Tag: life

Several years ago I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. I can say this easily now, but when I first heard the word “cancer” attached to my name I pretty well lost it. My doctor’s nurse called and told me over the phone–not at all the best way to get the news–and then I got to tell Studly. I did fine with the “I have” part, but when I came to the c word, I got all choked up. He cradled me like a baby while I sobbed for a long, long time.

A diagnosis of cancer is one of those events that makes you go through an endless list of what ifs. “What if it’s worse than they think? What if I lose my breast? What if I lose Studly because I lose my breast? What if I don’t lose my breast, but it’s disfigured? What if I, dare I think it…die? What if my grandchildren don’t remember that I ever existed and loved them with my whole heart and then some? What if no one cares?” I got pretty maudlin, to say the least.

When I had to inform folks about my diagnosis I couldn’t say cancer without breaking down. I’m a word person. Words have so much power in my world, but I didn’t want this stupid word to have power over me, to make me bawl like a baby every time it was uttered. It seemed like the key lay in disarming the power of the word. But how?

One morning as I showered I pondered my inability to say the damned word and thought to myself, “Woman! Get a grip!” So as I showered I began saying “Cancer, Cancer, Cancer,” over and over again. At first I cried, my tears mingling with the warm cascade of water from the shower, but before long “cancer” became no more than two meaningless syllables. No power, no tears. I got out of the shower and tested the word. “Cancer.” Nothing. No tears, no what ifs.

After that I only had one more crying jag over my cancer. It wasn’t when I was at the doctor’s office discussing my options. There were no tears when I met with the oncologist or the radiologist. Of all places I broke down at the chiropractor’s office. He’d asked me how I was doing, and trying to be funny I quipped, “Oh, I’m fine except I have a slight case of cancer.” Then I dissolved into hiccuping sobs.

The poor guy stood there patting me on the back and seeking to reassure me until I could compose myself. I got more than my money’s worth that day–an adjustment and a back rub–how’s that for manipulation?

It has been more than seven years since my diagnosis. I came through the lumpectomy and radiation no worse for the wear, and all of my what ifs were for naught. Yea me! I can still talk about my experience tear-free. I do get pretty weepy over cute kitten pictures on the internet, though. Maybe I should try the repetition therapy: “Kitten, Kitten, Kitten.” So far, so good.

The rest of this post is a Public Service Announcement: Ladies, schedule your annual mammogram (that’s how my lump was found). Gentlemen, have that annual prostate exam! Everyone over 50, colonoscopies save lives!

That is all. Carry on.

Peace (and good health), People!

The swimsuit I’ve worn for the last three years has worn out. Completely. The picture accompanying my blog post today is of my hand showing through the threadbare material of said swimsuit. I’d like to say I’m the one who first noticed that I was pretty much showing up at the pool naked, but my water aerobics instructor had to point it out to me.

“Miss Leslie,” she said, “do we need to take you shopping for a new suit?”

Blithely unaware I answered, “I’m going to wait until I’ve lost 10 pounds before I buy a new one.”

“Honey, you don’t have that long.” She pulled me aside and explained that I was darned near exposing parts better left hidden.

Oh! Alrighty then! I guess I should look in a mirror more often.

Buying a suit is easier said than done. Once I was young. Skinny. Firm. Once, buying a swimsuit was no big deal. I’d simply head to J.C. Penney or Sears, pick out, try on, and pay for a cute two piece suit, and drive to the pool. Total time: 20 minutes or less. Those days are but a distant, fond memory. I spend more than 20 minutes just trying to wriggle into a suit at this stage of my life.

Nevertheless, I have to shop for a new suit if I want to keep up with water aerobics classes without being arrested on charges of public indecency. The good part is since summer is coming to an end all the suits are on clearance. The bad part is that the remaining suits are either XXXS or XXXL. I fall somewhere in between, although, admittedly closer to the XXXL end of the spectrum.

I am blessed with a long torso, so any one piece suits in my size can only be worn if I assume a pronounced slouch–all hunched over, boobs nearly touching my knees, muffin top squirting out to either side. So very attractive.

Now, there is that glorious invention known as the tankini. Surely I could wear one of those. But, no. Remember the long torso thing I’ve got going on? Most tankinis are made for regular torsoed women, so when I try one on there remains a two inch gap twixt bottom and top. Talk about flattering! Picture a pooch of flubber encircling my midriff like the rings of Saturn. No Sports Illustrated cover for me this year.

