Sunday, October 21, 2007
Mommy Dearest
On the way home from the ranch this evening...
Boo, with authority: Mommies are a kind of monster.
Me, nervously: What did you say, Boo?
Boo, with greater conviction: MOMMIES ARE A KIND OF MONSTER.
Me, wracked with guilt over what kind of damage I might have unwittingly inflicted on my 4-year old: Do you really think so, Boo?
Boo: Yes. And mommies live in the desert.
Me, awash with relief: Boo, do you mean MUMMIES?
Boo: Yep. Mummies.
Not to be confused with mommies.
Boo: And mummies live in the desert.
Me: Ummm......you've got part of that right.
Not exactly alive, those mummies.
Max: Egypt, actually. And they're wrapped in toilet paper.
This idea makes Boo start to giggle.
Boo: Yeah, booty paper.
More giggles. Ordinarily I'd probably have reprimanded Boo's word choice, but I held my tongue.
Because I do not want to a monster. No, no, no. I do not.
Boo, with authority: Mommies are a kind of monster.
Me, nervously: What did you say, Boo?
Boo, with greater conviction: MOMMIES ARE A KIND OF MONSTER.
Me, wracked with guilt over what kind of damage I might have unwittingly inflicted on my 4-year old: Do you really think so, Boo?
Boo: Yes. And mommies live in the desert.
Me, awash with relief: Boo, do you mean MUMMIES?
Boo: Yep. Mummies.
Not to be confused with mommies.
Boo: And mummies live in the desert.
Me: Ummm......you've got part of that right.
Not exactly alive, those mummies.
Max: Egypt, actually. And they're wrapped in toilet paper.
This idea makes Boo start to giggle.
Boo: Yeah, booty paper.
More giggles. Ordinarily I'd probably have reprimanded Boo's word choice, but I held my tongue.
Because I do not want to a monster. No, no, no. I do not.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
46
How sweet to have reached a stage where, without any prompting from their dad, my kids spring from their beds on October 11, shouting, "Happy Birthday, Mommy!" We spent the afternoon baking and icing a chocolate cake for the occasion. Concerned that 46 flaming candles might trigger the fire alarm, I scripted "46" with 23 candles. Al Gore would have been proud.
The boys struggled to contain themselves until the evening celebration, leaving fingerprints too numerous to count in the icing. When at last the candles were lit and the climactic moment arrived, Boo exclaimed: "Mommy, you're Sixty-Four!"
"No, sweetheart. Just forty-six."
Max chimed in. "So you'll still need our help to blow out the candles!"
It took all three of us, but somehow we managed to stanch the blaze.
The boys struggled to contain themselves until the evening celebration, leaving fingerprints too numerous to count in the icing. When at last the candles were lit and the climactic moment arrived, Boo exclaimed: "Mommy, you're Sixty-Four!"
"No, sweetheart. Just forty-six."
Max chimed in. "So you'll still need our help to blow out the candles!"
It took all three of us, but somehow we managed to stanch the blaze.
Monday, October 08, 2007
All's Well
"Which of us is going to die first?," Max asked on the way home from the ranch yesterday.
"Honey, none of us knows the answer to that question. Only God does. He has a plan for each of our lives, and we don't know what it is."
"I think I know," Max responded. "I think Daddy's going to die first. And then you. Then me. And then Boo."
"That may be so, or maybe not. None of us knows for sure."
On any other day, this might have been just another conversation with a curious six year old. After all, last week Max wanted to know whether people die really fast or slowly.
But it wasn't just another day. I was awaiting the results of a biopsy. And I was terrified.
Last Tuesday I'd had my annual mammogram. Because I've had recurring pain for years, I also have an ultrasound on the left side. I changed radiologists a year ago because I'd heard too many stories of missed tumors at the other hospital. When I saw Dr. Huygen for the first time last December, we went through the expected motions and he declared me good to go.
This year was a different story.
"Your mammograms look completely normal."
"Great."
"Let's take a look at the ultrasound."
Several minutes later, after careful examination: "Everything looks just fine."
(Long pause.)
"I want to take a look at the other side."
Other side? Who said anything about the other side?
One swipe later: "We're going to biopsy that."
What on earth just happened?
"Did you just have a hunch?"
"Yeah. I just had a feeling. The mass is very small, 7 mm, so if there's a problem, we caught it early."
Holy cow. On Friday I was back for more. But not before I learned more distressing news. Irregular borders. Indistinct margins. Small spots of calcification. I knew enough to know none of this was good news.
