Hallelujah "nothing concerning"

I put that in the title because I hate it when you click on a link thinking you're going to get the number of minutes to cook unsoaked beans in the Instant Pot, and then you have to scroll through many paragraphs of how the blogger backpacked through Albania.

I want to thank all my kind friends who offered words of love and support on FB, in messages, in texts, and on the blog. I'm tremendously grateful for my community. 

And my goodness, I'm so relieved.

At Georgetown, at least from the entrance we use, you have to pass the Pope and photographs of other figures of historical import to get to appointments. The Pope gets his own sort of corner, though, which I think you can see.

I had to turn right at the Pope for surgery. I go straight past him for my regular appointments.

When I sat on the table the radiologist asked if I had any questions. I got all teary and was like, "Well, I guess what I want to know is if it's more cancer."

I don't even know what other question I'd have.

I said, "My tumor was behind my left nipple, and this little bump is under my left nipple."

So it's not an insane leap to imagine both implants removed and going through chemo and radiation.

These are actually possible scenarios with a recurrence.

This is not like envisioning sliding down the inflatable slide onto the life raft, imagining sharks circling just because you hit the kind of turbulence that makes pilots use their stern voice when they tell you to fasten your seat belts.

I told the radiologist that my surgeon thought maybe it was fat necrosis, and he said he couldn't say what it was, but the appearance was consistent with fat necrosis. 

Mostly we talked about the Hinkley Hilton, which he calls the Reagan Hilton (while I don't call anything the Reagan anything), and the Air Florida flight that crashed into the 14th Street bridge (and which, oddly enough, the dad of my friend Debbie had crossed just in time). We lived in the US the first time during both those events.

I also learned that he was born in Georgetown Hospital after his parents immigrated from mainland China. 

I don't know if I should capitalize mainland?

Basically, the radiologist said he saw "nothing concerning" and he had me sign a paper saying he'd given me this information. 

I don't recall having to sign a paper before, but to be honest with you, the other day I couldn't remember the word for dresser. I was talking to Nick and India and I said, "It's like a table with drawers that you put your clothes in."

So maybe I always sign a paper?

The radiologist told me to follow up with my surgeon, and then told me that she'd have ordered a biopsy if she were particularly concerned.

I found that extremely comforting.

So I texted my surgeon to say he found nothing concerning and wants me to follow up with her, and she hearted my message.

I don't know how I would fare with dating in the age of texting and emojis.

I had a flip phone (ooh, and also that wonderful Nokia brick, if any of you remember that) when I was doing all that Internet dating, which only partially explains realizing en route to meet a guy for a Match date that I couldn't remember his name. I had no time to go home and log into my computer. We hadn't talked on the phone.

Anyway, when I checked out I asked if I should make an appointment and they said she'd contact me once she'd seen the scans if she wants me to do anything further.

Phew.

And at least I know that I will see the oncologist in under three months and my surgeon in six, so that's helpful.

But for now, whatever this is is "nothing concerning" and I will take that. 

If I learned anything from Nicole last year, it is to dress up to feel better. So the photo above is what I wore this morning.

It's fall, which is not my favorite, because of course it is a precursor to winter. But at least it's sweater and boot weather, and I love both of those things.

I cannot take my antidepressant in conjunction with my aromatase inhibitor because for whatever reason, it makes my hips hurt like holy hell.

So I need to get out in the sunshine, and use my full spectrum light, and eat well, and exercise, and do all the mental healthcare things.

I know all these things, and I need to do them all consistently.

Yesterday, though, yesterday I ate an entire box of palmiers from Costco, and if you go to Costco, you know they sell everything in packs of five million.

Often when I'm stressed I just don't eat. 

But yesterday I ate one palmier after the other after the other while watching Love is Blind (which Nicole thought was a show about blind people). 

I never watch TV during the daytime. I did laundry concurrently to mitigate daytime TV guilt.

Some days are just like that.

I think despite going to yoga I was basically holding my breath for 10 days. And now I need a big cry. 

I used to cry almost every day. If I felt it welling but not coming out, I'd watch the English Patient. Back then, I had more time to commit to sobbing over a beautifully filmed three-hour romance tragedy. And I knew which scenes were my triggers, if I were short on time.

