I see a red door and I want it painted black

You know how people say not to google health stuff because it will lead you to the worst possible scenario? You should just wait and speak to your doctor.

Because if you google you may end up thinking maybe you have, oh, say, liver failure when in fact the likely explanation is hay fever.

So today, at the start of my annual physical, when the nurse asked me the list of mental health questions, I answered honestly.

Have you felt depressed, hopeless, or down in the past month? 

Yes. 

Rarely, often, almost every day? 

Almost every day.

They asked whether I've lost interest in things that usually bring me joy. 

Yes. 

Lost motivation? 

Yes. 

Am I thinking of harming myself?

No.

And then she did an EKG and the doctor came in.

My heart is terrific, apparently.

I had a whole list of questions for my doctor. 

One of them was about the whites of my eyes.

Because the other day in yoga, we were facing the mirror wall, all up close. And I was like, the whites of my eyes are not white.

I didn't think they were yellow, but they were not white.

As soon as I got home I googled and I was all, oh my god, my liver.

I've never had hepatitis, and when we lived in India, we got regular gamma globulin (painful, in the butt muscle) injections to prevent Hep A. In Peace Corps those of us who worked in health had to get Hep B shots.

But I'm on some intense medication. What's it doing to my liver?

So today at the doctor I bugged my eyes out all, "Look! The whites of my eyes are not white!"

And my doctor said, "It looks like either you've been rubbing your eyes a lot or you have allergies. Have you been rubbing your eyes?"

No.

"Do you have allergies?"

Yes.

"Did you google and freak yourself out?"

Oh, absolutely.

She was like, "These look like allergy eyes." Her suggestion is take allergy pills or get allergy eye drops.

So we did the whole physical, and I was about to head off and get blood work when my doctor said, sooooo, about these mental health answers...

At which point I started to cry.

Because that is how I am right now.

And this is what I told her: I know I'm struggling. I just don't know what to do about it.

My favorite antidepressant makes my hips hurt because of whatever the aromatase inhibitor is doing. And it's my favorite after years of trying different ones and titrating up and down and being tired and gaining weight and being all clenchy and angry and whatever else side effects. 

My favorite one is my favorite for many good reasons. Except that now, in conjunction with my aromatase inhibitor, it makes my hips ache quite badly.

And choosing between cancer prevention and mental health, I have to go with the former.

If chronic pain is optional, I choose not to have it.

So I've been doing the following: Using my full-spectrum lamp. Eating really well. Exercising every day. Getting as much sunlight as I can. Seeing my therapist.

I know all the things you're supposed to do.

I think this is seasonal. Though I wasn't diagnosed for years, I've had seasonal depression since high school. 

Sometimes people say things like, but it's so warm! It's not even winter! 

It's true, it's been delightfully and alarmingly warm. But the fact is that I could be 100 degrees, but if it's pitch dark by 5:00 pm, that is hard on people like me. 

Our serotonin gets re-uptaken too easily or something like that.

I know this kind of depression. Hello darkness, my old frenemy.

One of the tip-offs for me is that I'm gravitating to all black. I've forced myself into some of my fun clothing, because I firmly believe in dopamine dressing.

But right now it just feels like I'm in someone else's clothing.

I bought a second pair of black leggings for yoga. Basically all of my yoga wear is brightly colored.

So, yah. (A phrase Nick hates.)

I cry easily. I don't want to do much of anything. I hate most of humanity, although it's hard to know if that's depression or warranted.

I would prefer to never leave my house, but I do, every weekday morning, for yoga. I walk the dog. I bike a couple miles to therapy, and then I bike back.

I feed myself. I feed my family. I bathe pretty regularly. 

I hate my face and I hate my hair but I don't know if that's depression and I'm hoping whether it is or isn't it's not permanent.

But I currently feel kind of like when that bug came to earth in Men in Black and put on a human suit. I'm doing many normal human things, but kind of fakely and somewhat awkwardly.

But things feel kind of pointless. Hopeless. Not completely, but mostly. But again, it's hard to know if that's my depression talking or the way the world is.

I really enjoy my family most of the time. I'd like to spend all my time at home with them. 

I am able to find joy, and sometimes I laugh out loud. I still have my excellent sense of humor.

I'm not contemplating self-harm. I'm nowhere near the bridge.

I want to curl up in a ball and sleep most of the time. I don't. But I want to.

Anyway, I told my doctor, who I love, that I just don't know what to do.

So what do I do?

Do I maybe try Prozac, the OG, which I've never tried, to see if that helps my mood and doesn't cause me physical pain?

My hesitation is that I don't want to further burden my kidneys or liver. And it might make my joints hurt.

Even though I am very happy to know my eye issue is allergies and not my organs failing.

Or do I just keep doing what I'm doing, with the knowledge that in just over a month the days will begin to lengthen again? The sun will return.

The next couple months will be hard, but there is hope on the horizon. Like, maybe March-ish it'll start improving?

She didn't know. I don't know. We'll see how my bloodwork looks. I'm going to discuss it with my therapist.

And then we'll make a plan.

So, yah.

BENIGN

Benign.

It's a rather modestly-sized word that contains an entire universe.

Yesterday my beloved PC messaged me even before the doctor from Washington radiology called.

She said the biopsy showed calcium microcalcifications, fibroadenomatous tissue. Benign. No cancer.

I read her message, and tears sprang to my eyes, and my whole body went weak.

Benign. (Even though I had no idea what fibroadenomatous meant.)

She must've messaged me the minute she got the results.

Bless her.

The radiologist called me not long after. I wasn't sure if I'd get a call, since my PC had already told me, so she caught me off guard. I thanked her for telling me.

I asked what this meant for me. Because clearly there's still stuff in there.

I'll be honest with you. I've done a lot of reading, and the first radiologist explained them to me, but I still don't quite understand the relationship of calcification and cancer. Like are the calcifications in the middle? Do cancer cells excrete calcium? Do they build layers around them, like sea creatures making their shells?

But I didn't want to take her time with these questions. Because whatever it was was benign. Also, I couldn't remember "fibroadenomatous," which was not a word she used.

So I said, "OK, so in the biopsy there were calcifications, and then a bunch of random whatever in there, right?"

And she was like, "I think we may have removed all the calcifications, actually."

"And the random whatever?"

"We don't need to worry about the random whatever."

We had more of a conversation than this, and she then referred to the "random whatever" as breast tissue. 

I guess we do have some concern about the random whatever, as I need to have a mammogram in six months. Or maybe the concern is about the calcifications.

The most important word for me was benign. Although I do understand that this doesn't necessarily mean fine forever and I never have to think about it again.

A good friend of mine suggested consulting a breast surgeon, as she said hers was the one who found her breast cancer. Plus, it would be good to have a relationship with one in case.

This seems like sound advice.

But yesterday, I didn't do much constructive. I was just relieved.

It was interesting, though. 

Because of so many incredible women who had taken the time to share with me, I'd gotten to a point of peace. I recognized that what was going to happen was out of my control. And whatever the situation was, I would do what I needed to. 

So many women with a wide a range of breast cancer journeys and stories. And they are OK.

I would be OK.

This is an extraordinary place to be.

Which is not to imply that I was floating in rainbow light all at peace with everything. No. I was still scared. I was still hoping it would go one way and not another.

Because let's be honest: cancer is scary. Dealing with it is trauma, no matter how good your care and how supported you are.

So I wanted to extend and invitation to anyone with a cancer story.

If you'd like to post your story on my blog, if you think this is something that will make you feel good, you are welcome to do so. I'm happy to help you tell it, or to edit it for you, or simply to post what you send me.

You can use your name and details, or be anonymous. Write the highlights or the lowdarks, or anything in between.

Whatever might feel comfortable for you.

Because I know that for me, writingin and sharing is freeing. It takes me from being afraid and alone to realizing that others have had similar experiences and feelings, and gives me the sense that we are in this life soup together.

For writing in a public forum, I have the luxury of my blog. And I long ago discarded the fear of being judged for sharing.

So if you'd like to share, I'll help you do so.

My little blog has been so many things to me over the years, but perhaps most of all a window to friendship and kindness.

(And also where else would I post my poop stories?)

I didn't have a banana for scale so I used a dime

I put the photo of the biopsy site (bandaged) in the post below so I could warn you not to scroll if this will bother you.

Now you know.

To start, I'd like to talk about generosity.

Before I post something personal I always wonder if it's too much. This may sound unlikely for someone who talks about suicide and depression and imaginary penises, but it's true.

