I Got My Boobies Squeezed, and You Should Too

Last week I had my first mammogram. It is recommended that women have their first - or baseline - mammogram at age 40. I am 43.

Sure, I have excuses for why I haven't had this scan sooner. A month after I turned 40, Joey died, and then I was grieving. Three months after that, I got pregnant with Edgie. And for two years after that I was nursing him. Sooo, it just never happened.

He stopped nursing about six months ago, and since that is the recommended amount of time after weaning to wait before having a mammogram, I knew it was time.

I was a bit nervous for a few reasons:

• I am a small A cup - I have heard women say it hurts more when you are small.
• Someone was going to be touching me - and not in a fun way.
• And duh - it's a test for cancer. That's always scary.

Luckily, I didn't have too much time to think about it because shortly after my other annual exam, the mammography department called to schedule my scan. I was told not to wear lotion or deodorant as these can flake off on the machine and cause a false reading.

I was led to a changing room, told to undress from the waist up, and wear the mini gown with the opening in the front. Then I waited.

A nice mammography tech came to take me to the room where I'd be having my scan. First, she asked me several questions about my health history and habits, then she told me all about the test and what she would do. She really put me at ease.

The actual scan was very short - only four angles. I stood in front of the machine while the tech manipulated my arms and breasts in the places they needed to be. And honestly? It didn't really hurt. Yes, there was pressure, but no more than when Edgie, my toddler, crawls all over on top of me. If you can handle 28 pounds of toddler crawling on top of you, you can handle this.

And that was it. I was given a sheet to sign into a secure site where I could read my results, but I knew the next day. I got a letter in the mail saying my scan was negative. Whew! This is one time in a woman's life that it's good to hear that there's nothing special or remarkable about her breasts.

I think having a mammogram is one of those things that women tend to put off. They make excuses as to why they don't have time (cough, me, I know!), but perhaps they are really a bit scared - of the pain, the embarrassment, or the possibility of breast cancer.

Here are some things you should know about breast health and mammography:

1. Breast self exams (BSEs) are the first line of defense in catching and preventing breast cancer, the second most common cancer in women. Learn how to perform one and repeat every month.
2. Some women's breasts are naturally more lumpy or fibrous. Avoiding caffeine may make them less so.
3. Women who have a family history of breast cancer, have never had children, who started menstruating early, or who take hormone replacement therapy or oral contraceptives are at a higher risk.
4. Breast feeding reduces your risk.
5. A 3-D scan can significantly reduce the possibility of having to come back for a second scan due to discrepancies in the scan. There may be an extra cost of $75 or more that your insurance won't cover, but according to a mammography tech I know "it's so worth it." She reports that their call-back rates for second scans have been reduced by at least 30%.
6. As with any cancer, your risk lowers if you are not obese and eat a healthy, low-fat diet.

If you have been putting off this particular test and you are 40 or over or have a risk factor for breast cancer - GO GET IT DONE! It is not a big deal. Early screening can save your life when it comes to this type of cancer. You have a lot of living to do, girl - don't let fear, embarrassment, or nerves get in your way. You can search for free or low-cost screenings in your area here.

Remember, it only takes about ten minutes and the pain is very minimal. Your life, your health, your family, and your future goals and dreams are worth it!!


*I was not compensated in any way for this post. I just care about you! <3

Merry Christmas 2013

 

 

Merry Christmas from our family to yours! We hope this day finds you warm, safe, happy, and loved. We wish you blessings for a healthy 2014. Thank you to all of my loyal readers. You touch my heart with your comments. See you soon!

xoxo

It's the Most Depressing Time of the Year

It's no big secret that holidays depress me since my sweet Joey's death. I want to love them and get all involved with decorating and shopping and celebrating, but it's so hard. I just feel like such an important piece of the celebration is missing.

An important piece of my heart and soul that I lost with Joey.

But, as my mother has reminded me, I have other children and a husband for whom I need to make things special.

I know, I do, and I try to find joy in the memories we've made as well as relishing in the new experiences with my sons.

Read more about how I am attempting to Bring Back the Joy in the Holidays in an original piece on the Huffington Post.

I'll likely be pretty quiet the next couple weeks as I gather with family and spend time with the boys who will be home on their school break. Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and the most wonderful wishes for a fabulous New Year.

xo, dear friends.

Grief Stories~Sundays with Leonard

Today's grief story is that of a different kind. My sweet friend Anna from Random Handprints is sharing a story of a special friendship started to benefit the other person, which ended up having a lasting impact on her. She's sharing her story with us in the hopes that she inspires another friendship. Even though it's a grief story, it warms my heart.

When I was in my late twenties, I lived in Boston and spent my Sundays with Leonard.

 

Leonard was 80, lived alone, and except for Meals on Wheels and the visits from the home health aides, his social interaction consisted of: me.