But I haven't watched it in over a decade. Could I just skip to where he's carrying her to the cave? Would that still work?

I'm so incredibly thankful to currently be in the position to be wondering about this, rather than making all the appointments and plans I was terrified I'd have to start making.

And that's where I am today.

The lump

When Jordan was little, and we couldn't find something, I'd say, "Jordan, where is it?"

I'd shrug my shoulders and put my hands in the air like I just didn't know.

He'd mirror the gesture, looking at me very earnestly. He'd shake his head, and say, "It's SOMEWHERE!"

Which is always true.

Ever since my surgery last September, I've had a checkup with oncology every three months, and with my breast surgeon every six months.

About 10 days ago I had my one-year check with my surgeon.

My last oncology checkup was in September, when I was in the throes of pneumonia, and that's what the oncologist was most concerned about.

I don't have scans, because I have practically no breast tissue. Basically, I get felt up every three months.

Nick took me to the oncology check because I wasn't strong enough to go by myself. Otherwise I'd have gone alone.

I told Nick I didn't need him to come to the appointment with my surgeon, because all the checkups so far have been very routine. 

Everything feels fine, you look good, see you next time.

But of course, everything is fine until it isn't.

Because at this check, my surgeon found a lump.

She immediately said she thought it was nothing to be concerned about. "Fat necrosis" was most likely what it was. Very common, not a big deal.

She was all, "I don't want you to get all anxious. This is going to be nothing."

But of course I started crying. I started listing the choices I made, saying I should've made different ones. 

No, she said. I did everything I should do.

We were at the downtown building rather than the hospital, and she sent me to the radiologist upstairs to see if they could fit me in, because she could then just run up and take a look.

They don't do breasts on Fridays. 

It took me a bit of time to get an appointment. In the meantime, I've googled.

Fat necrosis is common after trauma like surgery. Fat cells die from lack of blood supply. They make a lump.

This makes a lot of sense.

But of course, I've catastrophized. I'm a catastrophizer.

And I work fast.

Way back in my singleness I'd go on first dates and by the time we'd had a glass of wine I'd mentally have married and divorced the guy.

So.

First thing Wendesday morning, I'm going for a scan.

It's either something, or it's nothing. 

I mean, it's something. 

It's just either something no big deal, tantamount to nothing, or it's a really big deal.

Sixteen is wax (and honesty)

Yesterday was our 16th wedding anniversary. 

Weirdly and foreverly, it's also the anniversary of my double mastectomy. Last year I told my surgeon that it was our silicone anniversary. 

In case you're wondering, 15 is crystal. This year is wax.

I'd heard about golden anniversaries and such, but I learned about year-by-year commemorations of anniversaries from The English Patient. Paper for the first anniversary. 

Pretty sure that for me, deep in grief over my father plus undiagnosed post-partum depression, I'd have crumpled that paper, stomped on it, doused it in kerosene, and set it ablaze with an entire box of matches.

I've joked about lying awake at night that year, dividing up the furniture. But that's not really true, because it's so clear what furniture is Nick's, and what's mine. We'd never vie for the other's. 

Until recently, before I felt empowered to voice my actual needs, I'd say things like, oh, look how well our furniture fits together! Because look, Nick, yours is from the colonizers, and mine was all purchased in those colonized countries your ancestors were busy dominating while they were running around wrecking the world.

Instead of just saying: you need to come home from the office and participate nightly in the care of our children. 

To which he could've responded: when the entire world economy collapsed, everyone stopped paying their bills, and I have to work all the time to keep the business afloat.

Me, I had a secure job, but it didn't pay enough to cover our mortgage and expenses. 

And we didn't have that conversation until years and years later.

You cannot expect to have your needs met, or even examined, if you don't voice them.

So over the last maybe year and a half, I realized I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to look at how my own actions contributed to my happiness or lack thereof in my relationship and in life.

It kind of sucks but is also kind of a relief when you recognize you are your own problem. 

Until recently, I didn't have the ability to confidently and consistently say no in our relationship. No, I don't want to do this. No, this doesn't work for me. 

