Empty nester, Family, Love, Parenting

What Do You Do?

You’d think by now at 57, I could shake it off, those little shreds of shame that still bubble up when I least expect it. We were at a small outdoor gathering and, chatting with a college student, I was doing my damnedest to answer that question you always get meeting new people:  “What do you do?” I’ve worked most of my life,  and even though I don’t have a job now that pays me money, anyone who knows me knows I always stay busy. Most of what I do is take care of things, of people, of pets. And increasingly most recently, of myself.

Our conversation moved into empty nesting, her mother in the same place, wondering what she’s going to do. We talked of the gaps within our generations, technology a big one. Her smile widened when she told the story of her dad who still types www.google.com on his computer when he wants to search something. I chuckled along with her, though wasn’t fond of poking fun of her dad whom I didn’t know, but for whom I felt compassion. While I don’t type out the word Google to search, I did admit to typing the letter g out of habit to begin a search. She laughed the biggest belly laugh, grinning, because we all should know that Google is the default search engine. Has been for years. You didn’t get the memo? This time I was the butt of the joke and the laughing continued far longer than was comfortable, and I was left to sit, smiling along, exposed, found out, in my imperfect nakedness. 

My younger son and IT consultant

I still go to Utilities and find the Bluetooth icon to turn it off and on. Same with Wifi or anything else I need to engage or disengage. My son keeps reminding me I can swipe up (or is it down?) and just yesterday watching me press the home button to ask Siri, “What’s the hourly forecast?”, he demonstrated how with this newest iPhone software update you can swipe left (or could be right) and find your hourly forecast perfectly displayed. All these saved steps. Where have I been? I’ve struggled feeling and being so behind the times with technology, but somehow I’ve gotten by with my go to limited cadre of tools and shortcuts. 

So here we are, another Mother’s Day is upon us, another sunny Sunday where we’ll serve up quiche and cards and mimosas to celebrate these tireless women, some of whom want nothing more on this day than a break. Someone else to do the laundry, weed the garden, respond to bickering children, walk the dog. The commercials and advertisements deceptively feature a beaming well-dressed woman surrounded by her loving family. They’re all getting along, attractive, enjoying delicious foods and fun times. 

My older son years ago who picked these from our yard

Today we celebrate those women who do that “hardest job they’ll ever love,” and I’ve been wondering what it is about this role I love most. Obviously, you get the kids, cute as buttons when they first appear wide eyed and downy soft. Memories of those early years linger — the soft lovely smell of baby powder, the sound of swishing diapers as your little ones first crawl and then toddle around the house. Those sweet baby doll dimples on your baby’s fingers, the small of their backs when they’re sitting up as you dress them, the startle reflex where in an instant their arms resemble orchestra conductors’, the little stars their five fingers make as they begin grasping things or reaching for you. The toys, strollers, bassinets and high chairs that fill your home, the cries, the baby giggles, ear infections and scraped knees. I could go on and on. But I’ll stop with this one, the sweetest memory of all: that they make you their world. You’re their Google, their everything, their portal to discovery. 

Always glad these two were two years apart

The sleepless nights, the endless school forms to complete, soccer practices, teacher conferences, dances, hurt feelings, missed homework, you’re privy to it all. Unlike a job where you might be limited to your role which may or may not interest you, here you can do it all if you want. Give yourself that promotion you’ve wanted, expand your role on a whim. So much you improvise because, necessity IS the mother of invention. Which preschool is best, when is dinner, what’s for dinner? The list goes on and you get to write the script, drawing on your own childhood on what to keep or bury, what you eat, where you vacation, what they wear. 

