I've seen enough of the doctor.

At one point or another, I’m sure I’ve blathered on about my love of Fall! I don’t think “fall” officially has a capital “f,” but it should.

I love everything about Fall. The clothes, the pumpkin patch, warm apple cider, trick or treating, etc. etc. etc.

It may have something to do with the fact that the woman who “did my colors” at Merle Norman before the 8th Grade Christmas dance told me I was “an autumn.” She was absolutely correct in her assessment.

Last year it was 85 degrees every day until November, when over night the temperature dropped to 30 degrees. Last year was a bust. This year, we’re going to have a great Fall. I can feel it. It’s been sunny, pleasant, and the cool air is trickling in. The weather man keeps telling us we’re going to have awesome foliage because we’ve had the right temperatures, the right amount of rain, and the Farmer’s Almanac says so.

Last weekend I ripped out my dead as a doornail petunias and conned Brandon into planting giant yellow mums. I hung my Fall wreath. I scattered my glass pumpkins throughout the living room. I’m ready.

It’s not quite time to buy pumpkins and drag out the jack-o-lanterns, so to tide myself over I suggested we go apple picking as a family.

Here’s the thing. I tend to do this kind of stuff by myself with the kids. Do you know why? Because I can go on my own terms and I have a great attitude. When we involve Brandon there’s a great deal of hemming and hawing around and excessive questioning. “Where is this place? How do you know they have apples? Do you have any cash? Can’t you buy apples at the store?”

When we get there, the fun leaks out like a balloon with a pin hole. “You’re wearing flip flops to an apple orchard?! Meredith! You wore white shoes?! Gator, watch out for the mud! Stay on the gravel! I don’t know where we’re supposed to get the picking bags! NO, we’re not riding on the wagon; it’s crowded! We’ll walk and get there in half the time!”

I don’t like unknowns anymore than Brandon, and we have a shared appreciation of structure, but once in awhile, the occasion calls for throwing caution to the wind. I do so in low risk settings, like an apple orchard. We arrived, we got a little muddy, I found the picking bags. All was well.

We picked several pounds of apples. We wound up with more eating apples than cooking apples. I should have used the last of the cooking apples to make a sugar-free apple sauce. Instead I baked them into a killer apple crisp, which the kids and I ate before dinner while it was still warm and topped with vanilla ice cream. We probably gave Brandon hives!

Irony

I've known Brandon for 15 years. I know he can't be trusted around cameras, old photo albums, or an idle Facebook account. He will take unflattering pictures of you. He will pull awkward Jr. High photos out of your scrapbook and frame them for his office. He has updated my FB status with such classic and cryptic messages as "Ay! Nachos!" Brandon also loves to push buttons.

We have also had a 12 year battle over the Taco Bell dog. For whatever reason, Brandon thought that campaign was genius. He's normally too erudite to find anything funny outside of Mel Brooks movies. That stupid Chihuahua stuck him as funny. His mom got wind of it, and in her quest to collect, purchased every talking stuffed animal Taco Bell offered. To this day, we fight over the disposal of the collection.

Yesterday morning, a few comments came in on the blog. I noticed they said, "Yo Quiero Taco Bell" in the subject line, which seemed odd. I thought someone who knew about our Chihuahua war was goofing around with me by entering the most iritating Spanish language phrase into the subject line. I didn't give it too much thought.

I was right. Someone intimately familiar with our war was goofing around with me and I list him as my emergency contact. I may reconsider. He can't be trusted.

So, if you logged onto the blog and wondered why the Taco Bell dog was in the banner; now you know. What struck me as completely ironic, was the fact that I didn't notice it until I posted about Mexican rice!

Truth in packaging

Friday night is very often taco night at our house. Either we go out for Mexican or we have it at home. Either way we wind up eating some sort of spicy beef laden dish.

When I make tacos, I feel like they should have some sort of side dish. I always mean to make Mexican rice. The same box has been shelved in the pantry for a year. By the time I remember I want to make Mexican rice, it’s too late. It takes 30 minutes to cook and I’m pulling the shells out of the oven.

When Meredith and I were grocery shopping this week, a new kind of Mexican rice caught my eye. We have a fairly large Hispanic population, and as a result the Mexican foods shelf has expanded into half an aisle at Meijer.

