Ahhhhh That's Better

I am so proud to announce that I have three flier stories appearing in Joshua Heineman's excellent arty on-line available zine ahhhhh, No. 4. I love Joshua's blog, which showcases his many talents, and feel very excited to be a part in anything he creates.

Tomorrow Graham and I are off for a much needed vacation to see our friends in Vermont to relax, crack-up, swim in lakes and ponds, drink gallons of coffee sweetened with maple syrup, and just be in nature. Ah, sweet nature! I've decided to leave my lump anxiety at home, which is so much easier since the continuing e-mail and card receiving of so many of you who have shared your own stories with me. You know who you are and I am sending genuine love and gratitude your way.

So far, my anti anxiety regiment has included walking to Elvis Costello, reading inspiring stories of genius writers, and watching lost of so bad it's good movies. If no one has seen the original The Blob starring Steve McQueen, they haven't LIVED! Well, okay, maybe that's not entirely true, but it has made me want to make a technicolor 1950's monster movie! I kept looking at the blob and thinking "Are those STRAWBERRY preserves? Are those SEEDS I see in its jammy form?"

I don't know how much I'll be reporting this week, but I send you a monster movie and lots of relaxed days until we meet again!

This is for Felicia who said my blog needed more cat action

A cure for baldness:

Ways to Stay Cool While You Deal with a Medical Crisis: Celebrate Your Anniversary

Meanwhile, back in the non-boob centric world, Graham and I spent last friday celebrating our anniversary. The weather was probably as good as it gets on any day in New York. Low to no humidity, soft breezes, and in the low 80's. We got up early and took a long walk in Brooklyn Heights and dreamed about buying a home there, where we would never leave the bucolic, historic brick lined streets, and forget that New York City was a mere subway stop away. It is, to say the least, an incredible part of town. Just to get Graham's goat, I pretended I was a tourist and photographed Truman Capote's house:
He wrote Breakfast at Tiffany's and a great deal of In Cold Blood here. I like to think of him coming back from Kansas in his wild west jacket, tired and worn out, but happy to be back. If I were him and lived in this house, which has a view of the water at the end of the street, I would be happy to be back too.
Then we walked along the Brooklyn Bridge, which, let's be honest, kicks most bridge's b-hind in beauty and design. It was crowded with tourists as usual, but I liked knowing that they would go home to whatever part of the world they came from with the memory of seeing this bridge, with this spectacular weather. It couldn't have been any better.

Then, thanks in part to an anniversary gift of Graham's parents, we went to the 21 Club for dinner. As this is #5 on my list of 100 things I want to do before I die, I was pretty darned excited! It's a historic restaurant in New York that used to be a favorite of everyone from Lucille Ball to Woody Allen. We had to get gussied up and everything. Graham was required to wear a tie, jacket, slacks, and nice pair of shoes. When we walked in, the first host we greeted literally looked him up and down to make sure he was fit. He was fit! We sat and ate and drank the most yummy food and took in the whole environment. We overheard the waiter say to a man at the next table, "Ah, good choice. That was Bogart's favorite." What was it? I never found out, but it didn't matter. I was eating scallops on a pool of corn puree and Graham was eating a 21 specialty called Steak Diane. And for dessert there was chocolate mint torte and a lovely cup of coffee.

Can you see it in our faces? We were a happy 1 year old married couple. Very happy, indeed.

Am Are I

First of all, THANK YOU to the big wide world out there for all of your e-mails in which have contained countless stories of your own. It has had a BIG calming affect on me. I feel yes, less alone, and kind of normal. To the few who have written me that are going through this or a similar issue yourselves, I am WITH YOU in that cold, uncomfortable waiting room of uncertainty. Thank you for being with me.

As I have been learning more and more of other people's experiences with this I can't help but wonder why the HECK is this not talked about more? I mean, the term MAMMOGRAM is used all over the place--I saw it used in a Simpson's episode last night for pete's sake! It's an expected procedure for women, but I had NO CLUE as to what exactly the actual PROCEDURE was. How about getting your boobs individually MASHED in a plastic vice, while you wear tiny, flesh colored pasties? That wasn't the first image that came to my mind when I thought of mammograms. I'll admit it. And now I've given you all an image in which to carry with you throughout the day.