 

I was a single woman - or as Leonard called me, "a career gal" which was really his way of saying "almost thirty and still not married."

I met Leonard through our local Friendly Visitors program, which paired volunteers with elderly folks who could use, well, a friendly visitor. The program mandated a visit of at least one hour, once a week. Being as I was a "career gal," I worked Monday to Friday and Leonard was an observant Jew, ruling Saturday out, leaving Sunday as our visiting day.

Sunday mornings I would give Leonard a call to let him know I was on my way, to see if I could stop for anything at the store, and then I'd grab "The T" from Boston out to Brookline making my way out to Leonard's apartment by around 11am. We would chat, I would help with a few small things around his apartment, and generally make sure he saw someone once a week, even if it was just for an hour, between 11 and 12.

I had been warned by the case manager when I first signed-up to for the Friendly Visitor program that sometimes the elders you were visiting wouldn't let you leave. But not Leonard. The second I said it was time for me to go he'd extort me to "Get outta the antique shop! Go! Go!" Some Sundays I would cancel, apologetically, and he would always reply, "What? You should be sorry for being young and having fun with your friends? Good-bye! Enjoy yourself! I'll still be here next week!"

After a few months of visiting, my Sunday stays got longer. Leonard, who was in poor health, could only walk with a cane, and with difficulty. At first, he would greet me at the apartment door and then retire immediately to the sofa. But in time, he began to take a walk to the bench outside his building and to wait for my arrival there. Eventually, he invited me to take a walk into town and that became part of our Sunday schedule. And in time, we even added lunch out together.

When the weather turned cold, we started watching old movies together - him for the second time, me for the first. Leonard would share where he'd been when he saw the flick the initial time around, and how it only cost twenty-five cents. I marveled that anyone could be - quite frankly - so old. His stories from his youth couldn't be more different than the ones from my own.

After about two years of enjoyable but perfectly uneventful Sunday visits, I lost my job. This was of course a crushing blow to me, but also to Leonard who was able to console himself with the fact I was single and approaching 30 by always referring to me as one of those "career gals."

Out of work, and with no prospects of work, I began going to visit Leonard two or three times a week, often staying the entire day. In the beginning my visits were strictly -- of course -- for the good of Leonard. If I wasn't working the least I could do was make myself useful around Leonard's place. Closets were organized and junk drawers were sorted. My newly found abundance of free time was being used wisely!

However, as anyone who has ever been unemployed can relate to, slowly but surely my peppy attitude began to diminish. After a few months, my jobless self showing-up at Leonard's place all the time had clearly become more about me and less about him. Gone were the cute career girl outfits I'd always put on to show the importance I placed on my visits to him. I started arriving disheveled, sometimes wearing gym clothes and sneakers (and not because I was coming over straight from the gym).

Instead of staying for an hour, I would stay a good part of the day, watching old movies and eating kosher Chinese food with a now 82-year-old man. While I'm sure he enjoyed my practically now constant company, Leonard began to take more and more of an interest in my future career prospects. He would clip job openings for me, call his friends, and friends of friends, asking around if anyone might be hiring, or might know someone who might be hiring a "really great career gal. You should see what she can do with the computer!"

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me then, or now, reflecting back on it these 15+ years later. Somehow our friendly visitor roles had gotten terribly reversed.

 

Eventually, in time, I got a new job. And around the same time, a new boyfriend - a nice Jewish boy at that. He was even a lawyer! Leonard was overjoyed for me. Everything he had ever wanted for me was happening.

With the new job, and the new boyfriend, back came the cute outfits and the visits on Sundays, from 11 to 12. And not too soon after, the nice Jewish boy and I got married and moved out of Boston and to Manhattan.

For a while, I made visits back to Boston to visit Leonard a priority, but as I was still a career girl, and now a married career girl, the visits got spaced farther and farther apart. I wrote and called Leonard, but of course that's hardly the same thing. The one visit I did make sure happened was to bring our newborn baby, Molly, to meet him, her honorary Zadie, grandfather in Yiddish.

Shortly after that visit I received the heartbreaking news that Leonard had died. He was 85. It is impossible to put into words the sudden and shocking sadness I felt, and how long it lingered. Even today I still miss so much about him, both his kindness and his sense of humor. He was an interesting man to put it mildly, and it is one of the true honors of my life that I got to know him and his stories, and that he shared his hard-earned wisdom with me. 

 

A year after Leonard's passing our second baby was born, and there was no doubt that her Hebrew name would be an "L" for Leonard.

May his memory be for a blessing.

Being a Friendly Visitor was one of the greatest volunteer experiences in my life. I highly recommend finding a program in your area to make a difference in the life of an elder, as well as in your own.