Or, anyway, the way I said no wasn't the way Nick heard no.

I'd say it in an oblique way, like, well, I don't prefer that. Or, I like this one better. Um, not really.

My concrete and perpetual example is a toilet paper holder.

After seven years in the house, we were going to have a master bathroom. And we got to choose everything.

I said I wanted a particular style of toilet paper holder, the kind where the holding bar flips up. So Nick said to find one. And then he didn't like any of the links I sent him.

Nick wanted, and purchased, a massive monstrosity that would also hold magazines.

I kept saying I didn't think we really needed one that big, how about this one, I prefer this kind, etc. etc.

This was over a number of weeks, as our bathroom was being renovated. And then we stopped talking about it. I didn't see the matter as decided.

And then, on what turned out to be the day of installment, Australian Builder held up Nick's large magazine holder with a bar for toilet paper and said, "Lisa, do you actually like this? Because I'm going to drill a whole lot of holes in your new tile."

And I was all, "Kim, I hate it so much."

He nodded and said, "Yes. I thought I should check." 

But if he hadn't asked me, and had put it up, I'd still be looking at it and feeling bitter every single day. It's not even easy to change the toilet paper. I know, because it's installed in our downstairs bathroom.

(As it is, we never got a wall one in our bathroom. Nick bought a stand, and for the first couple years, without saying anything about it, I wouldn't change the roll when we ran out. I'd just put the new toilet paper on top. My passive-aggressive little fuck you.)

Anyway, when Nick came home that night, I said, "Kim didn't put up your toilet paper holder."

And he said, "Why?"

I said, "Because I fucking hate it."

This was news to Nick. I didn't like it? Why didn't I say anything?

I was raised to say yes. If that's what you want for us, then yes. OK, sure. I mean, not really, but if it's what you want, we can do that.

For him to hear no, I had to explicitly say no. Very strongly, no, absolutely not, I hate it, no. 

I understood this, but I was not equipped to do this. I tried, but I just couldn't. I mean, I could say my sort-of nos, or no-adjacent things. But standing solidly by my no, when Nick wanted me to say yes?

Ha.

Added to this, if Nick doesn't get the answer he wants the first time, he'll ask repeatedly.

Making his viewpoint seem reasonable, and persisting until he gets his desired outcome is his actual job. And he is very good at his job.

So even if I started with no, eventually, I would be worn down enough to agree. And then I'd be pissed.

At some point in my youth I learned to just agree with my dad, and then on the side go ahead and do what I wanted.

This was the easiest approach with my dad and people like my long-ago boss who wanted me to find a way to make Canada look smaller than the US.

Be agreeable and subversive.

Eventually I started doing this with Nick. I recently admitted it to him.

In dysfunction, things get complicated and twisty.

But now, with a tremendous amount of work with my therapist, I can say no. This approach doesn't work for me. I don't want to do that. I will not. No thank you. Absolutely not.

I don't manage it every time, but most of the time.

And then he can say OK, or we can have a conversation. But at least it's starting from an honest place.

This makes things so much better. 

It is awful for everyone if you say yes and then are super crabby about it. Agree, and then resent being stuck somewhere you don't want to be, and pick a fight about something completely different, not realizing why. Say yes and seethe and smile and pretend it's all fine, but with a bitch-faced I fucking hate you smile.

Ooh, I did so much of all those things.

Because I can now say no to things I don't want to do, I can now also be generous with things I don't particularly want to do but I know would make Nick happy or would make for greater family harmony.

And I'm not perpetually angry.

Growing up, I was taught to stuff anger down. Don't make anyone else uncomfortable. Or anyway, don't make men uncomfortable, if you want them to love you. And you want them to love you.

Quietly simmer and seethe and swallow it. Preferably forever, but if not forever, then until you absolutely cannot hold it in any longer.

Nick, on the other hand, was raised wielding anger self-righteously. A useful tool. 

And together, we had so much anger. 

The Anger could be a whole series of posts.

So much anger. And so little emotional regulation.

Part and parcel with saying yes when I wanted to say no, I didn't feel like I had the right to voice my needs.