A friend told me I was brave to share my biopsy fears, and I said it's not bravery (although I had to search for the word, and mentally scrolled through bravishness, bravura, bravity before arriving at the bravery), it's relief. 

I think because I grew up with such heavy secrets—and in some cases not even heavy, just stupid, but still secret—I feel such relief when I write them down. The fear doesn't evaporate completely and immediately, but it dissipates.

(On a side bar, I still think I could be an excellent spy, because I'm stellar at holding secrets of others, and how would you blackmail someone who talks so publicly about her shit?)

But back to the topic at hand.

So many, so very many friends reached out to offer support. Love. Virtual hugs.

Friends who have had breast cancer have messaged and called to share their very personal stories. And so many have said that they reached out because they wanted to make sure I knew that no matter what, I was going to be fine.

One friend called me immediately upon reading my blog and shared her own journey with breast cancer. And then she offered to tell me everything she has learned, both from her own experience and those of friends.

Yes, I said, please tell me everything. Everything.

She did. We talked and talked, and it was wonderful.

Afterwards I felt like even if it is my idea of worst case scenario, it will be OK. I can do what I need to do. I'm not afraid of pain or scars, and frankly after nursing, I don't even have any particular attachment to my nipples.

What I want most is to be here for my family.

So by the time I walked into my biopsy, I was ready to say, "Take them both and the nipples! I'll get tattoos!"

Obviously, this isn't what I said, because it was a biopsy.

And I wasn't actually cavalier. I was super anxious.

I didn't sleep the night before, and I was saving my last Xanax for the procedure. Nick drove me to Fairfax while I sipped tea and tried to breathe calmly.

I was prepared to have to lie on a table (pictured above in case you have no idea what the F that drawing is). 

If you've not had this done, traditionally they have you lie face down on a table. Your boob pokes through a hole, and they raise up the table and work from underneath.

This is older technology, apparently, although they told me they still need to use it sometimes, depending on the area they need to access.

A friend told me the table was extremely uncomfortable and left her bruised, and it was hard to breathe. I should see if they had a chair.

As it turned out, they offered me the chair.

The Chair. Sounds like electrocution. 

Honestly, the chair itself was extremely comfortable, and I'd enjoy having one at home. It reclines very quickly and quietly, and you can raise it and lower it mechanically.

The whole thing is still a little uncomfortable in that they put your boob in a vise, and they move the chair so your back is absolutely straight and even a little forward, and you have to turn your head at an angle and then not move.

They need to make sure they have the exact right spot, so when they do scans you have to hold your breath as well. 

Also, they inject you with lidocaine, and the injection stings, but after that, most of the discomfort was  pressure and the angle of your body and the trying not to freak out and breathe evenly while wearing a mask.

I couldn't take the Xanax until I'd signed the forms, and I really should've just taken it when I got there so it had more time to kick in, but I am a first-born rule follower, so.

If I had to choose between biopsy and root canal just as isolated procedures, without the cancer fear, I might actually choose biopsy.

Everyone was lovely. The nurse who was in the room held my hand. And the doctor was absolutely lovely. The nurse who did all the forms with me and then escorted me out was also so kind.

Interestingly, when she was asking about medications and conditions, and I said, "Ooh, I forgot about ADHD because that one's new," she was like, "yeah, the only ones we care about for this are the physical ones."

And I was all, "Even though the brain ones can be a much bigger deal."

But I did understand what she meant. Heart conditions and such.

Anyway, all this to say, it was OK. Much quicker and way less terrible than anticipated.

I came home, changed the ice pack on my boob, and slept. I was assiduous about keeping it iced.

They said the ice would help a lot with swelling and bruising, and it did.

They said I had to wait to shower until the next day and I refrained from telling them about my ability to hold out on showering. They also said not to submerge it, like in a bath or hot tub, because of the risk of infection.

Much like the medical staff who told me not to do things like clean the house vigorously or vacuum after my amnio, I assured them there was zero need for concern.

And when I finally took the big bandage off yesterday, I realized that it's kind of a big hole, no?

Mostly I've slept through weekend. Nick has done pretty much everything, and I'm thankful.

In my pre-zen(ish-ish) anxiety frenzy, I may have purchased a variety of truly fabulous vintage items of clothing online.

When my groovy purple Pierre Cardin coat arrives and my charming orange Courrèges dress comes back from the cleaners, I may pair them with my $50-on-eBay Lanvin boots and revel. I will post photos.

So it occurs to me that I do have a resolution for 2023 and beyond. Except for undergarments, I'm done buying new clothes. I'm going to buy used, or at any rate pre-owned.

(Except for the occasional Jordan Piantedosi, but I consider that supporting the arts.)

This winter, no matter what I have to do health-wise, I'm going to wear my 60s and 70s vintage and feel fabulous.

And I'm going to be so grateful for my amazing community of wonderful humans. 

Thank you over and over for your loving kindness and generosity.

While I'm not a Dave Matthews fan, he's right: Life is short but sweet for certain.

This one's all about the boobs or specifically one boob but not in a fun way which is probably a fine example of how I suck at small talk at parties

I was holding it together pretty well until the radiologist told me he was sorry. Twice.

And I know he was saying he was sorry meaning sorry that I had to deal with this and not, like, sorry this means you're about to die. But the very kind sorry was what did it.

Like when you're not OK but pretending to be fine and then someone really sees you and asks you really, how are you, and you just lose it. 

Although I didn't lose it with him. I smiled and thanked him and squoze my body very tightly together so I wouldn't fall apart.

But I'm starting in the middle, sort of. 

On New Year's Day, India asked me if I had any plans for the year. And the truth was, until that appointment on December 30th, I did.

I want to take the kids to Colombia. I want to do yoga teacher training. I want to learn to do a handstand, and peacock, and finally, finally, my absolute nemesis: side plank with my leg straight up in the air. 

I want to get back to writing. I want to write something deep and real. Or maybe frivolous and hilarious. But still very real.

However, right now I feel like I can't plan anything until I know what I might have to plan around.

I had a mammogram in early December, and then I got a call saying I needed to schedule further scans. My doctor said at least 30% of her patients wind up having to have more scans, so not to be worried. Better to be cautious.

So being me, I wasn't not concerned, but I wasn't climbing the walls. 

A friend offered to go with me last minute, and I happily accepted. We'd go, she said, find out it was nothing, and go have coffee.

It was right before New Year's. Things were quiet. That sounded great.

So I had the scans and then got escorted down to chat with the radiologist.

And this very kind, personable radiologist told me that there are things that are very clearly cancer, and things that are clearly nothing to worry about, and my scans were in the middle. I have a suspicious little grouping of calcifications.

He said it was very small, seven millimeters. He had a ruler. He showed me the measurement.

Since then I've been thinking about this.

Like, if we were talking about cake, seven millimeters would be an unsatisfyingly small slice. But I'm a not very big person with not very big boobs.

I have had slices of cake bigger than one of my boobs.

Seven millimeters is almost a centimeter which is almost half an inch. I mean, even a quarter inch is pretty big.

Don't you think?

So this nice radiologist patiently answered my questions, and drew me a little picture, and told me that in the worst case scenario, this is ductal carcinoma in situ, which is actually a pretty good situation, in that it's all contained in a milk duct. 

DCIS. It has an acronym.

He said I needed to get a biopsy to see what it was. And sometimes the biopsy even takes it out, so when they go in for further treatment, it's not there any longer. 

So I have to have a biopsy. The soonest I could schedule one in the metropolitan area was January 18. 

(Although, good news! I spent the morning calling around, and everyone said sorry, but I told them even if they got a last minute cancellation, I'd drop everything and be there in an hour. And I just got a call about a cancellation Thursday morning!)

So I stood at the desk for a while as the receptionist looked at various office's schedules to get me in soonest. She then explained the biopsy procedure to me. 

It sounds like they put your boob in a similar kind of vise to the one they use for mammograms, and use the imagery to guide them as they put a big needle in to take out a sample.

She said, "Don't worry. They numb the whole area. It's kind of uncomfortable but you won't feel the pain. You can drive yourself. You don't need to be sedated. You can, but you don't need to."

And I said, "Sedated like Xanax?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I will absolutely be sedating myself!"

I'm not concerned about physical pain. I mean, I don't enjoy it, but I think I have a high pain tolerance. The nurses forgot to connect my pain drip after my C-section. I complained and they were all, press the button. And after a while I was like, um, I keep pressing the button but it actually still really hurts. Like, really hurts.