I’d ordered my old suit, the one now relegated to the scrap pile, from Land’s End several years ago. So, online I go. Wonder of wonders, they still carry that style, but they are out of my size except in combat-ready green. No thanks.

But they do have an intriguing new product: the extra high-waisted skirted tankini bottom. Just the name of it took up three lines of copy, so it’s got to be good! It’s $75, but it might be the answer to a long torso problem. So, I bought a tankini top with a decent bra (another issue I face) and have the bottoms on order. I’ll review the results and get back to you.

In the meantime. Does anyone have ideas for recycling an old swimsuit? Almost transparent, but the straps are still good. Slingshot? Bungee cords?

Peace, People!

Studly and I are having an argument. He maintains that most information is useless. I say there is no such thing as useless information.

According to Studly, most information does not directly impact the life of the average person rendering it of no consequence. I say, if information affects even one person, then it cannot be described as useless.

To prove his point Studly wants to go through the headlines: Kyle Orton retired, then in a couple of weeks un-retired. Joan Rivers is unconscious. Kylie Jenner ripped her jeans and her dark nails were a flop. Mark Wahlberg is not attending his brother Donnie’s wedding.

Studly says the information related in these stories has no bearing on him, or indeed on anyone not immediately involved in the lives of these people; ergo, it is classified as useless.

I intend to disprove his point. Let’s take the Kyle Orton headline. First, Kyle retired from his position as a backup QB with the Dallas Cowboys. That had an impact on his family. Perhaps they had to tighten their belts for a couple of weeks, so they stopped adding to the Consumer Spending Index. Perhaps they had to let their housekeeper and gardener and nanny go. This raises the unemployment figures for the month. That in turn causes uncertainty in the economy. That directly affects me.

I win.

It’s my blog after all.

Peace, People!

P.S. I’m not sure I could have come up with an argument for the Kylie Jenner bit. Who the heck is Kylie Jenner anyway?

Today I was driving between schools and listening to an interview with Sarah Silverman on NPR. Sarah told the story of being a chronic bed wetter as a child. It was a secret she didn’t want to get out, so at sleepovers she never slept, instead she’d spend the night pinching herself to stay awake.

On one memorable occasion a group of girls was invited to an impromptu slumber party. Sarah recalled she had to borrow pajamas and a sleeping bag from the hostess, as did the rest of the attendees. For some reason that night Sarah slept deeply and awoke the next morning to a sopping wet sleeping bag and drenched pjs. She quickly changed out of her pjs and left them beside the sleeping bag and went on as if nothing had happened. Then the Mom came in, took a look at the wet things and roared, “Who would do something like this?” Just as Sarah was about to raise her hand and take the blame her friend’s dad came running into the room.

“Elvis just died!” he exclaimed, thus saving little Sarah from major embarrassment and perhaps social death as everyone forgot about the wet bedclothes in their grief over the King’s untimely demise.

Sarah’s story reminded me of a time between my fourth and fifth grade years. A friend, “JB,” had invited me to Baptist church camp located about 25 miles from Floydada in the Texas panhandle. It was a sleepover camp and most of the girls had attended before. I, however, was totally unprepared.

Mom wasn’t sure what to pack for me. We had to have several dresses for daily services along with suitable pants (no shorts!) for hiking in the canyon. I must have grown taller that summer because all of my dresses bordered on being too short. I was just becoming aware of the differences in the “haves” and “have nots.” And, while most of the girls at camp were from the former category, including JB, I was firmly ensconced in the latter.

Judging from the looks I got from adults during morning services I was not dressed appropriately for camp. Someone must have mentioned this to my friend’s mom because she brought out two dresses that she’d made just for me the next day. They sort of fit me, if gunny sack was a fit, but most importantly they were suitably LONG. I remember trying them on for JB’s mom in the dormitory while the other girls were at crafts.

“Well,” she said. “You’re never going to be a beauty, but at least you can be modest.”

I looked up the word “modest” when I got home from camp:

1. Unassuming or moderate in the estimation of one’s abilities or achievements.
2. (Of an amount, rate, or level of something) relatively moderate, limited, or small.