I didn't really even know how to recognize them to voice them to myself.

All those jokes about stabbing Nick? Hahaha! 

They didn't originate in a place of joy.

Now, as much as I can be, I'm honest. I say: this is what I need. If you want to make me feel like a priority, this is what I need you to do to show me I'm a priority.

Which is not to suggest that Nick hasn't been there for me, because he's been incredibly solid through huge, terrible things. Nick is good people. He's loving and kind and supportive.

We've been there for each other through some very painful events. And being there for those you love is imperative. But the crisis ends, and you still have the day-to-day.

It's true that I'm still quite resentful about the early years with the kids. Even now that I understand how much Nick had to work to keep the business going.

And I understand now that while my mom was helpful, in those young kid years I was also already doing a lot of caretaking of her. 

It was too much for many reasons.

Our new dynamic means that sometimes Nick does not get his way, or we come to a compromise. It also means that I'm not constantly accusing him of having everything his way and resenting him for it. 

It seems so simple, when I think about it now. But those fucked-up learned patterns are powerful.

I mean, how do you communicate in an honest way when you're not even aware of how you're being dishonest?

Gosh, this all took so long to learn.

This isn't a remotely romantic anniversary post, but I don't actually think marriage is all that romantic.

Maybe it's more romantic for other people? I don't know. 

Maybe it's easier for other people? I think, given my family of origin, it was never going to be easy for me or my partner.

Nick and I were old enough when we met that I thought we were grown up. But it turns out we both had so much growing to do.

I know we have more work to do, but 16 years in, I'd say we're in a happier, more solid place than we've ever been.

Ca-caw! Ca-caw!

I'm trying to make some crow friends.

Several people I know are trying to do this. Nicole has been actively working at it in Texas.

Apparently, when crows like you, they start bringing you little gifts, like pebbles and sparkly things.

Obviously, I don't need little gifts, but I love the idea. Also, I feel like I'm kind of like that. If I like you, I'll send you memes and videos and shiny little random stuff. 

Or very dark things. One of my friends and I exchange Goodbye Earl-type memes and videos regularly.

This is love.

Anyway, I didn't know till recently that magpies were in the corvid family along with crows and ravens.

Ever since that magpie stole Bianca Castafiore's emerald, I've been a fan.

Before my newfound interest in corvids in general and crows in particular became a New Topic in our household, I said the following to Nick:

"I really want to make some crow friends."

And he was like, "That's an oddly specific and frankly racist way to try to diversify your friend group."

I was all, crows the birds! Not First Nation. 

Jeez. Who would even think that?

Honk if you love cheese sauce.

Since then, Nick's been trying to help me. He saw a group of crows screaming over a sandwich and called me to come out on the deck. One of them dropped the sandwich and another stole it and the others were outraged.

I went inside and got a couple handfuls of wild rice and spread it on our wall.

Those crows, they were zero percent interested. Clearly these are American crows. I need to try enticing them with Doritos.

And then I had to clean up the uneaten rice because DC has a rat problem. I'm not kidding you. We live near restaurants, and the rats in our neighborhood amble around in broad daylight smoking cigars.

They are not scared and they do not care. And they're too overfed to move very fast.

You don't want to poison them, because then you're poisoning hawks and other birds of prey. It moves up the food chain.

What I want are a group of rat terriers to decimate our rat population. Apparently they run around grabbing rats and snapping their necks and moving on to the next one.

I cannot maintain a rat terrier pack, however. I can barely manage one hound.

I wish crows were ratters.

Also, related but tangential, there is this song that I cannot find and the only word I know is "murder" in the chorus. It's sung like, "muh-huh-huh-huh-erder" and there are lots of murder songs when you google and it is driving me crazy. I think it's 80s with an upbeat tune.

Very superstitious/Writing's on the wall

Are you superstitious?

I have no idea where I fall on the continuum of most to least superstitious.

Here's the genesis of this.

I'd been waiting for a third terrible thing. The first was my mom dying. The second was breast cancer.

As bad luck comes in threes, I figured there would be a third.

And then I got pneumonia. And I was like, OK, this was the third terrible. It's happened. Now the slate is clean.