This looks pretty close to what they serve at El Rodeo. I read the back of the box and it looked easy enough and I assumed it was probably much healthier than what I normally order. I threw a box in the cart without any memory of the box that’s taking up space in the pantry. It’s Goya. It looks authentic.
The directions were very straightforward. No more difficult than instant couscous. I boiled the water, added the olive oil, and stirred in the “rice and seasoning packet.”

The rice was completely devoid of color and there weren’t any bell peppers or tomatoes to be seen. It smelled like white rice. The familiar spicy tomato smell I expected wasn’t there. I shook the box to make sure I didn’t miss a packet of dried vegetables and cumin.

Nope.

Nothing.

I thought, “Well, maybe it happens by magic while it cooks.”

It’s always completely logical to assume something will happen by magic.

When I removed the lid after 25 minutes...

the rice still begged for soy sauce.

My mother in law would have written the company a letter. She would have received a coupon in the mail for a free box of rice. She would have given the coupon to me and I would have lost it or thrown in away. So, I’m saving myself time and chalking it up to my incomprehension of the Spanish language. I’ll stick with Uncle Ben from now on. We speak the same language.

Musings from a former skeptic.

I rolled my eyes. I scoffed. I resisted. I flat-out refused to read “Twilight,” and the three subsequent books in the series.

I have no interest in science fiction. I don’t like vampires. I couldn’t imagine feeling anything for one aside from repulsion.

I don’t read young adult literature, specifically fiction.

I also don’t like to listen/read/wear/even eat anything that goes from obscure to the “it” thing overnight. Dave Mathews Band is forever ruined for me.

So I ignored “Twilight” and chalked it up to one of those books someone going to GenCon would read.

Then normal people, people I love, people whose opinions influence me started talking about how much they luuuuuhhhhhvvvved the series. Really? I still didn’t buy it.

I don’t know what my tipping point was.

It might have been the thought of going to Annie’s “New Moon” premiere party without relating to jubilant excitement. It may have been the fact that I had an hour and a half to kill while Meredith went to a museum class. It was more likely the fact that I had a Borders coupon that expired that day floating around in my purse; and I didn’t think it was socially acceptable to read Tori Spelling’s book in public.

Whatever the reason I read the opening passage with extreme skepticism.

“I didn’t expect to die this way…”

Oh brother. I’m going to hate this.

To my surprise, I didn’t hate it. In fact I finished all 300 and some odd pages in two days. I forced myself to put away laundry and vacuum before reading and “Twilight” actually served as motivation.

Now I didn’t fall head over heels the way some people do over the book, but I liked it. I found it far more unpredictable than I expected from a work of fiction aimed at 14 year olds. I was not at all repulsed by the vampire aspect, and was stunned to find the main vampire was the character I most enjoyed.

I called Annie to give her the good news and let her know I was on board with the series, but wasn’t in a rush to read the second book. She told me I should watch the movie. Annie knows me well enough to know that I’m easily annoyed and prone to eye rolling at bad effects and cheesy dialogue. Annie warned me it was a low budget movie and I better prepare for the makeup to look like a high school play. BUT, Annie told me the combination of the book and the movie would fling me into raving fan status.

I borrowed the movie from Megan and Annie was spot on! I liked it. I really liked it. It made me like the main guy, Edward even more. All right, fire lit. I give up.

I picked up "New Moon" yesterday and I started reading it this afternoon through very heavy eyelids while Meredith napped. When Alex got home from school I read it while he wrote out his spelling words. When the party moved to the swing set, I dragged the book outside. I read while I stirred the Rice-A-Roni.

I'm completely gone.

I admit it.

I was wrong!

I am not a very ambitious person. I lack the drive required to achieve wild success. I will readily admit to doing the bare minimum.

I am lucky I didn’t attend a very competitive high school because I never would have put forth the effort required to stand out among driven peers. I stood out by doing what was required and being very outgoing.

I figured out early on that if you could convince teachers you were bright and they liked you, they somehow thought your writing was much better than it really was. So my A’s in Reading, Writing, Speech, Journalism, and Current Events off-set my deplorable math grades and I wound up at a really great college.

I know this personality trait has to drive my mom bananas. She is the epitome of driven. She is fueled by success and will work doggedly to achieve her goals, which she visualizes and writes down.