Because it fucking hurts when they cut all your abdominal muscles, take a baby out, and stitch and crazy glue you back together.

So pain, fine. 

But the anxiety? 

She said, "Then you need arrive half an hour early so you can sign the papers beforehand. And someone will need to drive you."

We left, and I burst into tears, and my friend hugged me. And then two other women walked out of the office and stood waiting for the elevator with us.

And one of them said, "I love your boots! They look like they have space in the toe box! Who makes them?"

So I told her, and said they do indeed have good space in the toe box, and that I got them at Nordstrom Rack...

(You know I could happily be the old lady who lives in a shoe...except for all the children.)

And then the elevator stopped and the other woman was about to get out when my friend turned to her  and said that she couldn't help overhearing her talking about her treatment, and would she mind talking to us?

So we followed this absolute stranger out of the elevator on a floor we weren't even going to so I could talk to her. Of course I started to cry again, and she gave me a big hug. 

She said it was exactly what had happened to her. That she'd had DCIS. She gave me the name of her surgeon, who she loved.

That was 2014. She's been fine since.

And she said, "Not knowing is what's scary. Not doing anything is scary. Now you know, so you can take care of it. You're going to get a biopsy. If you need to do more, you'll do it. And it will be fine."

We hugged two more times in the course of the conversation.

I thanked her for sharing her experience, and said I was so happy to meet her. And she said she was so glad to talk, and that one day I might be exactly who someone needs to talk to.

She could've been a different kind of person, one who felt eavesdropped on, one who was like, no, strangers, don't follow me out of the elevator. But she was lovely and kind and open.

Which was a true blessing. I was so very grateful. For my friend, for generous strangers, for the way the world can be unexpectedly kind.

And now, because another woman canceled, Nick will be driving me out to Virginia on Thursday morning, and I should know one way or the other by the end of next week.

At which point I can make plans, one way or the other.

Oh, and Happy New Year! I mean this sincerely.

Gosh, that last one went fast.

Also: because of Grantchurch I am now resolved to include "What the Dickens?" in my repertoire.

Also also: For those of you who don't know, the left photo is me as the bitterest Mary a preschool Christmas pageant in Dhaka, Bangladesh ever did see, because I had to wear my PJs and the afghan my great-aunt crocheted rather than having a fabulous costume like an angel. Right side, same afghan, fake bitterness.

Furthermore: I still have stuff to say about ADHD and how interesting it is and also insurance companies who are assholes who don't want to pay for expensive medication.

The moral fiber of the story

When you find yourself gently weeping and muttering, "low fiber diet" in Costco, you have to stop and take stock of your emotional well-being.

Which is to say that I don't know how long I've been in a not-so-great place, but here we are.

Also: I have a colonoscopy scheduled for next Wednesday. It's been three years since I had those back-to back colonoscopies, because, as Wendy said then, who knew I was so full of shit? 

Because I seem to be more attached than most to the contents of my colon, in addition to 48 hours of liquid diet ahead of time, I'm supposed to be on a low-fiber diet for this whole week ahead.

Do you know what this means? No fruit or veggies. No oats. No nuts. No seeds. No beans! You're basically left with meat and dairy and white bread.

Nick was like, "I don't see anything wrong with that!"

I was like, "It's basically your life."

Because as it turns out, my entire life is high fiber. And apparently fiber is hard to get out of the nooks and crannies of your colon.

Stuff like broccoli hangs on for dear life, while white bread happily slides right out.

So yesterday I was going down the shopping list and I was all, "OK, I'll get the Brussels sprouts even though I'm not allowed to eat them."

I was being rather petulant about it. And clearly feeling very sorry for myself because I think I started crying somewhere around the sweet potatoes. Muttering "low fiber diet, fucking low fiber diet".

But what I think is going on is that spring is fucking tough.

Every year I forget this. Maybe I should just put an annual reminder on my calendar or something saying, SPRING IS HARD. Little sticky notes. AZALEAS ARE BEAUTIFUL AND SPRING MAKES YOU CRY. SPRING IS A FALSE FRIEND!

Little motivational poster kinds of things.

And this spring, jeez this spring, which absolutely refuses to get warm. I mean, it's supposed to be in the damn 30s tonight. What the fucking fuck.

But it's like I slog through winter, and winter never my friend. So I brace for it. Winter. I can do it. Winter. Be vigilant, because winter is rough.

But then winter ends, and spring is all new life and flowers and baby birds and hope!

Except not so much on the hope. I don't know if it's the residual exhaustion from winter, or that it's brighter and days are longer so I feel like I should not be so tired but I'm just so very tired, or something else entirely.

Maybe winter is long and all my reserves are gone.

I had a therapist who said that even when you don't realize that a traumatic anniversary is approaching, your body knows it. And I know that April and May are linked with big trauma events for me. Maybe that's part of it.

I don't know. What I do know is that I have to start eating a fucking low fiber diet like now and then next week I have to  liquid fast for 48 hours while taking mega-laxatives.

I don't honestly mind diarrhea, but now I have anxiety about not having a totally empty colon for my doctor to examine. Like, she's going to be able to tell that I had oatmeal for breakfast today, even though I don't think I have to start until tomorrow.

But being who I am, which is an external approval-seeking a first-born rule follower, I don't want to fail this excretion test. 

Also, and more importantly, I don't want a little piece of spinach obscuring a polyp. So there's that. White bread for days.

On the bright side, at least I don't, as my friend Kristin envisioned, have to lie on my back with my legs up and my feet by my ears while they peer in my anus for the procedure.

That would most definitely be something to cry about.

And it's true that I stole your lighter. And it's also true that I lost the map...

When I met Nick, nigh on 14 years ago, he favored one foot just slightly.

He had an ankle injury, he explained.

Well. What it turned out, when he had it looked at like five years later, was that he had this wee sharp piece of bone that was gradually sawing off his Achilles tendon.

I can't even think about this without wincing. This proves to me he'd have been more stoic about pregnancy and childbirth than I was. 

Anyway.

Every so often I'd suggest that he might like to have surgery rather than being in abject pain when he walked anywhere. And I was told that he was entirely too busy for that nonsense.

Until this May, when that nonsense wound up really being the only reasonable option, given that a person who has legs and feet needs to be able to walk.

So.

I picked him up post-surgery and brought him home, totally loopy, on crutches and pain medication and with a bag of nerve blocker attached to a needle inserted into his leg.

He was not allowed to let his operated-on foot touch the floor, like, not even rest on it, for 10 days.

In fact, he only got out of bed to crutch to the bathroom the first couple days. I was feeding him in bed.

And he was CRABBY. Which was understandable. But very unpleasant. Because rather than recognizing it, he kept accusing me of being short-tempered.

Which I sometimes am but in this instance was not. I was, in fact, infinitely kind an patient.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I started avoiding him. 

Which was easy because he was stuck in bed in our room. He was doing Zoom calls from bed. At one point he even put on a button-down and tie to speak to a judge.

So I just didn't go there except when I had to. Because he was so mean.

And then he got his feelings all hurt and accused me of avoiding him.

I fessed up: yes, I was. I totally was.

Several days post-surgery he went back to the office. I drove him. Prior to surgery he'd bought this leg scooter thing to get around.

I definitely recommend these scooty things. Way easier than crutches.

So he would crutch down the front steps and I'd carry the scooter to the sidewalk. Then I'd run through the house, jump in the car, and drive around to the end of our block, where there was a ramp for him to scoot down.

I'd park, open his door for him, wait for him to get on crutches, and then take the scooter and put it in the back of the car. I'd drive him to the office, get the scooter out and bring it to him, and say goodbye.

I would repeat this process in reverse at the end of the day.

And every day, when I pulled up to get him, he would say one of two things, neither of which were "thank you" or anything of a grateful nature. 

No.

They were:
1. You're too close to the curb.
2. You're too far from the curb.

And reader, I bit my fucking tongue every time. 

Until I really really didn't.

At the end of the second week he had an 8:00 am appointment with his doctor downtown. So around 7:30 we started the process of leaving the house. 

On my side, it was filled with complications, like a garbage truck in the alley and having to turn around our very tight urban alley and then having to navigate the one-way streets of our neighborhood to get back to our street and pick him up.

This kind of thing stresses me out, and I was flustered when I picked him up. He was at the end of the street, sitting on his scooter, chatting with neighbors.

I got his scooter in the back, pressed the button to close the back hatch, and jumped in the driver's seat.

Whereupon Nick said, "I think you put it in wrong."

"I didn't. I need you to stop criticizing me."