Anna is a contributor to New Jersey Family magazine, Barista Kids, Wonders of Westfield, In the Powder Room and The Huffington Post. You can connect with her on her blog, RandomHandprints.com, on Twitter at @Anna_Sandler and on Facebook at /RandomHandprints and /InstructionsformyHusband.

 

 

Spots and Stains and Childhood Memories

The other day, Hubby and I were looking at the furniture in our "nice" living room. The couch has what looks like a pee stain on it, the white leather chair (yes, I said white leather and I have four boys and yes I am an idiot) has a blue ink stain on it, and the coffee table is all scratched up.

The furniture in our family room fares no better - saggy chairs and couches, lumpy pillows, and an ottoman with so many milk stains and food caught in its cracks that I have stopped trying to get it out anymore.

Dents in the walls and missing towel racks in the bathrooms and holes where they ought to be. The black mark on the kitchen wall that will not come off no matter how hard I scrub it (seriously, what IS that anyway??).

Hubby's mother, who raised five girls and three boys is famous for saying, "Yes, boys are hard on your furniture, but girls are hard on your nerves. You can always buy new furniture." The rest was left implied, and I often remind myself of it when I find myself longing for a daughter.

A couple weeks ago when I went to pick up two-year-old Edgie from preschool, he ran excitedly up to me with a paper sack on which he had stamped snowflakes and painted a beautiful blue color. He pressed it against the front of my white coat. (Yes, I know, white again! My sister-in-law, who is dainty and girly, talked me into it.) When I got home, I realized the paint had left a huge, sticky, blue mark on my coat. Try as I might, nothing has budged that stain.

It's smaller now, all but a speck of blue, but it glares out to me. Maybe no one else will notice it. But every time I put on that white coat, I will see that blue stain.

I will see that blue stain and remember how Edgie cried the first few weeks of preschool and how it broke my heart so much that I cried pulling out of the parking lot.

I will remember how one day he finally fought back tears, and when I went to pick him up he proudly said, "I not cry, Mommy!"

I will remember how I thought the best feeling in the world was my two-year-old running into my arms after three hours of being away from me. I will remember how those three hours made me a better mom in the long run.

That blue stain will remind me of a lot of things, just like the big hole in the bathroom wall reminds me that I have a house full of boys who are more aggressive than gentle. And how great that is when it comes to telling you their feelings.

I will see the scratches on the coffee table and I will remember how they played intensely, imaginatively, and how much I loved watching them create.

I will see the nicks on the legs of the table and I will remember exactly the day that Joey put those dents there - literally a week after we got the table. It is proof that he was here.

I look around at all the things that my sons have been hard on, and I see them as just that - things - but also so much more. They are vessels that hold memories, places, and times. They tell the stories of the boys who lived with us.

Why in the world would I ever want new furniture?

 

 

 

A Thought About Gift Giving

In the Christmas classic How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the Grinch learns that Christmas isn't just about the gifts. After stealing all the Whos' gifts, he says, "It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes, or bags." And he slowly begins to realize that "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...means a little bit more."

I know everyone gets caught up in finding just the perfect gift to give during the holidays. When I was a teacher, teaching in a low to middle income school, I didn't get many gifts in comparison to the armloads of gifts that my sons' teachers receive. Over the years, though, I realized that the best gifts truly are the ones that come from the heart.

And it all started with a little girl named Sara.

image from Mamalode.com

 

 

Head on over to Mamalode to read They Gave Me Everything and tell me what you think the best gifts are.

 

 

 

 



Around the Pond with the Frog~Weeks Ending 12/8/13

December is here! As Lucy said in A Charlie Brown Christmas, "Santa Claus and ho-ho-ho, and mistletoe and presents to pretty girls."

Blah is how I have come to feel about it, and I hate that I feel this way. I love Christmas time - the lights, the music. I just don't like the constant "I wants" from my boys. I fear disappointing people. I fear forgetting the traditions we've done in the past. 

And, of course, I miss Joey. 

It's hard. I haven't written much. But here's what has been happening "around the pond":

 

• I made a list of my favorite Christmas books for kids and adults. 
• I hosted Emily of Oh Boy Mom and her grief story of a cancer diagnosis coming on the heels of a loss. 
• I was at Mamalode letting moms know that crying and being strong are not mutually exclusive. 

There are so many great Christmas posts going around right now. It's tough to choose just a few that I loved:

• This story of a tree by Amy of Funny is Family.
• A Christmas realization from the always wise Bethany of Bad Parenting Moments on In the Powder Room.
• How about an Elf on the Shelf for Mommy? Kerry of House Talk'n explains In the Powder Room (again, I know, but I love that site!).
• This beautiful piece on Mamalode by Andrea of Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess about the perfection of Christmas.

Hey, if you love Mamalode as much as I do (and not just because they pay me), did you know that you can download their "Greatest Hits" from iTunes? It has all the issues of their print magazine - lovely photography, deep poetry, and beautiful writing - all in one place. And it's listed for only .99 cents right now. See how pretty it looks on my iPad? Get a copy - you'll be inspired.

