The good news? I weighed less than I thought I would when I stepped on the scale. The bad news? I need to see my ENT surgeon post-haste. For the record, I like it better when the good news follows the bad.
I went to see my endocrinologist yesterday. I wasn’t scheduled to see her until January, but there was something about the thing I felt in my neck that made me uncomfortable. I made someone a promise that I would call first thing in the morning and I did. The receptionist was great and took my history after a single run through. A couple of hours later, my doctor phoned and asked if I could be there by 4.
Following our usual chit-chat, my doctor got down to business, dimming the lights and lubing up the ultrasound wand. With her usual thoroughness, she repeatedly scanned the area of my neck where the protuberance was. After a few minutes she asked if she could bring a colleague in for a second opinion. I stared at the ceiling, attempting to escape the room mentally by trying to see what the wattage was on the bulb, but as the second physician took his turn with the magic wand tears slipped from my eyes. The doctors conferred.
Their opinion? It’s either a “bad” lymph node or a chronically inflamed minor salivary gland. (See how I put the bad news first?) The plan now is to see my ENT on Monday and have her determine the appropriate course of action. I’m sure there will be some sort of diagnostics or study conducted. The hope, of course is that it is nothing serious, but my history leaves me feeling vulnerable.
To be clear, I don’t write about my health to garner sympathy or concern. It’s more an exercise in becoming accustomed to the possibility of yet another surgical procedure. It also feels a bit like an exorcism. If I express my fears and release them from my inner psyche they kind of lose their power. Sort of like in that fairy tale when the miller’s daughter shocked Rumpelstiltskin by knowing his name, causing him to run away never to be seen again. I’ve seen you before and I know your name, Cancer. How about you stay away and let me have a shot at happily ever after?
What he said
It must have been the unfortunate choice of Pandora station – U2’s Running to Stand Still, that prompted my run to be filled with thoughts of love. Many of the songs were familiar, but I forged a new understanding of them as the lyrics relentlessly pounded me for 5 miles.
As my mind sought an escape from the music, which was a combination of cloying and consolatory, some thoughts I recently had, began to knit themselves together. There must be water. If there’s a lack of oxygen, one can’t breathe. Light encourages development. A little dirt and fire are required. Love is earth.
Love is organic. It makes me believe in science in a way that my high school biology class failed to do. In fact, nothing has convinced me that human beings consist of atoms and electricity so much as love. From the moment those individual particles attach themselves to those of another, there’s no denying the force. There is an almost pungent scent from pheromones, palpable and intensely intimate. I’ve smelled it.
I’ve come to believe that we each possess an internal well which needs to be continually replenished. What fills the well for each of us is marvelously unique and ever evolving. Sometimes it’s a shower of loving words or shared thoughts which soothe our soul. At other times salty tears. There also needs to be a balance of air and light to enable growth. Without oxygen, there is suffocation. In the dark, love withers and fails to reach its true potential. Fresh air and sunshine truly are the antidote to sorrow. I know this to be true.
Dirt and fire can bring excitement and exhilaration to a union. Getting a little messy together, in whatever fashion you mutually appreciate, can be joyful. The heat of passion can meld two into one. I’ve felt this.
If these individual elements are absent, or present yet unbalanced, instead of desirable rich and earthy soil, mud or dust may result. We become bogged down or inclined to be blown away. Equilibrium, damn it, it’s about creating a positive balance between these individual essential fundamentals. It’s true about the earth, it’s true about love.
In January 2002 I hosted a dinner party to celebrate a friend’s birthday. It was a Monday night and we had a wonderful evening of laughter, food and wine. As the night progressed, I began to anticipate how tired and cranky I would be the next morning when my alarm roused me for work. I hate being off my game because of lack of sleep.
As I moved between the dining room and my guests, and the kitchen with its dish filled sink, glancing at the ever later time on the clock, a thought occurred to me: September 11, 2001 had been a Tuesday. Something inside me clicked with such force that it seemed impossible for the internal noise to have gone unheard by those sharing my evening.
We never know when our last night on this earth will be.
I knew, without a shred of doubt, that if the next day was when I met my end, I would rather die with a bellyful of celebratory food and the echo of an evening’s laughter in my ears than 8 hours of sleep. No regrets.
I’ve noticed some reporting recently about cat calls, social media buzz word stuff. I haven’t yet had a moment to click through and read any of what has been written, but intend to momentarily. Before I read what the discussion is, I wanted to express my own experiences and opinion without influence.I don’t remember when I personally received my first catcall, but I do know that each time I hear one these days, I laugh and wonder if it will be my last. Catcalls don’t bother me. They don’t make me feel objectified or threatened. Usually, they make me laugh, once when I was about 8.5 months pregnant hard enough to almost pee myself.