"I'm not criticizing you. The door made a noise. I think you put the scooter in wrong."

At which point I yelled, "AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHGHHHHHHHH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

But it was more like, "AAAAAAAAAAGGGGHGHHHHHHHH! YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

And he responded with a big old, "FUCK YOU!"And we proceeded to denigrate each other, yelling horrible, vile things back and forth at higher and higher volume.

Until finally I yelled, "SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP! IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP, I'M NOT TAKING YOU!"

We have super sophisticated, reasonable altercations, as you can see.

And he yelled back, "FINE! JUST DROP ME OFF AND WE! ARE! DONE!"

Done? Like, done done? Huh.

So I was all, "Like, you want to get divorced?"

And he replied, "If you do!"

I took a deep breath, stretched out my arms, shoulders, neck, and said, "Well. I feel better now. Do you want me to come into the appointment or just drop you off out front?"

And he was all, "Yeah, me, too. I'd like you to come in, but whatever works. If it's too hard to find parking, just drop me."

There were a whole bunch of medical students in the exam room to watch Nick's gauze get cut open, because apparently Nick had a very interesting ankle issue. 

After they did what they needed to do, the doctor looked at me and said, "You know, recovery from this kind of surgery can be hard on everyone."

I laughed. I think. I probably made more of a dying goat noise.

And didn't mention the neighbor with the shocked face on the street corner, the one who could obviously hear every word we screamed through rolled up car windows.

Sorry, neighbor. 

Turns out Achilles issues are, in fact, Stygian.

SD Day 8: "Things are different today" I hear ev'ry mother say

Yesterday I went out for a long run to try to lift my mood and lower my anxiety.

Actually, it was more of a run/walk, because the pollen has been out in full force and my allergies are making me cough. And running through the gently frolicking pollen made me cough. A lot.

Now, on the one hand this was helpful because I didn't have to cross the street when I saw people approaching. They crossed the street when they heard me.

On the other hand, coughing incessantly is miserable in the best of times.

But at this juncture I am all, cherry blossoms? Or Covid? CherryblossomsorCovid?

I have been coughing so often that I have a perpetual headache. Which I believe is also a symptom of the illness.

So now I'm regularly checking for mucus. Mucus? Check! Good! I have a stuffy nose. Also good! I'm coughing because my throat is irritated by the mucus. Good! I don't have a fever. Excellent!

Not all people who got sick had a fever.

I really and truly don't think I have Covid. I have seasonal allergies. And anxiety. It's just very bad timing.

I mean, let's be fair: all of this is very bad timing for everyone. There's never a great time for a pandemic.

Which reminds me. Have you read Year of the Flood? I really do believe Margaret Atwood is a visitor from the future. She knew everything way ahead.

Last week I emailed my psychiatrist to tell him that while I am taking my medication religiously and exercising and getting out in the sunshine, there are times when I just lose it. I asked if he could prescribe Ativan or something of the sort.

He called. I didn't recognize the number, but fortunately I answered anyway, and we had a little chat.

When he asked how I was, my inclination was to say, "Fine!"

Remember how I was going to lie to him that one time and then didn't?

So I started to say fine but then was like, I am really not doing very well. I'm not in crisis. Except, in some moments I am kind of in crisis. Sometimes I just get myself so wound up that I can't calm down.

Not a panic attack, because now I know what those are like. But like the 3:00 am anxiety that jacks up my adrenaline and makes me physically uncomfortable.

I cannot be alone in this.

Just getting a prescription made me feel better.

Of course, I walked into the pharmacy wearing gloves, with my sleeves pushed up so I wouldn't have to push them up with my hands when I washed them, and carrying nothing but my credit card. Which I sprayed down when I got home, after disposing of my gloves and scrubbing my hands.

Over the weekend, the kids said they would like daily running to be a weekday thing. I agreed.

But then today, when I suggested we go for our run, my son said, "It's supposed to rain all day."

I looked out the window and said, "It's not raining."

"But it's supposed to. All day."

Frankly, I didn't have the energy to get them enthused for a run. I didn't even have the energy to threaten them into it.

So I said fine. We put on GoNoodle and they jumped around to a bunch of those and giggled, and I figure that's at least as good.

I don't have anything funny to say. All I want to do is sleep. I feel this crushing guilt for not scheduling my children today, for letting them have screen time, for having GoNoodle possibly be the most constructive thing we do today.

I'm supposed to be a positive force in the household, holding it together for the kids, whose anxieties are leaking out in crying and in anger.

And all I want to do is hide and sleep.

Hide and sleep. A new game for children with tired parents.

Stop, drop, and roll. Shelter in place.

Stay safe.

Love and  hugs,

Lisa

No more love on the runs...

Scatological post alert.

You've been warned.

So I had this colonoscopy and after they woke me up from the coziest sleep ever the nurse was all, "So, the prep only cleaned out half your colon."

Once I was dressed and in a room, the doctor came in and said the same thing to Nick (husband and verified ride home) and explained that she couldn't examine the top half. Which has to happen.

Wut?

I had no idea I still had half a colon full of poo, because how do you know if this much diarrhea is enough diarrhea? Only half-enough diarrhea?

Yes. It was only half enough.

I seriously felt inadequate when the doctor, who I like, was all, "I was sure you'd be clean. You've been having diarrhea."

Did you know that the medical requirement for reporting your diarrhea is five times per day?

No. If they'd specified this I would have said that I was inadequate in the diarrhea requirement department.

So she was like, "Let's get this scheduled."

I dutifully, like the first born rule follower that I am, scheduled for the closest available date. Which was this afternoon.

This coincided with my children's dental appointments. But guess what luck? They happen to be in the same building! On a different floor!

So my kids can get their teeth cleaned while I get my colonoscopy!

I told my friend Meg about this awesomeness of this coincidence and she replied, "Said no one ever."

But Betty has to pick me up anyway. So she'll hang out with them, and then they'll all get me and we'll Uber home.

I think it's rather clever. Or disastrous. We'll see.

So for the second round, I had to stop eating Friday night, then Saturday and Sunday mornings drink magnesium citrate. I chose lemon and grape, both of which were, in the scheme, rather pleasant.

Since Saturday morning I've had nothing but this prep stuff, broth, popsicles, coffee, tea, and kombucha. And lollipops because I was feeling rather sorry for myself.

And then, then Sunday night and Monday morning I had to drink this terrible Suprep concoction, which tastes like cherry cough medicine mixed with death. 

I said before that I have a high tolerance for drinking weird shit. And I meant it. I was great at random frat party shots. I've drunk herbal concoctions that tasted like socks and dirt from my acupuncturist. I can take fish oil with a spoon. I've choked down a variety of medications. 

But this is where I draw the line. I mean, I did it. But it was incredibly tough this time.

I have this belief that I can do anything if I have to. I've dealt with terrible shit I never expected to deal with, and worse stuff I had some expectation of dealing with but had no idea how awful it would actually be.

I always think I can carry more weight than I sometimes actually can.

I'm not suggesting I want to be tested. I'm just saying, if I have to do it, I believe I can, no matter how wretched.

So back to my first colonoscopy.

Immediately upon leaving the doctor, feeling demoralized because I didn't get an A in colon prep, I left a WhatsApp for Kristin and Wendy wailing, "I didn't poop enough! I have to do this all over again!"

Kris and Wendy always, always react differently, with Kris defaulting to drama, sympathy, and if not worst-case, then terrible-case scenario. I fall more on this end of the spectrum in reactions.

Wendy, on the other hand, while always supportive, is more like, "Well, that sucks. Now let's move forward." Which is very helpful.

So I left this message for my friends about the state that I was in.

Kristin responded along the lines of, "YOU POOR THING! THIS IS TERRIBLE!" 

And then she said, 'I didn't want to mention this before your procedure, but my impression from a friend in France who had this done is that you have to basically get in yoga plow position, putting your feet on the floor over your head, with your ass in the air the whole time. It's just so awful! You must be so  naked and exposed!"

Once I stopped laughing, I said it is completely not like that, and you just curl up in fetal position under a blanket, no ass in the air, no maintaining a diffiuclt pose while they feed a tube into your butt. I told her that you're way more exposed when you're squeezing a baby out of your vagina.

At least, not in the US of A.

And Wendy?

Wendy said, "Who knew you were so full of shit?"

TMI tra la la

You know that I don't actually believe in TMI and really mainly get frustrated by Too Little Information.

The other day I ran into one my mom friends at school. We don't know each other well, but I really like her. And when we see each other there is no hi how are you how about this weather we're having?