I remember my parents taking me to one of those Peter Lowe seminars which are basically a day long commercial for business tapes. One of the sales guys/speakers asked the crowd to write down ten goals they wanted to achieve in the next year. I remember struggling to come up with TEN things I really felt were important I achieve as a college junior. My mom needed two notebooks. (The highlight of that day was seeing Barbara Bush speak, and I don’t think that was my parents’ motivation for purchasing my ticket.)

My point is my mom is very driven.

My lack of need for achievement and/or accolades makes me the perfect candidate for the role of stay at home mom. Managing a household and raising bright, articulate children is more than enough of a challenge for me. My employee evaluation will come when Alex and Meredith are functioning adults who contribute to society in some small way. I will have failed if they are in the slammer or treat wait staff rudely.

Believe it or not, I’m so thankful for my lack of ambition, which I don’t confuse with laziness, but believe me I can be lazy. I am completely free to enjoy the moment. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, “A moment is a moment no matter how small.”

My days are devoid of numbers and sales goals, and are instead filled with time for chats about how it is possible for a couple to wind up with the wrong baby implanted into a mother’s uterus. (Thank you Today Show for running that story during the breakfast hour.) I can sit on the kitchen floor and play checkers. I can dream up ways to make studying for spelling a little less brutal. I can say “Yes, let’s make cookies Right Now!”, and actually have the ingredients on hand. All of this without a single case of the doldrums. I honestly feel completely and totally fulfilled.

Because I walked out of the surgical suite completely conscious my mom was free to entertain the kids without having to play nurse mate to me. I really get a kick out of watching my mom interact with her grandchildren. To say it’s night and day between my childhood is an understatement. I don’t begrudge that at all. I’m very glad that I was encouraged to be self sufficient. It’s just fascinating to watch my mom drop e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g to take Meredith to Dunkin’ Donuts per her request, and rush back to have lunch with Alex at school. Only to pick Meredith back up because they ran out of time to get manicures and adequately shop for books. To stay until after dinner before making the five hour trip south because she “can’t break Alex’s heart.” I cannot believe she wears a shirt that spells out "GramPam" in rhinestones.

It’s truly the only time I’ve ever seen my mother not pay attention to listings, sales numbers, agent retention, investment properties, and what else she can do to catapult herself closer to achieving her goals. Not that I don’t admire that, it’s just that it wears me out thinking about it.

When I allowed myself---very briefly—to consider what could happen to me if the lump in my breast was malignant, I didn’t feel the anxiety that one might expect. I felt complete peace. Of course I’m not ready to leave this life behind. I want more than anything to see my children grow up and blossom into whatever makes them happy. I want to give in and travel with Brandon to Egypt, even though I think it’s filled with terrorists. I have too many friends I love like family to pack it in before 35.

But, I didn’t feel the least bit panicky. I felt fulfilled. I felt like I’ve given my children the best foundation I could. I’ve spent my days loving them and shaping them. I succeeded at making a home for our family. I love being a wife… most days at least, the days Brandon actually hits the bathroom trashcan with his tissues. If I wasn’t able to do a single thing more, I was okay with that. I can’t tell you what a gift that realization was.

I have found fulfillment and it is nowhere near Capitol Hill where I once expected it to be.

Case closed?

The saga is over. For now and hopefully forever. I sent an e-mail out earlier today detailing my morning. If you didn’t receive the e-mail I either A.) Don’t have a valid e-mail address for you that pops up when I type your name. Remember, I’m very, very lazy. OR B.) I didn’t bring you into my circle of drama in an effort to avoid being a Lady of Ailments.

I don’t even like my birthday acknowledged outside of the four walls of our house, so I really don’t want to call attention to myself as the next youngish mother to find a lump in her breast. I was also busy reminding myself “it” was nothing.

To recap: During my annual exam in May, my OB/GYN found a suspicious lump in my right breast. She was pretty sure it wasn’t anything to be worried about, but sent me for a diagnostic mammogram just to be sure.

I decided I would take Meredith along so that she grew up believing mammograms were a normal part of preventative health care for women. I did not however stop to think exposure to radiation would off-set any positive life lessons learned. Meredith sat alone in an inner waiting room with a box of crayons watching “Handy Manny.” I wondered if they should be checking me for a brain tumor instead.

