Hippa Smippa

Last week I had a mammogram. My favbrit. But apparently I got an "F" on it because they called me this week and scheduled me to come in and have a redo, along with an ultra sound.

So much for my new years resolution to stay out of Dr.'s Offices, thus not having to pay them.

I didn't let myself get too worked up about it, because I've been through this before.... while Timmers was having chemotherapy. It was a cyst then, so let's all conclude that it's a cyst now, right? I slept through the night with that thought rolling around my head. Along with this thought creeping around the edges: chemo by yourself...what a blast that would prove to be.

Yesterday I went in for the redo rodeo.

OK. I'm just telling you right here, right now, when you go in for the redo, the object is to smash you three times further with twice the grip. I seriously thought that when I stepped back from the mammography machine that I would look at the plate and I would be seeing my smashed mammo-grified part sitting there without me...like a skin tag removed with clippers. Mister, just thinking about that can smart like the dickens. Makes your spine curl, don't it?

Anyway, so as not to worry you any further, I got an A- on the redo, along with the ultra sound. I am fine.

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Physically.

However, I didn't realize how worried I might of been about it until I woke up this morning with a headache. (And now you know TWO pieces of Hippa information about me.) It was one of those post stress headaches, the kind that you get when you are carrying around too much baggage

So I've kind of been babying myself today. Laying on the couch, watching TV, and I even treated myself to some chocolate covered almonds, because we Sisters deserve the Chocolate after having had double the mammograms in one week. It's the Mommacita rule.

Around 4 o'clock, I talk myself into going to the grocery store. I think I need strawberries. So I drag my headachy self to Winco. As soon as I get in the store, I discover I have to visit the ladies room. So off I go. As I'm washing my hands I look in the mirror, and in my reflection, right above the V in my V necked t-shirt I see a two bruises.

I'M BRUISED!

I'M BRUISED!

I AM BRUISED FROM A MAMMOGRAM!!!

THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!!! I'M BRUISED!!!

Well I am just furious. I don't think we should go around bruising our Ladies there.

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So I very lightly touch one of the bruises. As I run my finger over my skin, I notice that the bruise follows my finger. In fact, it was a bruise that transferred to the bottom of my finger. It was one of those transferring bruises? Wha?

It's Chocolate. Melted Melty Chocolate. I've been walking around in public with an ink blot stain made out of chocolate on my chest. And let's not even be discussing how an ink blot shaped chocolatey schmear was tattooed on me, front and center. I have endured enough trauma.

I am admitting I am far too ridiculous to ever again talk in a disparaging manner about people who frequent Walmart. Even if they have digestive issues and are standing by me in line.

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And Schneebers, after hearing this story, I think you just might prefer that I wear my pajamas in public. You know. Instead of the plethora of alternatives.

Getting Real

Memorial Day.

I tried to give you a chance.

Today was a beautiful blue sky day, perfect temperature, and gentle breeze. I had just been to my parent's house. There they had a basement full of Mums...every color imaginable. They had been purchased and nurtured to be placed on an abundance of graves, to honor those who had gone before: Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sisters, and always a little arrangement for an infant daughter, my only sister. I grew up with this tradition. Every memorial day, our parents took us to the cemetery before we'd get together with cousins. It was the ultimate day of family, past and present.

When I got married, this tradition was erased. Tim's dad had died when he was 8. We never visited his grave, except for one time when we had only 2 kids left at home. That visit was on a beautiful day like today. The view was spectacular. At the time, I didn't understand Tim's way, but I was more than willing to go to the beach or the mountains or Grandma's for a Bar-B-Que whenever memorial day rolled around. I would have been willing to visit graves too, however, since he didn't seem to want to, I was more than happy to oblige.

This would probably be a good time to let you in on the fact that I have hardly ever visited Tim's grave. It might be for a number of reasons. The first time I went was a few days after his funeral. It was the grayest, rainiest, windiest, coldest, most horrible day ever. The grass on top of the grave was dead, and the funeral flowers on top of that were shriveled and dead as well. It took about two seconds for me to draw no less than two thousand parallels.

Another reason might be that I hate the marker. Tim insisted on the cheapest one. I would do it differently now if I could. Another reason is that I don't know what to do once I'm there. Where do I walk? Where do I stand? It is so awkward. Should I speak? Where do I look? If I look to the left I see the headstone of that girl that died 2 years ago on her prom night. Her parents spared no expense: there are at least 15 pictures of her engraved in the granite. To the right I see 3 siblings, younger than eight. More pictures of someones babies they had to let go of.