No.

It is more like hi, how are you, let's bare the contents of our souls in the three minutes we have chatting on this playground. OK, bye, hope to run into you again soon!

Believe it or not, I don't always start these conversations, either. They're just the ones I like.

Anyway.

What I really want to talk about is how my husband considers himself the more reasonable and practical of the two of us.

I get annoyed, because yes, OK, I love to talk about clothing and shoes and I can waste some serious time on all kinds of frivolity. But at the end of the day, I can be pretty damn practical.

I don't consider myself UNreasonable except sometimes. But we all are sometimes.

But practicality?

Nick, a lot of the time, is Fun Dad, while I am Dread Mom. I'm the bedtime enforcer. I'm the teeth brushing enforcer. I'm the let's not feed our kids so much sugar super-not-fun mom.

But we have, I believe, kind of public roles. And if I asked most people who would be the more practical between us, people would say Nick.

Which sticks in my craw, because there are many ways in which I consider myself more practical than my husband.

But then, every once in a while, I get a stark reminder that I am the one with the tendency to just charge ahead without thinking anything through.

While Nick looks at just about every aspect and considers liability.

So, last night we were talking about the fact that on Friday, I have a surprise! colonoscopy scheduled.

I don't actually need to go into my details with you, and there is no emergency, but I saw the gastroenterologist and she was like, "Well, this is the year we recommend you get a colonoscopy, and honestly, sooner would be better than later."

So then she showed me a poster and described what they do in a colonoscopy, and told me how they look at five feet of your intestines.

Five feet! That's almost as long as I am tall!

So I put my hand at my belly button and was like, "Where does it go?"

What I meant was, how far up do they poke that thing?

But she very patiently said, "Well, we start with your anus..."

I 100% already knew about the anus part.

In any case, they give you these prep drinks that cost $50 COPAY and you have to drink like 32 ounces of water afterward. They seemed concerned at the terribleness of the drinks and I assured multiple people at the doctor's office that I have a high tolerance for drinking gross stuff. I don't know why this is true, but it has been tested multiple times and it just is.

So I drink a purportedly gross drink plus 32 ounces of liquid at 6:00 pm the night before, and then at 3:45 am on Friday.

They said this really cleans you out. They stressed that I would spend a lot of time on the toilet.

Frankly, I've had a lot of diarrhea in my life. As long as I'm not throwing up, I can deal.

But still, they said. It's a lot.

OK.

Then they sent me links to a series of videos I had to watch. There were questions to answer.

Now I'm kind of excited, because it sounds like this terrible prep totally cleans out your bowel. It's like your own personal bowel New Year!

I'm up for that.

Because they give you anesthesia, they don't let you leave alone (and they caution you not to sign any important papers afterwards).

I had to verify that Nick would be able to pick me up at 11:00 am on Friday.

So last night as we were about to fall asleep we were talking schedules for the rest of the week.

I said that on Friday I'd drop Jordan off at school and then jump on the metro to my appointment.

And he was all, "That sounds...fraught."

I mean, first he laughed really, really hard. And then he said that. And then he said I should at least Uber, but probably better for him to drive me.

He was like, "I mean, think about it."

So I thought about it.

And his approach seems way more reasonable.

2019: Yeah, trust issues, not to mention they say they can smell your intentions

Hello! I am squeaking in under the wire for January 2019.

Do you typically set resolutions (or intentions)?

This year, rather than resolutions, I set some intentions.

Last fall, I started doing yoga, and one of the things I really like is that at the start of the class, the instructor has us each set an intention for the practice.

She says maybe you want to let go of something that no longer serves you. Maybe you'd like to make space for something you want to invite into your life.

Often, my intention is explicitly to let go of anxiety and make room for creativity.

Sometimes I focus on opening my heart to family. I work on letting go of anger, and making space for love.

And with this now practice in mind, I set intentions for this year, with the understanding that they are flexible, and that I can always work to let go of the negative and invite in the positive.

Some of these intentions are very specific and not spiritual.

Like, I want to be able to do the splits. Don't laugh.

And I want to get two pieces of personal writing published this year. Last year, I got this one published, and I still feel very proud of it. This year I will focus on submitting, with the hope of two published pieces.

I am also focusing on eating healthy, on being mindful, and trying to get enough sleep. Health all around.

On January 1, Nick and I both started Weight Watchers.

I do not, as a deliberate practice, weigh myself, so I don't get all cucu-bananas obsessy about numbers.

As such, I didn't realize that I'd gained about 20 pounds in 2017. Maybe it started a little before that, and maybe it continued a little after. But most of it, I have decided, happened that year.

It was a big year of loss, and I ate a lot of feelings. Really, I ate a lot of ice cream. And I don't even care all that much about ice cream. But once I got in the habit, I just kept going.

Then in 2018, when I went back to an office job, I had to buy new pants. Because none of my pants fit. Which I'd avoided noticing at home, because I just wore stretchy pants all the time. And OK, some of them had gotten tight, but they were still stretchy and  relatively comfy.

So the come to pants Jesus moment was really when I had to dress presentably to go to the office and had no pants.

For about a month, I cut out sugar entirely. I did this because I saw a functional medicine doctor who told me a lot of things and put me on an anti-fungal and said I couldn't drink alcohol or eat sugar for a month.

My intention was to avoid sugar as a practice, like, forever, after that month was over.

So I was done with the ice cream. This also got rid of my brain fog, but that is a whole nother story.

But then after that month I found dark chocolate. I decided that if I ate dark chocolate rather than milk chocolate, I was barely eating any sugar. Particularly paired with almonds, which are protein.

And as my friend Alexa says, dark chocolate almonds are basically medicinal.

Trader Joe's has these dark chocolate almonds that come in a delightful little container that's actually not all that small.

I could easily go through at least two of them a week. Because I am by nature a "more is better" kind of person.

I am currently trying to be a "moderation is awesome" kind of person.

But I digress. I basically felt rather virtuous, with this new dark chocolate almond obsession, which was not, after all, a pint of ice cream a night.

And still, my old clothes, which I should really just call my clothes, because they are not old, and they all fit until I ate approximately 365 pints of ice cream in 2017, did not fit.

Last month, I went to put on a skirt for my office Christmas party. A skirt I had worn in the past. And there was no hope of hooking it. Not even with sucking in my breath and never exhaling. It was like one side kind of waved at the other and then they both shrugged and that was that.

Instead I wore a wool dress with Spanx and holy cow do Spanx not spark joy.

Anyway, that's how I came to that intention, and the fact is that Nick and I are both already feeling a lot better for it.

He gets to eat way more than I do, and has lost twice the weight I have since January 1. This is because he is a large man and I am a small woman. Also, it is worth mentioning that his end weight goal is approximately twice my end weight goal.

But this forced mindfulness has been a great shift.

My other intentions are less specific, in that I am continually working to make space for love, and continually working to let go of anxiety. Another intention is to let go of anger, because it sure as hell does not serve me or anyone else in the world.

A further intention is to eat a more plant-based diet. Now that Nick is open to more beans and vegetables, this is both an appealing and realistic goal in our household.

My overall intention is to tread more lightly on the world, so that we might leave more of a healthy planet for the future.

I'm hopeful for 2019, in a way that I was not for 2017 and 2018.

And these are my current intentions.

(Also, I am also thinking about clog boots, which is why I included them in the drawing. But they're wants and not intentions.)

I'm not calling you a ghost. Just stop haunting me.

This is something that scares me to post.

Last month, Nick took this photo of me at camp.

Isn't Moose Pond spectacular?  I've taken a photo of this view myriad times with and without people in it.

So I wanted to be in a photo with that particular backdrop.

And still, when I saw the picture, my immediate response was to cringe and delete it.

I wear a bikini because it's easier to get in and out of. I learned this when I bought a shaper one-piece after I had Jordan. I got stuck in a bathroom with a wet bathing suit, struggling to pry it up or down. Two pieces are easier.

But I typically wear a sun shirt over it. For SPF rather than modesty. But I looked at this photo of me sitting down and I thought, why, why wasn't I wearing my sun shirt? Or a tee shirt or a towel? And makeup? Or better yet, my sunglasses?

Ugh. Delete.

Then I paused. Because I've recently seen some high school photos of myself. I was so young and fit, so fresh and pretty.

Do you know what I said about myself at the time? Same things I say now. Negative, critical and negative.

But look, look at me then. I was lovely.

And I do remember. I remember all my criticisms of myself at the time.

