopped comparing myself to her and learned to love myself, but it helped that we were finally friends, as well as sisters.

*I don’t think I ever really found myself ugly, but certainly not pretty. Looking back, I was such a good size – not too gangly, and not at all overweight – but I hated my hips and thighs and stomach at the time. I was not popular in the sense of being part of the “in crowd” but I had lots of great friends, and I believe I was well-liked in general with no real enemies. I’ve never been athletic, so that was no illusion. I’m not artistic, though I am pretty creative, but that wasn’t good enough back then. As for talented… I still don’t know that I’m talented. I’m capable, competent and good at many things, but I’ve always said that I don’t have a true talent. I’m good at many things, great at none.