Soon enough they grow up and compare you to other moms and later discover all that you don’t know. So in so’s mother let’s them stay out later, why can’t we have (insert overly sweet juice brand, tv in your room, bigger car, better clothes). I did it too. There was Lisa in third grade whose mother packed her the most perfect lunches. Shaved ham piled high on gorgeous deli bread, a full bag of chips vs the little baggie with a short stack we got, and some gorgeous enormous cookie. Where is this deli they found? Our A&P didn’t have anything close. I rolled along with my peanut butter and bacon (actually REALLY good if you haven’t tried) or packaged slippery deli meat (I ate it often but OMG not today), uninspired American cheese on white bread (why the mayo, mom?). I’d of course come home and ask, “Why can’t we have shaved ham?” and go into detail about the glorious sandwich Lisa’s mom packs her. Or there was that girl in eighth grade who was super smart, beautiful and always perfectly dressed. One day she appeared with her pressed cords and Sperry topsiders (or were they docksiders? I never could catch up with the right ones). I felt lesser but I knew I’d be in hand-me-downs because it’s just what we did, so I didn’t whine about the topsiders. Actually, looking back on it I was content in my Tretorns.

On the soccer fields way back when

You give birth and, in that minute, you’ve transitioned to a mother. You think on your feet, show up, produce opinions, advice, meals, birthday celebrations, wardrobes, a home, your heart, all of you. We’re all doing our best, but let’s be honest, who really knows what they’re doing? That you’re there is a biggie. Your children run to you in the night when they’ve had a bad dream, or when dinner is ready or when they’ve finished artwork or aced a test they must show you. You’re always there. A fixture, a beacon, a friendly mountain they can climb. You’ve melded into the furniture – the bed, the couch, the kitchen sink. Your presence is felt all over and when they call out for you, you answer and if you can’t, you find someone else to. Whenever a child call’s out “mom” in a crowded room ,we all turn our heads to answer. Even now with grown children, I know I still do.

My mom, Susan, and Lad

There’s no manual on motherhood. My own mother died before I even married, so I didn’t get any advice from her. All these years moms have held their ground, stood firm by their choices amid the whines. Never once when I didn’t get the lunch I wanted did I think any less of my mom. Or think she didn’t love me as much as Lisa’s mom loved her. That love was just there. Always. I think of her often and today being Mother’s Day, especially today. She was always up. I don’t remember her showering or getting ready for the day because that was done hours before anyone woke. The engines had started – the coffee – Taster’s Choice stirred into a Corningware pot with a wooden spoon. Mathis Dairy milk splashed over the top. You see her face your whole life and never once consider that someday you might not anymore. But that day does come, and you’re left trying to repaint her image for your mind. It’s funny, the visage is cloudy but the feelings are still so clear.

So what is it you do? You don’t have to explain. You’re doing it every day. (please see video below) I remind myself we’re all works in progress, and we should loose the shame. Instead we ought to keep giving out our love, saving big doses for ourselves. Hats off to all of you “motherers” who came before, who are here now and who will be here in the future. And big love to you, mom. xoxoxo

Empty nester, Family, Love, Parenting

Bed, Bath & Beyond

On mornings when she drove carpool, sometimes my mother would let me know I had crumbs around my mouth. Before I could wipe them away, she’d already licked her own fingers like you would if collating papers, and gone about dabbing the corners of my mouth. I’d like to say this happened before picking up the other kids, but it was random and often we had an audience.

My carpool memories are of us crammed into my dad’s white 1969 Mustang convertible with burgundy interior. Not sure why she sometimes drove his three-speed manual steering drafty child carriage instead of her station wagon, but maybe our Ford Country Squire wasn’t the dependable family ride its faux wood siding conjured. The Mustang steering was so tight she’d ask for help from whomever was in front, my sister or me, and we’d lean in to move the stubborn wheel.

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Where did the time go?

We didn’t have any carpools with my kids but I do recall that moment when the ride to school changed, probably as early as third or maybe it was fourth grade, when the school drop off necessitated omitting any form of motherly affection. I still wanted to hug them goodbye and sometimes I’d look around and when the coast was clear, remind them no one was looking and we could get in a quick hug. It was a rushed hug, but a hug nonetheless. Of course, as years passed those drop off hugs all but disappeared.

We started biking to school and then my boys would walk themselves and later on, drive. I’m glad to have had the schools that we did, with great teachers, close by and with a wide variety of people. A slice of real life in an urban enough setting, but still with plenty of green spaces to roam. I’m still getting newsletters from our high school and occasionally I’ll scan them for details on the postponed graduation festivities, but mostly they’re full of the usual back-to-school information, complicated further by this pandemic, information now intended for other families. I wonder how long it will take me to voluntarily opt off this list. Or how many Augusts I will see school buses pass by and remember all these years. I’m swollen with gratitude and memories.