This is super woo-woo, but yesterday I saw my chiropractor, who is also an energy healer. 

Have I told you about her? She was a medical doctor in Russia, and then became a chiropractor and energy healer when she moved here.

I've never met anyone like her.

Over the last 5-6 months, she's realigned my spine and helped me release childhood trauma.

I started seeing her because I had severe jaw pain after having fillings replaced. And I've had chronic lower back pain. No matter how much yoga I did, no matter how much stretching, I couldn't get rid of it.

But the crisis was my jaw.

My dentist is originally Russian, and she was trying to help me, she did this painful but effective jaw massage technique that she said she learned from her chiropractor. So I was all, I need to go to her!

And she said that she's amazing but you should know she's not a normal chiropractor.

She's not. She's extraordinary.

At my assessment, she showed me the model of the spine and pelvis and explained that my pelvis was tilted ever so slightly. And over years, all my muscles had worked to accommodate. You can go on this way for decades. Your muscles can work and work and work and hold and hold and hold, until finally, they just can't do it anymore.

I had arrived at this point.

She said reason I couldn't take really deep breaths was because my pelvic muscles were in spasm and wouldn't let me.

I knew I couldn't breathe deeply enough but I didn't know why. My yoga teacher was always telling me I was taking two breaths when I should be taking one. I could see this. I could hear it in the final OM, when I would run out of air much faster than others.

But no matter how hard I worked, I couldn't pull the air in deeper. 

She said in the beginning I'd have to see her quite intensely. Because both your muscles and your brain are used to everything in your body being in a certain position, even if it's wrong.

So for a while you have to continuously readjust, because every time, your body tries to go back to what it thinks is normal.

Kind of like growing up in a dysfunctional household and then finding partners who fit your dysfunction. It's not healthy but it feels right.

So.

She does the chiropractic adjustment, and then works with tuning forks. When I'm face down, she has the end of the tuning fork against my spine for the vibration. Face up, she is realigning the vibration of my cells with the pitch.

Nick thinks all of this is bananas. You can, too. It's OK.

And then she started asking me questions about my family. It was like my answers confirmed what she knew.

One day during treatment an image of my brother as a kid, one of his school photos, popped into my mind. And literally one second later she asked if I had a sibling.

She asked about my dad, how he died. About his personality.

Sometimes she would do an adjustment, and I would just start to cry. I once had this sensation, not imagery but intense feeling, of little kid vulnerability and fear.

She gave me homework, specific things to say to offer forgiveness to each member of my family. And then to offer forgiveness to myself. She said she thought this would release some of the muscles that were holding.

It did. 

My back pain decreased until much of the time it was completely gone. My back is completely locked up after being so sick, and I knew it's going to take some time to open up and get back to where I was in August.

I can inhale (OK, not in this moment but in general) as deeply as I want.

I've had to practice deep breathing, because my body was not used to it.

Anyway, yesterday she said that she thinks the pneumonia is the final piece of my body processing trauma and letting go. I couldn't completely let go emotionally, and I had all this toxic stuff I was holding. 

So I got really sick, and my body finally purged it. High fever, night sweats, lots of coughing.

Out out out.

I told you all this was very woo-woo. But it totally makes sense to me. 

Maybe it wasn't the third thing. But I think it was, and since I'm a multidimensional human in the multiverse, I can believe both of these things and so much more.

Then I started thinking about other superstitions.

When I was a kid, if we spilled salt, we'd throw it over our shoulder for the devil.

I hadn't thought about that in decades.

We used to have our salt in little bowls with little spoons. So I think we spilled salt a lot. I don't think I've spilled salt in years. 

But there are others.

Like, I knock wood for luck.

I love the number 13, so for me that's good rather than bad luck. But clearly I still attach luck to it.

I also think that might be it for superstitions.

Because while I don't walk under ladders, that just seems like common sense rather than luck.

I don't believe black cats or broken mirrors bring bad luck.

I don't look in mirrors at night, but that's about me being a chicken and the possibility of Bloody Mary appearing behind me rather than luck. 

I don't know of any others.

What do you believe?