 

And finally, did you know that Elf Shaming is back? If you have a naughty elf, send it in and make us laugh.

Grief Stories~One Loss; One Diagnosis - Double the Grief

Sometimes it seems as if 'when it rains, it pours.' This was the case with Emily of Oh Boy Mom. After going through one devastating loss, she was shocked with another terrifying diagnosis. Just when she thought it was more than she could take, she realized she was receiving strength from a special person.

After almost a three-year battle with pancreatic cancer, my mother passed away right after her 75^th birthday on April 29^th. Although I knew she was fighting an incurable disease, I never expected her to succumb to chemotherapy toxicity, rather than the cancer itself. She had been in the hospital for almost six weeks and each day I was by her side. On the one day off I took, my brother called my cell phone with the dismal report: I think she’s nearing the end. My throat tightened and went dry. I raced into the city and the three of us sat vigil until her heart and lungs eventually gave out.

What I discovered soon after my mother’s death was that my grief was pure and un-complicated. I felt blessed to have had such an amazing role model and nurturing parent. I was able to cope and move on with my life. I missed her, but I was doing okay.

Until I experienced another knee-buckling phone call, with news that no parent should ever hear.

A mere two months after my mother’s death, my nine-year-old son was diagnosed with a rare, cancerous tumor in his bladder. Needless to say, our entire world was flipped upside down, as we quickly learned that our son would have to endure 46 weeks of chemotherapy in conjunction with radiation, surgery, or both. I was terrified of chemotherapy, not just because it meant cancer, but also because it contributed to my mother’s death.

I lost seven pounds in three days. I wasn’t sleeping. And yet, I managed to initially hold myself together, probably due to a combination of shock and adrenaline. It wasn’t until I was on the phone with my sister-in-law taking a break outside the hospital when I broke down.

“How am I supposed to go through this without my mom?” I wailed, making sure to be heard over the blaring New York City noise.

I had no idea how I would function without my mother - my biggest supporter - by my side. As it turned out, my husband felt the same way.

“We need your mom”, he said to me one night.

I looked at him, nodded, and then I cried.

 

My husband and I had each other to lean on of course, but we both felt very alone with this challenge. His family was not local and neither was mine, except for my dad, who was still mourning and vulnerable from losing his wife of 52 years. My dad was a huge help to us from a medical standpoint, but emotionally, he was still managing his own grief. I had a cousin and aunt in the area that continually offered to help us, but I knew they couldn’t replace my mom. I worried that their support would make me feel worse. I avoided their calls and sent emails to them that we were okay, even though we weren’t.

 

The friends that I had made in our wonderful community over the past decade immediately swooped in and rescued my husband and me, throwing us a life preserver before we drowned in helpless sorrow and worry. They brought us meals, gifts for my son, and anything else they thought would help sustain us. Naturally, my instinct was to call up my mom and tell her about the beautiful acts of kindness that were surrounding our family each day.

 

When news of our crisis first filtered out, I had one friend who said to me, “I don’t know why, but I think you’re being tested.”

 

I agreed with her, even though I searched for another reason why this was happening to our family so soon after losing my mom.

 

Was this God’s way of distracting me from my grief about my mother? I wasn’t a very religious person and neither was my mother. I could imagine her response to that theory: “oh please, that’s horse crap.”

 

I never considered myself to be a strong person. I was overly sensitive for sure, with feelings that could easily be hurt if someone spoke harshly to me or looked at me with disdain. I did not have the resilience for this. At all.

 

I suppose the upside is that I didn’t have time to think about my strength and capability too much. I had to act, not react. The early days of arranging my son’s medical care were a blur of tests, appointments, research, procedures, and finally starting treatment. Every mother wants to protect her child and in the face of a scary illness, you don’t want to reveal your own fear. I smiled, made jokes, and did everything possible to make our hospital visits into adventurous episodes, rather than a frightening ordeal. Most of the time, it worked. Sometimes, my son needed me to lay in bed with him and hug him. I realized I needed the cuddling just as much. But, other times, when his care was going smoothly and almost becoming routine, I’d crack jokes, be silly, and try to make his treatments “fun.”

 

And then it dawned on me: That’s what my mom did with me during her illness.

 

It all made a little bit of sense now. My mom was preparing me to be a courageous mother for my son, just as she had been for me. I know she’s proud of me now and every day I feel her smiling her trademark crooked smile, as my son and I walk hand in hand into the hospital, laughing and joking all the way there and back.

Emily is a writer and blogger at Oh Boy Mom. She is a mom to three boys,(ages 10, 13, and 16) and one girl dog. Emily is also an iced tea junkie and a tennis-playing fanatic whose game never improves. You can connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.