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Georgia Tech bound from an early age

This weekend my younger son leaves for college. I remember the first college drop off two years ago and its 13-hour drive. This younger son is moving just 10 miles away, yet the mental preparations feel the same. He seems relaxed and understandably ready to leave behind the drone of his mother’s voice and nonstop questions which land like a spray of bullets: Should we get two sets of sheets? Which of these comforters do you prefer? Will you take a look at these shower caddies? Certain he’s asking his own: Will she ever stop?

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Back to school Covid era

Last weekend we shopped Bed Bath and Beyond for dorm essentials. I hoped to get in and out quickly as pandemic shopping doesn’t afford the luxury of over-analyzing mattress toppers. Besides, he has no interest in a new comforter or towels and washcloths since, budget-minded like his dad, he’s decided to raid our linen closet instead. I remind myself I have boys and unlike my sister’s and my own college preparations, there will be no room theme or patterned comforter. It’s all business and boys’ nests need minimal fuss. I hope he’ll carry good memories in lieu of the current parental annoyances he and I assume most college-bound teens about to leave the nest seem to experience. It was a great shopping trip, the store wasn’t crowded, and we found it all. He’s excited to test out his coffee maker  and try out the mattress topper too, a simulation of life to come.

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Ready for move-in

I think sometimes you must take the lead your child gives you. If he needs a second set of sheets, he reminds me he can simply drive himself to Target. “Let go, woman,” I believe is the message. I’m trying. Really, I am. I joined his college’s parent Facebook group to share information with other freshman parents. One mom’s son is boarding a plane from Singapore and she’s expressing gratitude for other parents who’ve offered to be her son’s in case of emergency, his home away from home. Her vulnerability in letting her only child go is palpable and instantly I’m imagining my own. The wistfulness is coming and I feel it hovering just behind my eyelids.

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His buddy Bo especially will miss him.

After he leaves, I expect we’ll walk by his room and his brother’s and notice the picked over state of things – a lamp gone, pillows and clothes, also gone. Like my friend Carol, herself a mother of two college-aged boys, shared when I mentioned how shocking the empty room was two years ago when my first left: “The empty room is the worst. I do the same – going in there, afraid to vacuum up a single bit of DNA in case he needs to be reconstructed somehow…”

Evan, I want you to find your way and in many ways you have. These last few days together likely won’t be a celebration of family moments, but instead a rush to pack you up, even when I might instead want to hold you tight. Just when I’m feeling strong and mighty, I feel those tears waiting in the wings, asking, is it show time yet? Are you ready for us? Just as our children will, these tears also will come and go, and neither’s timing is something we can predict.

As different as my children are so are their college experiences. One moved six states away, and the other will move one county over. One walked New York City blocks to class and the other, at least in the beginning, will attend most classes online from his dorm’s XL twin bed. This pandemic finds the class of 2020 in an unusual situation. Face masks and hand sanitizer will become their closest companions, and finding a way to socialize while masked will hopefully in a few months become a distant memory. Please, vaccine, please come soon.

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Taking it all in during fall’s campus visits

I can’t wait for so much of it. That feeling of newness and excitement he’ll have as he navigates college life. The intensity of the classes on topics that intrigue him –goodbye French classes! – that pushes him out of his comfort zone and into better ways of thinking, new ways of connecting the dots. He will soak it all in and when I see him again, there will be stories to share.

I look back at life with both our boys and can’t help but smile. What a ride this has been and still is, for all of us! So much is still ahead. I hope when they look back in their own rearview mirrors, that their memories are even a fraction as sweet.

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breast cancer, Encouragement, Health, hope, Love

Kill ’em with kindness.

Last month I found my hands cupping my breasts, first the right and then the left. Hold on now, just so we’re clear, this is not one of those stories. This one’s different, but stay with me. They were unusually smooth, nothing like a few years ago, pre-menopause, when I used to do these self-exams, parsing through the mealy tissue with clockwise two finger circles. I have what’s termed “dense breasts” which I can only describe as the consistency of pea gravel you’d run through a Cuisinart, so turning over any potential bad stones always seemed next to impossible, so I stopped, but kept up my annual mammograms.