So when I got home from my trip last night, I noticed that 1 lone Calla lily had reached its peak in my front yard. I decided to take it and lay it on our headstone. (yes, ours, my name is on it, which maybe is another reason I can't get the visiting thing down.). This morning I cut the lily, giving it a big long stem, I brought it inside and tied a bow of white tulle about a quarter of the way down. I put it in water and drove it to the cemetery. I was going to pay my respects like all the other grown ups out there.

Even on a blue sky day, with perfect temperature, and a gentle breeze, and even after 5 1/2 years, I still do not like the cemetery. I left sad.

For me, if I want to talk to Tim, or feel him near, I go to one of our Church's Temples, for it is there I am reminded of the eternal nature of each soul, and the possibility of a forever family. When I go there, I always leave with hope, and gratitude, and a heart that is full of love for a Savior that would make it possible for Tim and I to be together again. There is no sadness in a Temple. I can always count on that.

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLXYxmaHWQs

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Memorial Day, I gave you a shot. Tomorrow, I visit the Temple.

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Weekend Update. Like it's Only Been a Weekend Since I Posted

I just got home from a weekend with the parental units. Me Madre flew me down for me Padre's birthday party:

When the Queen Mum turned 85, she got a bunch of stamps to celebrate

Dad, sadly did not, even though he deserves them. I was hoping that my sister in law would email me the pictures of my Dad blowing out his candles, but I haven't got them yet. He was the cutes, sitting there in front of his ice cream cake, blowing out his candles. You never get to old to have fun blowing out your candles. Think about it for a minute, has there ever been a time in your life when you haven't felt special blowing out your birthday candles? I thought not. I loved sitting there watching my 85 year old Daddy, feeling special on his special day. LOVE him.

I stayed at my childhood home the whole weekend. 30 years ago, my parents turned my room into a TV room the second I was married because, hello, I wasn't coming back. I like their confidence. The first night there, I sat in the blue bean bag chair and watched Murder She Wrote on the Hallmark channel with my mom.

I'm not such a Murder She Wrote kind of gal. But Mom is. So we watched. And you can go ahead and imagine me watching Murder She Wrote if you like, because that would mean you will be imagining me being so tolerant, so selfless, so giving. Which might be a new experience for you.

The opening scene had Angela Lansbury with yellow rubber gloves on and her hair tied up in a red scarf'; and she was cleaning her oven like a demon when the Murder She Wrote phone call came in and she had to drop everything and get going to solve the mystery dejour. And no, it was not quite believable, thanks for asking. The show had a western theme so I was doubly b.o.r.e.d. what with the dust and the wranglers and the twang.

I had to keep pinching myself to make sure that yes, I WAS in my childhood bedroom watching that show.

In a vinyl bean bag chair.

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The next night I got to go to dinner with these two:

They are just as cute as a year ago. Except Mitch needs a haircut. And I think I mentioned it to him a couple of times, so he might have been happy to drop me off back at my childhood home. It's weird to have your child leave you at your childhood home. Just sayin.

We went to Ruth's Dinner, which is a spot up the canyon that I used to go when I was in college. Ultimate comfort food. I'm still thinking about the Chocolate Malt Pudding that we topped the meal off with. I'm a big ol' fan of pudding, especially if there is real whipped cream on top. And Ruth's was yummeristic.

I really really loves me that pudding.

Mitch also took me to the hospital to see Jennifer, of Blogging for Jennifer Wahlquist Day fame. (I can't get the link to work...so just scroll down three posts....)

I KNOW! I am so lucky! We walked in, and as I gently hugged her teeny little self she whispered in my ear: "Thank you, thank you so much". It was so tender, that I then had to fumble around for a tissue to wipe my eyes. I just love her so much.

So here's my report on Miss Jennifer:

Spirit: STRONG

Determination: STRONG

Love for her family: STRONG

Appreciation for her family: STRONG

Hair: Coming back STRONG

Attitude: STRONG

Typical Jennifer.

I know when adversity slaps you in the face as it has slapped Jennifer, you have to do alot of searching in your heart to make sense of it. You have to decide if everything you have ever believed in is what you will continue to believe in. As we conversed, I could see the direction of her heart is fast and true. And STRONG

Jennifer, if you're reading this, I'm high fiving you right now. On the side. Down low. Too Slow. With a Pickle. Tickle Tickle.

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And Jennifer, have those hospital folks bring you in a cake with some candles on it from me.

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(PS I know I shouldn't say this but just try and hold back your amazement of the kittie world and the people who live to document it)