This seems to be the week for medicinal blog entries and I have one of my own to add to the mix. I've had a lump under my arm for about a year now; I discovered it when I was putting on my coat one evening and my fingertips pressed into my armpit. Okay, I admit it -- I was scratching. Discretely. Anyway, the lump was small and I wasn't too concerned, but mentioned its existence to the nurse practitioner when I went for my well-woman check-up.
"Lift up your arm and show me where it is," April, the nurse practitioner, said.
I did as she asked and pointed to the general area.
She prodded my armpit, focused on locating the lump. Then she stopped and directed me to prod it myself and let her know when I found the lump. I shifted position and located the lump; it's a shy lump and doesn't want to be found by just anyone, I guess.
"It's under my thumb," I told April, and she slid her fingertips under my thumb, but judging from the look of concentration followed by frustration I could tell she still wasn't feeling it. Then she poked around a little more and nodded her head. "Ah, there it is. I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I'll set up an appointment for you to get an ultrasound of it, just to be safe."
A few days later I went for the ultrasound. The nurse led me to a chilly room lit only by the soft glow of a monitor. "Take off your clothes from the waist up and then lie down, the technician will be here shortly," she said, handing me a sheet to cover myself and gesturing toward the gurney. A few minutes later a girl walked into the room and introduced herself as the technician. I'm sure she was older, but she looked to be about 15 and it wouldn't have surprised me at all if she had broken into the hit song from High School Musical.
She slathered my armpit with the gooey liquid used to help the ultrasound wand slide over the body and at first I was comforted by her professional handling of the wand. She slid it over the surface of my armpit and gazed expectantly at the ultrasound monitor, its screen a series of shadowy peaks and valleys that resembled a charcoal sketch of sand dunes. Around and around she moved the wand, clicking the mouse at various points on the screen, her gaze growing more perplexed with each pass. Then she stopped. "I can't find the lump," she said and handed the wand to me. "Here, you try it." So much for her professional demeanor.
Picture me lying on my right side with my left arm lifted up above my head. I'm a good sport, so I did my best to sweep the wand under my left armpit with my left hand, a feat that even Houdini would've found impossible. Then I switched the wand to my right hand thinking that might work better, but with most of my weight resting on my right side you can imagine the difficulty I had with that attempt as well.
I shook my head and handed the wand back to the technician. She sighed. "Okay, let's try moving you to a different position," she said, and had me half-recline while she swept the wand under my armpit again. The computer monitor glow revealed her relieved expression as she moved the wand and clicked on the monitor; I thought she had found the lump but in retrospect I realize that she must've noticed the timestamp on the monitor screen and realized it was five minutes to quitting time.
She finished up and told me to get dressed and head home, and that I'd find out the results in a few days. Sure enough, three days later I got a call from April, the nurse practitioner. "The ultrasound scan results are negative," she said. "They couldn't see the lump, so there's nothing to worry about." Hmmm. That's easy for her to say, it's not her lump.
Anyway, here I am a year later and I still have the lump. It's a little bigger now, and when I went for my well-woman check at my new doctor's office, I told Lori, the physician's assistant, about the lump.
"Hmmm, let me feel it," she said, and started poking around under my armpit. "Here we go again," I thought, noticing she was having trouble finding it. And just like last year I ended up having to locate it for her. "Yes, I can feel it now," she said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but you should get it checked." Then she swung the office door wide open as I sat there nearly nude from the waist up, and beckoned me to follow her. I guess she was in such a hurry that she didn't realize how exposed I was, or she was just so used to seeing people in various stages of undress that it didn't phase her. I nudged the door closed with my foot and hurried to put my clothes back on before any of the other patients out in the waiting room could catch a glimpse of me in my Hanes undershirt. They might not have been able to see the lump under my armpit but they were sure getting an eyeful of the rest of me.
I went to the new imaging place today and guess what? My lump proved too elusive for them, too. I'm making progress, though. This time the technician could feel the lump, though she didn't refer to it as one. "It feels like a cord to me," she said, her sleepy eyes barely open in the morning light. "Maybe a ligament, maybe a muscle, but probably not a lymph gland," she added as she ushered me out the door and on my way.