Over the years I’ve been religious with all my health checkups, occasionally even calling doctors early to remind them it’s time for me to come in. This year was no different, with a gyn annual visit in February that included a breast exam, and a mammogram in July. For that mammogram, I took my usual lucky seat next to the aquarium in the breast health center waiting room, and once called in, got it done. They called me back days later needing a “second look.” All you can think with a call back is holy shit. The days drag when you’re waiting for the MyChart “all clear” and the letter that follows which you’ll of course save in a file forever. Eventually I was cleared and declared “normal” and looked forward to another year’s stay of execution.

Fast forward to October when I was lying on my bed and for some reason decided to feel both sides thoroughly, almost marveling at their teardrop symmetry and softness, delicately balanced above my rib cage. All that pea gravel now gone after menopause, this texture was smooth. Except, wait? Is that something on my left side? Hmmm. More rotations, more checking the other side. Yep, this is a little something, and I’ll be getting that checked, yet felt fine about it since the July all clear.

I called my doctor the next day and got in several days later. As I sat in the examining room in my paper Flying Nun gown, not nearly as adorable and carefree as Sally Field, I couldn’t help but wonder, wtf? My doctor felt it too, and looked a little puzzled, but reassured me it’s probably nothing, recalling July’s normal results.

Next on the agenda was another mammogram, this time 3-D, followed by an ultrasound that same day. As I checked in, the woman in reception, excited about her bouquet of pink pens for the taking, reminded me that I can keep the pen. I was reluctant, but she extended the pen toward me anyway and smiled, waiting it out. My mind went to the Seinfeld episode when Jack insists to Jerry, “Take the pen!!” I took the pen and tossed it in my purse hoping it’s hot pink malignant ink wouldn’t leak everywhere.

I set off to change in their dressing room, passing the normal waiting area and on to a room deeper in the facility, with nicer snacks and cushier chairs, certainly not intending to, but definitely amping up my anxiety. I refused to enjoy an apple juice or the Milano cookies set out in this waiting area because I was a regular in the first room, and despite my assignment to this one, I wasn’t going to drink their Kool-Aid.

The radiologist viewing my ultrasound asked me if I’d experienced trauma to my left breast, or did I have diabetes? My research later revealed that both conditions can resemble a malignancy, and befuddled, I nodded no. Though I did fall in New York skating in Bryant Park a few years back and cowered off the ice to heal only to go back on in a half hour and do it again. Skaters don’t just keep going when a fifty something woman falls; instead there’s this unspoken “old lady down” alert and they rush over and help you up and off the rink so the skating can continue without the distraction. And then there was last year when I was walking my dog on a perfectly fine fall afternoon and tripped on an enormous acorn in my path. Down I went and off went the skin on my knees replaced with sticky bloody ovals on each knee cap, like a kid’s, but wrinkly.

The radiologist said her share of hmmm-s, and I’m concerned-s, and a biopsy was scheduled in a few days. The biopsy radiologist was comforting, imagine Faith Hill in a lab coat, with a velvety voice to match. She walked me through all the steps, numbing your breast, placing a hollow needle inside and pulling out a sample of the tissue for testing. She said I’d be hearing a clicking sound which reminded me of an ear piercing gun. After it was done, instead of sporting gold ball studs in each ear you’re sent home with a Steri-Strip on the incision.

It looks like I’m allergic to Steri-Strips, or maybe it was the Lydocaine, but the next day I developed a rash covering the entire breast and even down below my ribs. Nothing itchy or painful, but just weird and slightly worrisome. After an interminable day or three (at this point, honestly, it’s all a blur), I got the call. You can guess the news from your gyn’s voice because I’ll bet they all start out with “We got the results back on your biopsy and….”. I already know that front end of the sentence because isn’t that the reason she’s calling? Yet while somewhat extraneous, it affords a few seconds for you to gauge the tone of the news and predict what’s coming next. With each word, the tone became increasingly I’m sorry to have to tell you this.