I got a call from doctor's office yesterday with the results of my sonogram and mammogram. Are you ready? The nurse said, "They discovered a lump." I kept waiting for some other revelation to follow this, but no, that was it. Thanks for the FRIGGN' NEWS FLASH. I waited TWELVE DAYS for that? So I am scheduled for an MRI in two weeks. The day after my birthday, actually. I've been told by a few people that have gone through this that an MRI is followed by a biopsy. The biopsy is the last stand. Why not just get a biopsy in the first place? That would pretty much solve it in one visit, as opposed to four or five. But what do I know? I am just one of the many women who are jumping through several hoops and countless sleepless nights, and telling how many strangers, both in person and on the phone, about the intimate workings of my body, and somehow feeling jilted and used and unrequited.

I guess I am still pissed.

Knowing that this is something so many women go through has helped normalize it for me and not worry SO MUCH for the worst. I am reminded of what a guy at the social security office told me once. I called because I was afraid I had inadvertently given a scammer my social security number and he literally said to me, "Summer, Summer it's most likely going to be okay. You always hear the bad stories and not the millions of okay stories. Think about how many thousands of planes land every single day, but you only hear about the one or two that crashes a year."

Our tendency--or MY tendency--is to think of the worst case scenario. Also, by the way, the worst case scenario in this case is most likely treatable. It's just the friggn' unknown that wraps you up in its cold fist and pounds the fear into you hand over hand. The nature of this process seems to me to breed an unnecessary amount of paranoia. Why doctors don't explain more or make themselves more available to such questions seems counter intuitive. But again, what do I know? I am just the patient with the MASS in her chest, who believes she can fell it when she BLINKS.

Thanks again to you all. I know you know what I mean.

Down in the Lumps

Hey folks, sorry for the long absence, but real life intervenes and sometimes the blog is the first to go.

About 10 days ago, I went to the doctor for my routine exam and she found a lump in my breast. The soonest they could get me in to get a mammogram and a scan was yesterday, so for the last ten days I've been pretty much burning brightly with anxiety. Now that the date for my follow up has come and gone, and I still don't know ANYTHING, my anxiety is doing its little dance and going towards the PISSED side. I left the radiology department yesterday with a mental list I'd like to give them personally. A list that would include:

• Have a FRIGGN' SENSE OF HUMOR. Humor HELPS, people!
• Offer to explain what you are doing and/or SHOW what you are doing. Just because your patient doesn't speak up, doesn't mean she doesn't WANT TO KNOW.
• Warmer robes would also help. With the AC blasting, I sat with about 3 other women SHIVERING in our thin seersucker robes.

I've been doing research and I know the drill. I know that most lumps--as in 80-90% of lumps are nothing but just that, lumps. I also have been through a health scare before, where I learned that doctors say things to you with the same nonchalance that they would tell you about what they ate for lunch, not realizing that you are clinging to every word they say and the WAY they say it. For example, when my doctor used the term "LARGE" to describe the lump, she may not have meant, "This woman is DOOMED," but I wouldn't know. Unfortunately, I am not in her brain. I am in MY brain where I am filling in the blanks faster that a game of Mad Libs. I once had a doctor say to me, "Do you WANT children? Why not just get a HYSTERECTOMY?" In the same way she might have asked me, "Do you want a skirt? Why not just get a pair of shorts?" If you are an OBGYN doctor, please do not ever say such a thing to a 29 year old woman. 5-6 years will pass and she will STILL want to kill you.

I like to think of the woman, who sat in her robe, waiting with me yesterday. She must have seen my worried face because she said in a thick Polish accent, "Don't worry about this. This is my THIRD time back and it's always something. Even if they find something, they make mistakes. They told my friend she was dying of stomach cancer and then two weeks later said they made a mistake. You--you are too young. Don't worry."

I borrowed some of her attitude until it became clear that they weren't going to explain anything to me that day and I would have to go home with what I came in with: my insurance card and the big wide unknown. Here's to another day of not knowing, which is, as Graham pointed out, how we all live anyway. Since he's younger than me and not the one with a stuffed pasta shell riding shotgun in his rack, I wanted to say something sarcastic like, "Thanks, YODA." But he was right. He always is.

I can't believe it's been a year already

One year ago today Graham and I said "Yes!" and "Absolutely!" In front of a big crowd of love and ate chocolate cake and danced to Wilco, James Brown, and a ton of 80's songs. In some ways, this isn't so different from our every day lives, except that I rarely wear white and we never wear flowers. I think wearing flowers more often might be in order. Happy Anniversary to US!

Ways to Keep Cool in New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Subway: $2.50. Admission: By donation only, so we paid $2.50 each.
Incredible art in glorious air conditioning:

Priceless.