Maybe I should define “catcalls.” I’m talking about a couple of complimentary words spoken in an appreciative tone of voice, not a barrage of filthy language. That I most definitely find offensive. I don’t know, maybe it was growing up around NYC or something, but a construction worker giving me a “Hey, pretty lady,” doesn’t feel like harassment to me.
Ok, now I’ll go read some of what’s going on. I’m back.
This seemed to be the article which helped to ignite the current conversation about catcalling. The author must have been writing an ironic piece because I can’t imagine that a woman would truly encourage attention on the street in the way she did. It had to have been intentionally hyperbolic, right?
This was written in response to a segment of some television program which I’ve been fortunate enough to have never had inflicted upon me. The writer makes some excellent points and I can understand her perspective.
The focus here was primarily on Kirsten Gillibrand’s assertions regarding inappropriate comments made to her by other members of Congress. The examples she provided were outrageous and demonstrated a complete lack of propriety and common decency, but I didn’t perceive them to be “catcalls.” They were personal criticism and commentary about her physical self and as such were deplorable.
My conclusion after this minimal amount of “research?” Well, we all have differing thresholds for what we are willing to tolerate. In my mind there’s a vast difference between a light “Looking good” and detailed descriptions about “what I’d like to do to you, baby.” Does this sort of reasoning strip me of my feminist crown? Is it somehow demeaning to all women that one of my favorite moments as a young woman was when I received a standing ovation from a roomful of cadets at West Point, something I was given in response to how I looked and not related to my intellectual capacity? Does the pleasure I felt at that moment somehow diminish me as a woman? Only if I let it.
Filed under aging, musings, News
You remember that Billy Preston song, don’t you? I don’t think I’ve heard it or even thought of it in at least 20 years. Until about two weeks ago, that is. The context that day was a theme park, a carousel, and a boy. The song popped into my head and caused me to smile.
The most recent mowing of my neighbor’s yard also featured circles. I know I’ve shared before the artistic mowing for which, among his other artistic endeavors, my neighbor is known. As soon as I saw the pattern from my deck, I once again heard that tune bouncing around in my brain.
During my run last night, the song came for the third time. These things usually happen in threes, right? I was reflecting on a personal situation and thought about the uncountable conversations which seem to consistently travel in a circular fashion. Although I like to travel in a circle, preferring to take a different route home than the one I took during departure, when it comes to relationship interactions, circular is definitely not satisfying.
Will it go round in circles? Will it fly high like a bird up in the sky?
I just don’t know.
I’ve been doing this DelSo thing for close to 5 years and have been called a couple of things. I think interesting is my favorite. Over at Tablehopping I, along with my neighbors, I suppose, recently earned the title “pretentious.” Here – read it for yourself.
What do you think? Was dubbing my little neighborhood DelSo really an act worthy of that moniker? Why are Steve’s readers so damn negative? I don’t suppose there’s a single answer to those questions, but let’s focus on the positive, shall* we? We in the DelSo are getting a terrific “new” spot to eat in our neighborhood!
*Is “shall” pretentious?
Have you heard this catchy little tune by Echosmith? When it comes on the radio Quinn always ask me to turn it up “like a party” and he sings along to the lyrics:
“I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
‘Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in…
I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
‘Cause all the cool kids they seem to get it.”
It breaks my heart a little bit each time.
Don’t you remember those kids? The ones who seemed to always have the right clothes and the right hair and could always say and do the right thing? Their shiny perfection made everything a regular kid did seem dull in comparison.
I wasn’t one of the cool kids. Although I had plenty of friends, I certainly wasn’t in the upper social stratosphere. Somehow I survived school, and even eventually went back to revisit those days for a couple of reunions – the 10th, the 21st (don’t ask), the 25th. What I’ve learned over the years, though, is we all have more in common than we ever would have allowed ourselves to imagine when we were fellow students. We each have strengths and weaknesses, parts which are attractive and some which are less appealing and successes and failures. We’re human.
Every September is a reunion for school kids. I want my children to understand that being one of the cool kids in school isn’t a guarantee of a lifetime of happiness. Summer experiences and growth have the potential to impact every child. Attitudes and preferences change and each new academic year is a clean slate of opportunity for everyone. Getting that is ultimately far more important than fitting in.