I was raised to seek external validation. But it didn't actually make me feel good about myself.

I know, looking at those photos of my youth, how bad I felt about myself then. I remember how inadequate I felt. If only I were taller. If only I were thinner. If only were prettier. If only...

The fact was, I could only starve myself so much. I could only run so many miles. I tried very hard to do more of both.

And just as with moving from place to place, you're still you with your same issues, until you deal with them. You can't run from them, you can't starve them out, and you can't move away from them.

As it turns out, you just have to work through them. And sucks for a while, and then it makes you feel better.

I can take a photo tour of myself across time. Sometimes I look pretty. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I am beaming or laughing, genuinely delighted. And sometimes, despite a smile, I can see through the facade to profound misery.

And still, the person in those photos is never the gorgon she imagined herself to be.

My reaction to my high school photos was to wish I'd appreciated who I was and what I had when I had it.

From my current vantage point, my skin then--always too pale and freckled for my liking, and why was I so unfairly pale?--was unwrinkled, lush and beautiful. My thighs, my dread thighs, were strong and athletic, smaller than they are now, back when I imagined they were enormous.

I look at this picture of myself at camp, and my eyes go to my flaws. But let's be honest. I'll never be younger than I am now.

This body created and carried two babies, one of them almost nine pounds, to term. This body had its abdominal muscles cut, and recovered.

This body has done the Everest trek, and ridden camels, and slept on the roof of houses in the desert in Rajasthan.

This body can do push-ups, and climb, and lift an 86-pound kid, and walk over 16 miles overnight.

I work out at home regularly. My kids see me lift weights and do push-ups. I tell them how proud I am to be strong. How strength and fitness are what I'm working for.

I don't focus (out loud) on size. I shush that voice for them, and I try to quell it within myself.

I've had more and less toned abs. I've had larger and smaller thighs.Sometimes my butt is bigger and rounder and wider. Sometimes it's less so.

 Last year I ate a pint of ice cream every night and grew out of all my pants. Like, I literally could not squeeze them up past my thighs, or if I could, they weren't office-appropriate. My skirts were like sausage casings. So when I returned to the office last winter, I bought two pairs of black work pants, vowing to fit back into my wardrobe.

And I started working, really really hard, on fitting back into my clothes. It's more difficult than it used to be. Just eating well didn't do it. Just exercising hard didn't do it. I had to do both, and diligently.

Now I fit back in my clothes, and for the most part, I feel good.

As for my freckled Irish skin, well, I spent too much time without sunscreen in the Indian sun, and that's just a fact.

So back to this photo. I saw it and deleted it. And then I made myself stop and reevaluate. Not the photo. My response.

I decided I needed to change my internal narrative. Because the issue is not actually the size of this body part or that. The issue is my brain.

We swim often, and we wear bathing suits while we do so. And it's OK for me to post photos of myself in a bikini, no matter how old I might be now, no matter how much fitter I might have been back when.

My body has done some amazing things. My body is strong.

I do my best, most days. Regardless of how I look, or think I look, I am enough.

And this is my body.

How to have lice

When we get lice, we don't like to just get lice.

We like to pair our lice with something calamitous, like thieves coming through the skylights and stealing laptops and jewelry.

But now we have bars on the skylights.

So this time, we paired our lice with a house-next-door fire.

Surprise!

First we discovered the lice. I think last time we had the thieving first. I don't know that we're particular about order, really.

Last weekend, we all had plans, and we were all late leaving the house. This wound up being a blessing.

I was late to take India to meet friends. I was upstairs rushing around because the lateness! The lateness of leaving late! And then India said, "Mama, come downstairs! Jordan smells smoke!"

Jordan has this nose. He can be standing way across the room and be all, "Ugh. Your breath smells like onions."

His nose stands in stark contrast to his ears, which function only selectively, and not at all when you're standing right next to him telling him, in no uncertain terms, that it is time to brush teeth.

In any case, I came downstairs and the three of us were trying to figure out where the smoke was coming from. And then I realized that the smoke detectors in our basement tenants' apartment were all screaming.

I yelled for Nick to come down. It smelled like plastic burning.

Nick said, "I think it's coming from the closet."

We have this storage closet that used to connect the basement and the ground floor. I probably wrote about it because there were these precarious stairs of death down to the dark and deathy dungeon where we did our laundry when we first moved in.

Now it's where we store our Christmas tree and coats and such.

So Nick went in to try and see if there was a fire in the back of the closet. He started flinging coats out and pulling out boxes as the closet filled up with smoke. Smoke started spreading out through the ground floor, and I ran to call 911.

I didn't realize I was scared until the woman on the phone said, "It's going to be OK. Stay with me." And I realized I'd started crying.

She told me to get everyone outside.

Betty had been planning to go to Safeway, so she headed out the back, and the rest of us headed out the front.

One of our tenants and their dog were already out front.

Three fire trucks arrived within minutes, and neighbors started to congregate.

I'd called 911 a few months ago because all of our basement smoke alarms were going off, and we couldn't figure out why. (Issue turned out to be batteries. Nick replaced them all.)

So I recognized a few of the firemen.

They checked our basement and ground floor, then determined it was our next-door neighbor's house.

Nobody was home, so they pulled out axes. They went into the basement with hoses pumping.

I'd never seen this happen anywhere outside of a Richard Scarry book.

A little while later they emerged with a charred and smoking futon, which they then hosed thoroughly on the sidewalk.

The inhabitant of the basement arrived about 15 minutes into the operation. He'd been out walking his dog. He told Nick he'd left a candle burning.

A few minutes after that, we met a woman who'd just moved into the house a month ago. She'd been home the whole time but not known what was going on. She told us she was reading upstairs and  smelled smoke, so she looked out the window and saw all these fire trucks.

Which says to me no smoke detectors were screaming in their house.

I feel exceptionally lucky that we were home, and that Nick is assiduous about keeping smoke detectors, fire extinguishers, filters, etc up to date. I feel lucky we smelled the smoke as early into the fire as we did, and that the fire fighters were immediately responsive.

I thanked one of the guys for arriving so quickly and he said, "We were eating lunch literally around the corner."

I contend it is a universal belief that firemen are hot. They will rush into buildings that are ON FIRE to save people.

What did surprise me, however, was that a couple of them lit cigarettes after the fire was out.

We're in a row house, and ours houses were built over a hundred years ago. This means we share walls, that beams come through.

This also means that our ground floor still smells like smoke. But nothing in our house was damaged.

Most importantly, nobody was hurt.

What it's made me realize is that we are vulnerable. Lots of things in life are out of our control, yes. But we try to keep our house as safe as possible. But! Our houses all connect. Any of our neighbors could be smoking in bed or leave candles unattended or what-have-you.

One of our neighbors said that 15 years ago an entire row house burned on our block. He asked if we have a fire emergency plan.

We do not. Do you have a fire emergency plan? Do you know how you'd get out?

In our house, have two options--going down and out the front door, or up to the roof. But we've not practiced this with the kids or my mom. Am I confident my mom could get out the little window leading to the roof, or jump over to a neighboring rooftop?

Not completely.

So there's that. And that's where we are. And where we were.

Oh, and we also oiled all our heads and combed repeatedly with the lice comb. Because, you know, the lice.

I was pretty shaken up for a while. That night, when we were getting ready for bed, I said, "The kids and I should make cookies to take to the firehouse."

Nick said, "That would be nice."

Then I said, "Although if we run out of time maybe we could just drop off a couple cartons of Marlboros."

"That's the Lisa I know and love"

A virtual stop on the metaphysical train

Last week I had a remote energy healing session with my friend Alexa.

I wrote about her in this post, which I worried would be too woo woo, and maybe it was for some, but not for everyone. At that point, Alexa hadn't yet officially opened her practice, and was mainly treating friends, family, and friends of friends.

But now I'm naming and linking her because she sees clients in a space in Friendship Heights, as well as in her home. But she also treats people remotely.

Meaning, you don't have to leave your house. Ha!

This is what we did: She called and asked what I wanted her to work on. I said I'd like help with my mood. Because since the election, I walk around so angry. My anger comes up to my throat on too many days.

And lately, with our government's response to Puerto Rico, with Las Vegas and no gun control, I feel enraged. Powerless. And sad. I have this huge, heavy sadness.

These were the things, I said, that I would like help with.

Alexa briefly walked me through what she was going to do. She said, "Honestly, you can be doing anything. If you want to focus on how you're feeling, I suggest taking a couple deep breaths and sitting calmly. But you could be asleep. It doesn't matter. It still works."