After learning the news of what I’m dubbing my not benign situation while standing in a friend’s driveway, I returned home and a few hours later Faith Hill (remember, the pretty radiologist?) called me not realizing my gyn had already told me. We talked at length and her velvety calmness was the perfect salve. I asked her advice on loads of things and she said I should get a bilateral MRI (scanning both sides) and I asked if they’d automatically order it and she said yes, but after I met my surgeon. The next morning first thing, I was on the phone trying to schedule the MRI, and they said usually you meet with the surgeon first and then you schedule the MRI, but they thought they could do it this way instead. I was meeting my  surgeon the next week and certainly wasn’t going to wait all those days to see her only to wait more for the MRI, so I hounded them a bit, ok a lot, to go ahead and schedule it in advance so the doctor would have everything in hand when we met. I mentioned my radiologist suggested it, and my Faith Hill get the MRI card worked.  The not benigns were surely procreating inside me and needed to stop their shenanigans immediately.

A day or so later on a Friday afternoon I got a phone call from the hospital’s “patient navigator” who asked if she could help. I was in denial that I was on this pink papered path and I certainly didn’t need a navigator, which only further acknowledged the road before me. But she got me talking about my confusion with several MyChart biopsy results, about things like estrogen and progesterone receptors, and HER2, and labeling my not benign situation as invasive ductal. She explained there are some silver linings here. I am ER 100% positive which means that the pill I’ll end up having to take for five or ten years is uniquely suited to my situation. This little bugger feeds on estrogen and only estrogen, so we can starve its sorry ass (my words, not hers). The HER2 thing, which I don’t exactly understand yet, but which I learned is negative, she said is also good news. As we kept talking, I liked her voice more and more. I hadn’t told many people and certainly hadn’t broken down. But I did here. For probably another half hour I sobbed and talked and sobbed some more and she listened and sent love and courage over the phone. And that was everything. That same evening I had plans to go see a play with friends, but after this outburst couldn’t imagine myself ready to leave in 20 minutes, but I made it happen. I loved the play and the evening, but holding my secret inside was hard and unsettling.

The MRI was bizarre. You lie face down on a table that has two big cutouts which line up with your breasts which hang down as if someone below on a stool would be milking you. You are given a rubber oval thing to squeeze if you need anything (thank you, I’ll take a Shake Shake double cheeseburger, stat) as you are rolled into this machine, with earphones on, because it’s loud. They said it would sound like a construction site, but to me it sounded like a phone off the hook which nobody had bothered to put back on. You remember when phones came with wall plugs and curly cords? The MRI attendant seemed proud that Piedmont could now offer me Sirius for my listening pleasure. I choose classical piano which paired nicely with phone off the hook.

Fast forward to I don’t know how many days later, and my husband and I were at a breast center in front of my surgeon. (Btw, Georgia Tech’s McCamish Pavillion could be a fine place to house a breast center – do a drive by, look at its shape and nipple on top and see if you don’t agree.) I had heard of her and her solid reputation, and she struck me as beautiful in a pre-plastic surgery Janet Jackson in a lab coat sort of way. Her calmness worked well against my whatever you want to call it. She told me I was Stage 1 (or could be 2), and 1 cm in size, though the MRI shows it could be double that. Lots of potentially positive news followed by little doubts about whether it was as simple as it sounded. I pictured phone cords from all those off the hook phones tangled up in my breast, making finding this evil bugger hiding in a sea of breast density next to impossible. Still, teary eyed, I asked, “Is this eradicateable?” Surely that’s not a word, but after using it, I wasn’t going to admit to my degree in English, and instead just whimpered softly repeating the question. She gave me a bit of a “well, duh” look, followed by a “yes,” which calmed me down. She said my lymph nodes in both the ultrasound and the MRI looked small and unremarkable, which is what you want, and after surgery we’d determine my course for treatment. She added if my pathology report indicates these not benigns have a low risk for returning, I’ll only have to get radiation. High risk and they add to that the big guns, the cannons, the chemo. After all that, they put you on a pill for five or ten years, depending on pathology results. Piedmont is a badass.