The radiologist had trouble finding the mass even though it was the size and shape of an almond. I even took his fingers in my hands and ran them along my goop-covered breast. He felt it, but couldn’t find it, which is apparently a good thing. He was 98% confident the lump was just a cluster of breast tissue. It was the 2% that bothered me.

Fast forward to the uterine cyst explosion of two weeks ago when I asked Dr. Pease to re-examine the lump which was now very, very tender. I knew something was up when her face contorted and she said, “Leslie, the tip is hardening. As your physician I’m not worried, but as your friend, I’m freaking out. I’m sorry for using those words.”

Because Dr. Pease is my favorite medical professional of all time, I trusted her when she suggested I push for a biopsy. She sent me to a wonderful breast surgeon named, Dr. Kennedy. I tried not to let the name bother me. Dr. Kennedy examined me and decided that it was probably a good idea to do a surgical biopsy because the mass didn’t show up on ultrasound or mammogram. She also made a point of saying she wasn’t worried and wouldn’t necessarily have had the lump biopsied if I just walked in off the street. It was the recent hardening and growth spurt that bothered Dr. Kennedy.

Last Friday while I was in the shower, I noticed the lump was significantly smaller. I started to call Dr. Kennedy’s office, but thought she would think I was a whack job trying thwart surgery. I called Dr. Pease, who quickly worked me into her schedule. She agreed the lump was smaller but thought I should go ahead with the plan to remove it.

Which brings us to this morning. My mom missed an important meeting in Atlanta and made the five hour trip to take over the feeding and care of our children. Brandon rearranged his day and booked an evening flight to Phoenix. I followed my pre-surgery instructions to the letter and was afraid to even use Chapstick on the way to the hospital.

I got underdressed, into a bed, wore compression booties, and shook from the chill of the solution in my IV. I met with an admittance nurse, an aftercare nurse, the guy who would put me under, and the surgical nurse.

When Dr. Kennedy arrived I told her I was convinced the lump was shrinking. She looked skeptical and did an exam. She smiled and said, “I think you’re right. I’m not sure this biopsy is needed. Cancer doesn’t get smaller or less hard on its own. I think the chances of this being cancer are very, very slim.”

Dr. Kennedy left the ball in my court. She told me we could wait and watch or we could go forward as planned. Dr. Kennedy assured me she wouldn't offer me the option of leaving the mass as it was if she was remotely concerned about cancer. The more we talked, the more I became convinced that surgery wasn’t necessary. My fear is, I’ll look back at this six months from now after receiving bad news and I will want to wring my past-self’s neck.

For now, the plan is to watch and see what the mass does. Dr. Kennedy believes it may be entirely glandular breast tissue that happens to swell every time I fight off something or have a hormone surge, i.e. the rupturing of an ovarian cyst.

This is the kind of thing I normally like to go straight to God with. However, I had a two minute window in which to pray about it and hope to receive an answer. I had to go with my gut, which may very well be God telling me I’m okay.

So for now, all is well. I believe all will continue to be well. I felt like the girl who cried wolf this morning, but the more I think about it, I’m glad I was vigilant about following up with the lump once it started to change. I'm so glad I have a doctor who cares enough to pay attention and hook me up with doctors she believes in. I’ve learned through the experience of many friends and family who have experienced cancer that one can never be too vigilant about paying attention to your body. I just hope I’m making the right move.

To tide you over...

On the off chance that anyone is still reading this, I wanted to let you know I may be quiet for a couple of days. Had I not gotten back into the habit of updating, this wouldn't be an issue. :)

Tomorrow I'm going in for the surgical biopsy I mentioned earlier. Come to find out, it's going to be a little more complex than I anticipated. I honestly convinced myself I would go in, TCB, and be home folding laundry by early afternoon. Turns out, it's not quite that easy.

What hasn't changed is there is still no need for alarm. You'll be the first to know as soon as I hear there's nothing to tell. My mom will be here any minute and Brandon doesn't fly out until early evening tomorrow, so all bases are covered.

Last Thursday during the spelling test torture hour(s), the light was really shining peacefully on Alex's pretty blond hair. I grabbed my camera in an effort to fend off the screaming fit I was about to have. I will take any appreciation of beauty I can get while studying for spelling.

These are all straight out of the camera and a little on the dramatic side. What else have you come to expect?!