Now, that day we were supposed to get our lead pipes replaced. Because as it turns out, the pipes from the main in the middle of the street all the way into our house are made of lead.

Starting at 7:00 am, there were whole lot of construction guys outside. As Alexa and I spoke, I was waiting for the contractor to ring the bell so I could let him into the basement.

Alexa said, "If you can, just relax. Now, while you're doing that, what I do, is I go into a mental laboratory. And I talk to you about what's going on."

I remembered the construction. So I said, "OK, but what if one those people outside rings the bell and wants to come in?"

There was a pause.

She said, very gently, "Which...people outside, Lisa?"

Right.

When Alexa explained how she works, I pictured Eleven in Stranger Things, if you've seen it. (If not, oh my gosh, watch it!) When she's supposed to spy on the Russians, she's virtually in this dark empty space with a white floor, watching and hearing them speak.

So I figure Alexa was with me, and interacting with me, but on a different plane.

Oh, and did I tell you that I wore a tinfoil hat during the session? (I AM KIDDING, PEOPLE.)

So I sat relatively still for about half an hour, relaxing and drinking my coffee and my smoothie. I had my feet up, and when they started to tingle, I put them down. Buzzing, really, is a better word for it. They kept buzzing. Then the back of my ankles and calves got warm.

This was as much of the physical as I was aware of.

At some point I went to the bathroom, and then I was all, "Is Alexa going to know?" I then reminded myself this wasn't like a spy camera.

Afterwards, she called me to tell me what she'd seen. (And no, she had no idea I'd been in the bathroom.)

First she told me about the card she'd chosen for me. She chooses a card from a deck before the session, to set intentions. Last time, in person, she'd put my card aside to show me after. The deck is similar to Tarot.

My card was El Morya, with text,"As a sensitive person, you have absorbed some harsh and toxic energy from other people. This card asks you to stop and call on El Morya and Archangel Michael to clear yourself..."

I do this! I know I do this. I am an energy sponge. I take on your anger, your anguish, your agitation. Sometimes I wind up exhausted by all of it.

Alexa gave me a lot of personal information in her explanation of the session.

One of the most interesting things was that she asked if my dad had been in the CIA. I said no. For a while we wondered, but ultimately determined that he wasn't a spy.

And she said that she saw him with dark cloud over him. She got the sense that he'd done some things he considered unforgivable, things he could never move past.

I know this to be true.

My Dad was in Vietnam during the war, setting up hospitals with USAID. He never recovered from whatever happened there. I don't know what happened, but I know he lost friends, and that he lived with an immense and haunting weight.

I now suspect he had undiagnosed and untreated PTSD.

After the session, I told my mom what Alexa said, and asked if she knew what happened with Dad. She looked crushed, and said she knew some of it, and couldn't tell me. It's too terrible, she said, to pass on.

So.

Alexa said, "You took in some of that darkness to help him, to make him happier. But it's weighed you down." She got me to release this burden. The visual she gave was me vomiting up a whole bunch of twisty, viscous darkness.

This was one example.

She kept telling me things that resonated. Things I know, but don't talk about. Not because I'm trying to hide them, but because I don't think about them.

She told me what she observed, and how she guided me to (virtually) physically let go.

I look at it kind of like talk therapy, where your therapist identifies problems and asks you the right questions or talks you through issues, and you start to see things in a different way.

Except in this case, I see it as Alexa doing the work, or getting me to do the work, but without hours of therapy.

I've been trying to figure out how I feel different, and the best way I can describe it is lighter. When I saw her the first time, I was sick, and my head congestion cleared. That's an easy, tangible result.

This really is more like therapy, where eventually whatever was hurting hurts less and less. Something within you shifts, and you heal. Anyway, that's what I think.

When Nick asked what I was doing that morning, I said I was having a remote healing session with Alexa.

He said, "Oh."

And when he called afterward and I told him a bit about it, I could hear him rolling his eyes. So I said, "I hear you rolling your eyes." He admitted he was. "So," I said, "my next post is probably not for you."

You can believe or not believe, and I'm OK with that.

Me, I believe.

So now let us speak of something awkward

You know how I wind up writing about stuff that most people don't talk about in polite company because I really need to talk about it?

Now I need to talk about perimenopause. I do

I hate it.

There are going to be words like boobs and period and such.

And now you've been warned.

Perimenopause, which I guess is also called premenopause, for those who don't know, and until recently I didn't, is the period (heh) of time leading up to menopause during which your reproductive hormones begin to decline. This can be a short number of years or a decade, as I understand it.

Hormones are tricksy, and everything affects everything, and you might have very few symptoms or your experience might be extreme. You just don't know until you're in it.

And even when you're in it, month to month you don't necessarily know. Which, for me, makes it not unlike depression.

Several months ago, I thought my antidepressant wasn't working, or that maybe the dosage needed tweaking. Because I couldn't stand anyone in my family.

Nick would walk toward me and I'd think, "Come closer. SO I CAN KICK YOU."

The kids and my mom would do things that my kids and my mom do. Like eat breakfast. And I would think, "OH MY GOD THEY'RE SO ANNOYING."

I snapped and snarled at all of them. I had no patience.

This continued for some days and I was about to reach out to my shrink and ask him for help. And then I got my period. Immediately, much like Dorothy landing in Oz, the world became bright and happy again.

In retrospect, I have always reacted extremely to hormones. What can I say? I'm a delicate flower.

I was raised believing condoms were the answer to most of the world's problems. Not everyone is in agreement, and I had several stints on hormonal birth control. I turned into a raging lunatic. Crying easily, angry, completely irrational. All the time.

Basically when I think about it, it combined all the difficult parts of being me, but taken to extremes.

Like pregnancy. I was a crazypants during pregnancy.

Now it's moot. (Snip snip!)

For years, coasting on my own hormones, I've had a pretty even cycle. Sometimes I'd have PMS and my boobs would get very sore, and I would get mad at them. But still, it didn't last. But it was generally brief, as were my periods.

And on a related note, India calls it my pyramid. "Do you have your pyramid, Mama?"

She also learned about period undies when one day she said, "Don't put those on! They're dirty!" I know, I know, this is a horrifying topic. I told you.

I do have some fear that she's taken this information to school, but what are you doing to do? Her mama has pyramid undies. At least it's true. (Unlike the time she told her class that for time out we put her in the bathroom after Nick poops.)

But now. Now I have PMS on steroids. My boobs are so sore. I extra hate everyone. I eat so much sugar and junk food.

After the kids went to bed last night, this is what I had for dinner. Gelato and Cheez-Its.

Horror. I know.

And I know it doesn't help. In fact, I know it does the opposite of helping. I KNOW.

What I don't know is when this annoying ride it will end. It's not consistent month to month.

It's kind of like being in one of those horrible carnival mirror houses where this one makes you short and wide and this one makes you taller and this one makes you upside down and this one makes three of you but there's only actually half of each of you so I guess one-point-five and where the fuck is the exit?

And this misery could end in a minute, or tomorrow, or next Friday. Your guess is as good as mine.

This morning Nick called and I guess I snapped at him because he said, "I really wish your period would start."

And I snarled, "Just imagine BEING ME right now."

Also, hand me those Cheez-Its and come over here so I can kick you.

New additions to the fear list

Death by coconut
This is a thing. A friend of mine went to Panama, and at the hotel they gave her a list of things to watch out for.

Top of the list? Above scorpions? Falling coconuts. Hand to god.

"Although it sounds peculiar, the most dangerous thing in the Caribbean is having a coconut fall on your head." Direct quote. See below.

Proof!

So I Googled this, and there are a number of articles about how you are more likely to die from a falling coconut than a shark attack.

I think they were trying to reassure people, like listen, shark attacks aren't even as common as coconut attacks, but all I could think was, you're not safe in the water and you're not safe on the beach! Nature will kill you every time.

Listen to this: if a coconut falls out of a tree, it can hit you with 2,000 pounds of force. And then you die.

This happens!

I recommend wearing a sturdy but stylish pith helmet. Betty used to have a very cute one, although I cannot remember why, because if she knew about the coconut danger, she never shared it with us.

So, yah.

Death by being swallowed by a python
Last week I read about a 25-year-old Indonesian man who went out to harvest palm oil. And he never came home, so his family went out looking for him.

Do you know where they found him, two days later? In the stomach of a 23-foot long python.

Yes.