I should be glad that it's apparently nothing serious, but at the same time I would like to have the mystery of the lump solved. For my next check-up I'll make it easy for them -- I'll draw a bulls-eye around the lump so they'll know exactly where to feel.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Young vs. Young at Heart
My mother, also known as "Mommy Dearest" or MD for short, is young at heart. Her body's failures are disconcerting but so far they have not defeated her. Those failures include a stroke that left her partially paralyzed, and a bout with lung cancer that she's beat into remission, but nothing gets her down. She looks on each day as another opportunity to have some fun.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
Monday, February 16, 2009
An Intimate Dinner for 22
Saturday night, yes on Valentine's Day evening, Mr. B. and I attended a romantic dinner along with about 20 other family members to celebrate all of the February birthdays in our family. It served to further cement my dislike for large family gatherings held in public places. Mr. B. and I sat at one end of the table across from Mommy Dearest and my sister, both of whom we see about 5 nights out of 7. My daughter KT sat next to me; I see her 7 nights out of 7. Way down at the other end of the long rectangular table sat the February birthday people; the people I see about 3 times a year. They laughed a lot down at the other end of the table; at our end we looked at each other and tried to come up with some new and interesting topic of conversation that hadn't already been discussed a million times before during one of our 5 out of 7 evenings at my mother's house (aka "the manor"). Don't get me wrong; I relish the nights we spend at the manor. We play cards and banter 'til the cows come home, with Mommy Dearest holding center court. But somehow we're a more subdued bunch outside of the manor, or at least Mr. B. and I are more subdued.
Maybe it was the thought of the cash outlay that we knew would result from the fine dining experience, or maybe it was just being overwhelmed by the sheer number of people at the table. Whatever the reason, ours was the boring end of the table. While laughter sprang forth from the other end of the table like birds chirping on a wire, you would have thought a church service was being held at our end. A somber church service. For my part my mind was occupied with the thought of how much money this dinner was going to cost us.
My niece suggested playing musical chairs so that we might all get a chance to talk to people seated at opposite ends of the table and we were all game but then Mommy Dearest spilled the beans about the plan to the waitress, who squashed that idea. "If any of you moves one inch I'll throw you all out," she said with a smile. I could hear her teeth grinding, so I think it's safe to say it was a forced smile.
She took our orders in an organized fashion, starting with the far end of the table. By the time she made her way to our end of the table her patience was stretched a bit thin. She breathed a deep, cleansing breath and asked my sister for her order. "What'll you have?" she said between clenched teeth. My sister scanned the menu for the millionth time, still not finding the one dish she hoped to see -- spaghetti. It's an Italian restaurant, after all -- why wouldn't it have spaghetti?
C pushed her glasses up on her nose and glanced at the waitress. "Um... can I order something that's not on the menu?" she said.
"What do you want that's not on the menu?" the waitress said, tapping her pencil against her order pad.
"A half-order of spaghetti."
"Well, if it's not on the menu they won't make it, not tonight." "I don't make the rules, I just repeat 'em," the waitress said with a barking laugh that sounded forced, just like her smile.
My sister sighed and the waitress started making suggestions for alternative dishes my sister might like. With each suggestion my sister wrinkled her nose and squished her mouth into a tighter line until I thought her face would implode.
"They have hamburgers, C." I said, knowing that if all else fails C will go for a hamburger, even if she hates them. So C ordered her hamburger and the waitress asked if she wanted anything on it, to which C responded by wrinkling her nose and squishing her mouth again.
"I take that as a 'no'" the waitress said, and finished taking the rest of our orders. I ordered cannelloni, hoping that it would be better than the last time I ate there. I think it would've been, too, if the waitress hadn't been in a hurry to get us served so she'd be through with us. I swear I saw her turn on her heel and walk into the kitchen where I imagine she told the chef to stop grinding the hamburger for my cannelloni and just stuff the darn thing; I don't know how else to explain the fact that it held such a close resemblance to a McDonald's quarter pounder.
For dessert my niece gave us each a box of candy sweet tarts; it was a sweet ending to a less-than-perfect dinner. And you couldn't beat the price.
Maybe it was the thought of the cash outlay that we knew would result from the fine dining experience, or maybe it was just being overwhelmed by the sheer number of people at the table. Whatever the reason, ours was the boring end of the table. While laughter sprang forth from the other end of the table like birds chirping on a wire, you would have thought a church service was being held at our end. A somber church service. For my part my mind was occupied with the thought of how much money this dinner was going to cost us.