Talk about a blow to one’s blossoming self-esteem! I’d already pretty well determined that my beauty was going to be more of the inner rather than the outer kind, but she also wanted me to be limited or small. Screw that!

I wish I’d had the guts then to tell her thanks, but no thanks for the dresses. I wish I’d worn my too short skirts and basked in my immodesty. Instead I kept my mouth closed and suffered the giggles of the other campers for the remainder of camp.

Elvis, I’m glad you didn’t die that day, but a distraction would have been nice.

Peace, People (and, thank you, thank you very much)!

“Wag More, Bark Less.” If we all could just follow this simple thought life would be immeasurably better. Yet, barking tends to get all the attention.

Sometimes we bark without even realizing it. The cost of gasoline goes up. Woof! The weather doesn’t suit us. Woof! Woof! Someone says something that offends us. Woof! Woof! Woof!

How different our lives might be if we wagged instead. That doesn’t mean we should ignore the things that make us want to bark, but that we need to take a breath first and ask, “Will barking make it better?”

I admit it, I’m a barker, but I am making a concerted effort to be more of a wagger. My top barking topics:

1) Bad drivers in general and people who text while driving in particular. My Studly who is by nature a wagger counsels me to just take care of my driving and be extra aware to reduce the impact these drivers have on my life. Okay. I can do that.

2) Politics. Again, Studly the Wagger says just stay informed, vote your conscience, and trust in the system. “Barking,” he says, “won’t change anyone’s opinion.” A little woof, but I can try.

3) Religion. Studly recommends avoiding the topic altogether. Alrighty then. Like political ideology, I suspect that religious beliefs won’t be changed by any amount of barking, no matter how vociferously one woofs.

Just typing this I realize how hard it will be not to bark. My brain kept wanting my fingers to type, “but what about….”

I think I have to remember that there lies a big difference between barking and taking action. Taking action can be done with a wag.

Wag more, bark less, wag more, bark less. A new mantra? I think so.

Peace, People!

Summer storms in Tallahassee are an everyday occurrence. At 2:00 p.m. the sun can be shining without a cloud in the sky, and then bam! 2:15 brings a mighty wind, torrential rains, and zero visibility. At 2:30, all is forgiven, the sun shines again, and one wonders why an umbrella was even necessary.

One day last week I was caught in one of these storms. I had the top down on the 350Z and was cruising along without a care in the world. Then all hell broke lose. One flash of lightning followed almost instantly by a BOOM and down came the rain. As soon as I could safely do so I pulled over and put the top up, but I was soaked. I sat in Trader Joe’s parking lot and got a case of the giggles. Then I went in Trader Joe’s and got a case of beer. Pretty good trade off.

I live about 12 miles from Trader Joe’s via Interstate 10, in a subdivision dubbed Lake Yvette West. There is but one road into the subdivision, and when I got to my turnoff, it was blocked. A huge limb from a big ol’ tree had broken off as a result of the strong winds generated by the storm and was laying across most of the road. A gentleman from Talquin Electric arrived about the same time I did and began assessing damage to the power lines.

Of course while I waited for him to give me a go ahead signal my imagination ran wild. What if the road was closed indefinitely? Could I reach my home via Lake Yvette East? Would some kind person over there lend me a boat so I could row across and tend to my cats? Maybe Studly and I could build a houseboat and live on the lake. Maybe Han Solo would swoop down in the Millennium Falcon and take me to Coruscant….

But then, I got the all clear. Darn! Just when it was getting good.

Have you ever felt like you just needed to beat the stuffing out of something or someone? I’m pretty much a pacifist, but right now I’m not feeling the love. And I have no idea why I feel this way.

It’s as if a cloud of seething, buzzing anger has gathered round me. Maybe it was on its way somewhere else and I got in its way. Wrong place, wrong time. I’d tell this anger cloud to run along, but really, that wouldn’t be fair to its next victim either. Nor to the victim’s victims.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could put on some light boxing gloves, step in the ring, and go toe to toe with someone? Just work everything out in a three minute bout. Any takers?

Unfortunately real life doesn’t work that way. So, I’ll keep plugging along, and I’ll try to figure out the source of my anger and deal with it. I feel a little bit better just having written about it.

Peace (Really!) People.