Pythons, they squeeze you to death. They're incredibly powerful, and they just crush the stuffing out of you. There you are, walking along, collecting your palm oil, and the next thing you know your whole body is being strangulated by a giant python.

Then they swallow you whole. Their jaws unhinge, or something like that, so they can open wide enough to swallow an entire grown man. With his boots on.

They do this, and then lie around in a ditch and wait for you to digest.

I'm not clear on what happens to the boots.

Apparently, they rarely eat humans. They typically eat small and medium sized mammals.

Also, I know what you're going to say: We don't have them in DC, Lisa, except in the form of shoes and handbags.

Listen, we also don't have hippos, and they are way high up on the list. I don't let little things like practicality or lack of proximity deter me.

Like, I also realize there's not going to be a shark in the bottom of the pond or the swimming pool. But if I can't see the bottom, or if it is deep and I am swimming alone, it doesn't keep me from panicking.

Jaws traumatized me for life.

Also, did I tell you that there are sharks in the Potomac?

You're welcome.

For those of you who also love my Betty

Because I hate suspense, and cancer is very scary, I'm going to tell you up front that everything is OK.

And now I'm going to tell you about the past month.

It is February second, and I am in St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City.

I'm a sucker for stained glass and achingly high ceilings.

My dad was Catholic, and when I'm in a church, I light a candle for him. So I am wandering around St. Patrick's, wondering which saint would be the best one for my dad's candle.

I look for Saint Michael, because that's my dad's name, but then Michael was an  archangel, right? How does that work? Does he get a niche with candles?

Before I can examine all the saint options, my phone rings. It's my mother's doctor. I answer quietly. Are you allowed to talk on a phone in a church?

She tells me that my mom's CT scan revealed a mass in her lung. And that she needs a further scan to determine what it might be.

I am too well aware of the fact that Mom has smoked for 60 years.

I start to cry while we are talking, and in the end, I can only whisper, because otherwise, I will wail.

And then I feel so lucky to be in a church. I sit on a pew and sob. I know I'm an adult with children of my own, but I am not ready to let go of my mama. I am not ready for my children to lose their Nana, one of their biggest cheerleaders, reading companions, night-time snugglers.

As I cry, I pray, which is what I do in crisis. I did this every time my dad attempted suicide and went missing. Every time he wound up in the hospital and I held his hand and stared at the monitors.

I beg, and I tell God that I know that I really suck in that I only pray when I need something and it is true that I am not religious and don't go to church and am not going to start. But please, please let my mama be OK. Please.

Unable to stop crying, but with a train to catch, I find the nearest saint, and light a candle for my mom. I figure the living need it more than the dead.

There is a gift shop near the door, and I stop in. I buy a St. Patrick key chain.

Because I am also a sucker for colorful stuff with saints.

The following week, Betty has a PET CT scan. They have her drink glucose and put her in a lead-lined room. She'll be radioactive, so she has to stay in there alone. She can't be around babies or pregnant women for 24 hours.

The technician explains that cancer uses glucose at a faster rate than normal cells. So this test will show if her mass is using glucose, and how much.

Her mass shows up as using glucose. This means it is growing, although not rapidly.

We are fortunately able to get an appointment with a recommended pulmonologist within the week.

The nurse takes her vitals and tests her breathing, which shows that she has reduced capacity for her age. The doctor shows us the scans of this new, growing mass, which wasn't present three years prior. He says removal would be the preferred option, but her reduced lung capacity makes that very risky.

He says he needs to consult with the radiologist to see if he can get to it for a needle biopsy, so they can know what they are dealing with. If not, and they deem surgery too risky, they would consider radiator or chemotherapy.

I ask if it could be an infection, and he says yes, there is a remote possibility. But this is not the kind of thing where he'd give antibiotics and wait to see what happened. We need to start treating this ASAP.

He calls me to say the radiologist can do it.

Betty has the biopsy.

I call to get results, and am told we have to meet with the doctor. The first appointment he has available is 4:40 pm the following Monday.

As in yesterday.

Betty spends the month letting go of things she loves. You like this? Take it. Here, have this. I should sell my Indian paintings. They're valuable.

At some point I realize what's going on and I say, "Mama. You're not planning on dying, are you?"

She denies it, but I don't believe it.

Finally, finally, the Monday that was yesterday arrives. We drive to Sibley, and finally, finally sit  down in the room with the pulmonologist. Who we like, and who, incidentally, has a nice head of hair.

He shakes our hands, sits down and says, "It is not malignant. It is an infection. You dodged a bullet."

I start to cry. I exhale all of the breath that I have been holding for the entire month.

He explains that it takes six weeks for the culture to grow, but they think it is a kind of nontuberculous mycobacteria. This means it's a wee bacteria that's like TB, but not. And it is not contagious.

It's around us, in the air and the soil and what have you. But this one has now set up camp in Betty's lung.

Older women are the population that this typically happens to, turns out. Them and people with compromised immune systems.

He writes down a lot of complicated names, all of which are possibilities. These require 18 months of triple antibiotic. They are, as the treatment suggests and my google research confirms, very hard to kill.

But for now, we wait. They monitor her with another CT scan in May.

It is not cancer. This is the most important thing. It is NOT CANCER!

My mom says, "What should I do now?"

The doctor respons, "Go home and celebrate. And buy a Powerball ticket."

Later Betty says to me, "I'm not going to die."

And that, my friends, was our month.

It was an amazing reminder to me to hold my loved ones tight. To be kind. To appreciate the people I have while I have them.

To love big, with the realization that nothing is forever.

That was our month, and I'm so grateful to be on this side of it.

A twofer of sorts

Most of the time I do not give my boobs any thought.

It's kind of like how I feel invisible when I'm out running, and then am always shocked when someone I know mentions they saw me.

I don't think about them, therefore they're not.

I mean, obviously they're still there, but not in a way that is of particular interest to me. Except sometimes, when I fixate on their no-longer-perky-little-cupcakeness, and then google breast implants.

What I want, really, is just a little scoop up where it used to be. Or rather, two. One on each side. That is all.

But there are more pressing things in the world to think about, and I spend the bulk of my anxiety on my children, my family and loved ones, and on the crisis state of our country and the world.

Nick mentioned the other day that I have the least sexy bras imaginable. And I was surprised, not because I disagreed with him once I thought about it, but because I had never thought about it.

Lingerie was a priority for me for a while. Mainly in my 30s when I had some money and there was no consistency in who might be seeing my undergarments.

And here I will say that I hit one of my lowest points in underwearing in my 20s, just out of grad school. I was in a state of semi-undress with a guy and then realized that one side of my underwear was held together by a safety pin.

And I was all, "Oh, god. My mother would die if she knew I was wearing such terrible underwear." And then he was all, "Why are you talking about your mother?"

It went no further than this. I'm pretty sure I threw out those undies after that. But it's also possible that I didn't.

So.

While I was pregnant and had young babies, I wore very practical maternity or nursing bras. And then when I was done nursing for the second time, and ready to go back to my beautiful bras, there was a lot of space between where my boobs ended and the bras began.

Tragedy!

Post-two-baby-nursing, instead of embracing the boobs like a kind hug, my bras regarded them like a picket fence might gaze at the house across an expanse of yard.

Faced with replacing them, I discovered the joy of stretchy sports-y bras. Not with the stern construction and constraint of running bras. But made with lightweight fabrics and thin straps.

These bras have a good shape, no wire, no hooks. They're extremely comfortable. The have optional pads for warmth/looking like I have actual boobs.

Still, every once in a while, I do think about breast implants. I have friends who are utterly delighted with them.

Would I be utterly delighted to have some semblance of my old body back? To occasionally, with the right bra, have cleavage?

But then I think, besides the cost, and really, even bigger than the cost, is the fact that it is surgery.

They put you under. General anesthesia is no joke. It's a big deal.

My friend Maude had cognitive impairment after anesthesia. It is rare, but it does happen. And her surgery was not elective.

What if something terrible happened, when it was something you didn't need to do in the first place? You were altered for life because of something totally frivolous?

I decided no to breast implants. Absolutely not.

And then I realized that in the next couple years, I'm going to need to have a colonoscopy. They put you under for that as well.

So if there were a way to do them at the same time, then I'd only have general anesthesia once, for a non-elective procedure!

I told Nick I just need to find a way to simultaneously get the colonoscopy and breast implants.

He contends that finding this surgery combo seems highly unlikely, even impossible.

I concede that he is probably correct. In the meantime, I'm going to get an attractive lacy bra or two. They just need to not itch.

Boob itches are the worst.