As I waited, shivering, the nurse explained what would happen. "And after he's done, he'll tell you what he thinks." Really? A radiologist willing to express an opinion to the patient. How extraordinary.
Dr. Hugyen entered the room. He checked my wrist band. "You have a birthday coming up!" 46 on Oct. 11. "How are you celebrating?"
"One of my dear friends is coming from Chicago for the weekend."
What I didn't say was that of the three couples she was coming to visit, two were already in the throes of cancer treatment.
"And we're getting ready for my son's birthday on Monday."
"How old will your boy be?"
"Four."
"I have a three year old son, too. Do you have any other children?"
"Another son. Just turned six."
"Me, too."
"So I have some idea what it will be like at your house when you get home."
He laughed and finished up.
"So, Dr. Hugyen, what do you think?"
He paused for a long, long time. Coughed nervously. Then spoke in a calm, measured way.
"I'm concerned it's cancer."
He paused even longer.
"I'd say the chances are about 50/50. Either way, it has to come out. The blessing is that we caught it early. Because I wasn't asked to look at this side. Sometimes medicine is science, and sometimes it's art. Sometimes I just get a feeling, and I've learned over the years to trust that feeling, because I've been right too often."
A radiologist with ESP. As blessings go, it doesn't get much better than that.
"Your results will be in by Tuesday, but call on Monday, just in case they get here quicker. You're going to be okay. Because your boys need you."
Now I was staring into one of my worst fears. Third, actually. Because I started making a mental list.
1. Burying one of my children, especially while they're still children.
2. Getting bitten by a snake.
3. Getting cancer, especially while my children are still children.
Now I know that's not rational. Because very, very few people in this country die of snakebites. Fewer than ten per year, in fact. You can tell it's my #2 fear because I actually read things like this on the internet. But they're my fears, damn it, and I can rank them as I please. Which reminds me of my friend who's undergoing chemo, and he needs a stem cell transplant soon, and what he's most afraid of is having to get all of his childhood immunizations afterwards to rebuild his immune system. Not logical, but still real.
So when Max started asking questions this weekend about which of us would die first, it meant something entirely different to me than it would have the week before.
"Honey, none of us knows the answer to that question. Only God does. He has a plan for each of our lives, and we don't know what it is."
"I think I know," Max responded. "I think Daddy's going to die first. And then you. Then me. And then Boo."
"That may be so, or maybe not. None of us knows for sure."
On any other day, this might have been just another conversation with a curious six year old. After all, last week Max wanted to know whether people die really fast or slowly.
But it wasn't just another day. I was awaiting the results of a biopsy. And I was terrified.
Last Tuesday I'd had my annual mammogram. Because I've had recurring pain for years, I also have an ultrasound on the left side. I changed radiologists a year ago because I'd heard too many stories of missed tumors at the other hospital. When I saw Dr. Huygen for the first time last December, we went through the expected motions and he declared me good to go.
This year was a different story.
"Your mammograms look completely normal."
"Great."
"Let's take a look at the ultrasound."
Several minutes later, after careful examination: "Everything looks just fine."
(Long pause.)
"I want to take a look at the other side."
Other side? Who said anything about the other side?
One swipe later: "We're going to biopsy that."
What on earth just happened?
"Did you just have a hunch?"
"Yeah. I just had a feeling. The mass is very small, 7 mm, so if there's a problem, we caught it early."
Holy cow. On Friday I was back for more. But not before I learned more distressing news. Irregular borders. Indistinct margins. Small spots of calcification. I knew enough to know none of this was good news.
As I waited, shivering, the nurse explained what would happen. "And after he's done, he'll tell you what he thinks." Really? A radiologist willing to express an opinion to the patient. How extraordinary.
Dr. Hugyen entered the room. He checked my wrist band. "You have a birthday coming up!" 46 on Oct. 11. "How are you celebrating?"
"One of my dear friends is coming from Chicago for the weekend."
What I didn't say was that of the three couples she was coming to visit, two were already in the throes of cancer treatment.
"And we're getting ready for my son's birthday on Monday."
"How old will your boy be?"
"Four."
"I have a three year old son, too. Do you have any other children?"
"Another son. Just turned six."
"Me, too."
"So I have some idea what it will be like at your house when you get home."
He laughed and finished up.
"So, Dr. Hugyen, what do you think?"
He paused for a long, long time. Coughed nervously. Then spoke in a calm, measured way.