My niece suggested playing musical chairs so that we might all get a chance to talk to people seated at opposite ends of the table and we were all game but then Mommy Dearest spilled the beans about the plan to the waitress, who squashed that idea. "If any of you moves one inch I'll throw you all out," she said with a smile. I could hear her teeth grinding, so I think it's safe to say it was a forced smile.
She took our orders in an organized fashion, starting with the far end of the table. By the time she made her way to our end of the table her patience was stretched a bit thin. She breathed a deep, cleansing breath and asked my sister for her order. "What'll you have?" she said between clenched teeth. My sister scanned the menu for the millionth time, still not finding the one dish she hoped to see -- spaghetti. It's an Italian restaurant, after all -- why wouldn't it have spaghetti?
C pushed her glasses up on her nose and glanced at the waitress. "Um... can I order something that's not on the menu?" she said.
"What do you want that's not on the menu?" the waitress said, tapping her pencil against her order pad.
"A half-order of spaghetti."
"Well, if it's not on the menu they won't make it, not tonight." "I don't make the rules, I just repeat 'em," the waitress said with a barking laugh that sounded forced, just like her smile.
My sister sighed and the waitress started making suggestions for alternative dishes my sister might like. With each suggestion my sister wrinkled her nose and squished her mouth into a tighter line until I thought her face would implode.
"They have hamburgers, C." I said, knowing that if all else fails C will go for a hamburger, even if she hates them. So C ordered her hamburger and the waitress asked if she wanted anything on it, to which C responded by wrinkling her nose and squishing her mouth again.
"I take that as a 'no'" the waitress said, and finished taking the rest of our orders. I ordered cannelloni, hoping that it would be better than the last time I ate there. I think it would've been, too, if the waitress hadn't been in a hurry to get us served so she'd be through with us. I swear I saw her turn on her heel and walk into the kitchen where I imagine she told the chef to stop grinding the hamburger for my cannelloni and just stuff the darn thing; I don't know how else to explain the fact that it held such a close resemblance to a McDonald's quarter pounder.
For dessert my niece gave us each a box of candy sweet tarts; it was a sweet ending to a less-than-perfect dinner. And you couldn't beat the price.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Clicks vs. Cliques
2009 is shaping up to be the year of remorse and regret brought on by my sister's death in the final days of 2008. Since her death I've learned that I hurt her feelings on more than one occasion. On some level I already knew that, but having it stated clearly and emphatically has left me reeling and trying to explain if not defend myself and my actions.
I love all my siblings but I'm not friends with all of them. I have two sisters with whom I am especially close and I count them, along with my mother, as my best friends. Circumstances and personality traits enabled us all to "click" with one another. We enjoy each other's company and get together when we can to play cards or go to dinner.
Family members rarely end up being friends. I consider myself lucky to call my mother and my sisters "friends." You can't force that kind of thing; sometimes you "click" with people and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately, in this case the outcome of the four of us "clicking" is that we formed what others in the family perceived as a "clique."
I know some think it should be different where family is involved, because you do get only one family. And maybe they are right. I hate hurting people's feelings and will do just about anything to avoid it. Maybe we should include all of our siblings in more things just so we don't hurt anyone's feelings.
Part of the problem with trying to include everyone is that there are just so many of us. Sometimes I get tired just thinking about the logistics involved in including everyone every time in every activity that might be planned. But I'm going to do my best this year to be more inclusive. I want to do more "clicking" and less "cliquing." And who knows, maybe I'll end up with more siblings who I consider my friends by the end of 2009.
I love all my siblings but I'm not friends with all of them. I have two sisters with whom I am especially close and I count them, along with my mother, as my best friends. Circumstances and personality traits enabled us all to "click" with one another. We enjoy each other's company and get together when we can to play cards or go to dinner.
Family members rarely end up being friends. I consider myself lucky to call my mother and my sisters "friends." You can't force that kind of thing; sometimes you "click" with people and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately, in this case the outcome of the four of us "clicking" is that we formed what others in the family perceived as a "clique."
I know some think it should be different where family is involved, because you do get only one family. And maybe they are right. I hate hurting people's feelings and will do just about anything to avoid it. Maybe we should include all of our siblings in more things just so we don't hurt anyone's feelings.
Part of the problem with trying to include everyone is that there are just so many of us. Sometimes I get tired just thinking about the logistics involved in including everyone every time in every activity that might be planned. But I'm going to do my best this year to be more inclusive. I want to do more "clicking" and less "cliquing." And who knows, maybe I'll end up with more siblings who I consider my friends by the end of 2009.
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