"I'm concerned it's cancer."
He paused even longer.
"I'd say the chances are about 50/50. Either way, it has to come out. The blessing is that we caught it early. Because I wasn't asked to look at this side. Sometimes medicine is science, and sometimes it's art. Sometimes I just get a feeling, and I've learned over the years to trust that feeling, because I've been right too often."
A radiologist with ESP. As blessings go, it doesn't get much better than that.
"Your results will be in by Tuesday, but call on Monday, just in case they get here quicker. You're going to be okay. Because your boys need you."
Now I was staring into one of my worst fears. Third, actually. Because I started making a mental list.
1. Burying one of my children, especially while they're still children.
2. Getting bitten by a snake.
3. Getting cancer, especially while my children are still children.
Now I know that's not rational. Because very, very few people in this country die of snakebites. Fewer than ten per year, in fact. You can tell it's my #2 fear because I actually read things like this on the internet. But they're my fears, damn it, and I can rank them as I please. Which reminds me of my friend who's undergoing chemo, and he needs a stem cell transplant soon, and what he's most afraid of is having to get all of his childhood immunizations afterwards to rebuild his immune system. Not logical, but still real.
So when Max started asking questions this weekend about which of us would die first, it meant something entirely different to me than it would have the week before.
At 6:20 this evening, Dr. Hugyen called. Just from his tone of voice, I could tell he had an early present for me.
"I just received your results. I knew your doctor probably wouldn't get them until tomorrow, and I didn't want you to worry for another day. Plus I love delivering good news."
I'm not sure what he said from there, but I did catch "benign."
"It does have to come out, so your doctor will be calling you to suggest a surgeon. Happy birthday, Mrs. Hightower. And to your son, too."
So I'll be having surgery in the next couple of weeks, and make no mistake. I will be the happiest patient in the O.R.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Almost Famous
It seems laughable to me now, but as a kid, I wanted to be famous. I didn't contemplate some of the nastier realities of fame, like gossip columns and papparazzi and slanted or sensationalistic media coverage. I just wanted to feel important. I wanted to be seen and known and remembered.
For a long time, I channeled my hunger for external validation into professional success. I got a rush out of appearing in newspaper articles. I enjoyed being asked to speak at professional conferences. I was proud of being promoted to Senior Vice President. But I was deeply dissatisfied with the overall trajectory of my life. When Max was born, I was eager to walk away.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gullywasher had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls. Which is why we went to the club. We had the place to ourselves. The face painter drew fanciful animals on both cheeks of each boy. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters upon request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged.
And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not the kind of people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the debutante ball or the fashion show or the member/guest golf tournament. But there were fewer than twenty people at the Labor Day party. Who else were they going to show?
I'm kneeling between the boys, relaxed and content. Max looks directly into the camera, a silly, artificial smile splitting his freckled face. Boo glances shyly to the side. Just a mom and her kids, looking astonishingly like themselves in every way.
This afternoon, Max stumbled across the picture lying on the coffee table. He studied it proudly.
"We're famous!," he shouted.
If the only thing for which I'm ever known is being Max and Boo's mom, that is fame enough for me.
For a long time, I channeled my hunger for external validation into professional success. I got a rush out of appearing in newspaper articles. I enjoyed being asked to speak at professional conferences. I was proud of being promoted to Senior Vice President. But I was deeply dissatisfied with the overall trajectory of my life. When Max was born, I was eager to walk away.
On Labor Day, we attended the annual celebration at the country club. A Texas gullywasher had reduced what would have been a throng of revelers to mere handfuls. Which is why we went to the club. We had the place to ourselves. The face painter drew fanciful animals on both cheeks of each boy. The clown stalked them, making balloon characters upon request. When the photographer asked to snap our picture, we obliged.
And that's how our smiling faces wound up in the club newsletter. We are not the kind of people who ordinarily appear in its glossy pages. We do not attend the debutante ball or the fashion show or the member/guest golf tournament. But there were fewer than twenty people at the Labor Day party. Who else were they going to show?
I'm kneeling between the boys, relaxed and content. Max looks directly into the camera, a silly, artificial smile splitting his freckled face. Boo glances shyly to the side. Just a mom and her kids, looking astonishingly like themselves in every way.
This afternoon, Max stumbled across the picture lying on the coffee table. He studied it proudly.
"We're famous!," he shouted.
If the only thing for which I'm ever known is being Max and Boo's mom, that is fame enough for me.