With this diagnosis you get things. As if Elizabeth Warren herself designed this curriculum, there is a plan for everything. There is a nutritionist you can see, thanks to a grant, and I got in immediately. For now, and maybe indefinitely, I’m gonna be a clean eater, and for now, a non-drinker. All the beige colors have left my plate and it’s bold peppers, carrots, kale and fish for me. A little chicken and some nuts too, but no dairy. Almond and oat milk are vying for space in my fridge and that 2% cow’s milk is shoved in back. I’m determined to feed this troublemaker everything it hates, everything anti-inflammatory.  I’m certain I’ll have a slice of pizza or bowl of real (non chickpea) pasta now and then because, after all, food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. But I am eating well and it all tastes good. Before I went for a run the other day, while putting on my jog bra, I said to these fellas, the not benigns, “Buckle up! We’re going for a ride!” As I pounded the pavement, I pictured them shaking their heads asking wtf?, pissed off and running out of steam, as I filled my healthy lungs with air and pressed on. I’m loading up with all kinds of good ammo. I’m Will Ferrell, the elf, throwing snowballs at this unwelcome mass. Here! Take this! Splat goes a red pepper. Can’t swim in all that almond milk? Too bad, so sad!  Thanks to another grant, there is a counselor to see, giving me ten free sessions, which I’m scheduling weekly. I’ve already been to two and cried through the first and after the second, she said I seem much better. It’s helping. Thanks to another grant, there is genetic testing too, and they’ve drawn two vials of my blood to test some 75 genes. So now I wait for that news. Knowledge will be power.

It’s been a mixed bag (no pun intended) of good and bad, these last three and a half weeks.

THE BAD: I worried every day to get to this day, this lumpectomy. I had to make umpteen appointments and be poked and prodded for biopsies, inserting clips in my breast to guide the surgeon, and then more fun with the IV at surgery and of course, the scalpel. And then I had to worry some more. I had to start telling people, because how can you not?, which made me scared to see their faces often scrunched with concern, as if they saw my future and now felt sorry for me. I had to imagine a potentially sunburnt breast from radiation and wonder would it be permanent, or a bald head from chemo, and imagine what kind of hair would grow back. And what will this medicine do to me other than block estrogen from getting to this breast, the chosen snack of the not benigns. I worried my body has become a game of Whac-A-Mole, stamp out the pests in the breast, only to discover them popping up somewhere else. I worried about worrying my family, my children in particular.

THE GOOD: I caught this myself, it’s early and it’s small. It’s “eradicatable,” and it’s clear someone is watching over me, and for that, I am beyond grateful. My diet is squeaky clean, I am going to move more, and my body will be stronger for having gone through this. This is a wakeup call. A call for more calm and less worry, and I already feel it washing over my cells. I may have been opened up today in surgery, but I am forever opened to breathing in all the good I’m finding and exhaling it over my friends and family, and over strangers too. After I finished rattling off my many questions in the recovery room to my nurse who had remained with me well past what is normal, I got dressed and was about to draw the curtain to leave. I heard a voice through the adjacent curtain say, “I’m glad you asked all those questions. They helped me too. I’m over here next to you.” I said “hi” and opened my curtain to see who was next door. It was the lady who had been on the elevator with me this morning, also heading to pre-op, and I remembered our husbands next to us silently ruminating on what was ahead for their wives. She was lovely and about to be admitted to a room as she’d had a double mastectomy, saying goodbye to both breasts which I can only assume must have been overrun with not benigns. I took her hand and squeezed it, and told her she would do great. She smiled and her eyes sent me the same good wishes. My exit wheelchair was waiting, but I found it hard to leave her with our palpable connection, instantly filled with love and understanding. I leaned in and cupped my hand around her cheek and reminded her again that all will be ok. She will do well as will I, and that moment will surely stay with us both.

I will hear from pathology in a week or so and know more about additional treatment, but for now, the not benigns have left the building, I’ve got my family by my side and friends who are in touch. I couldn’t ask for more. But actually there is one thing I need: Ladies, feel yourselves up like clockwork every month. Learn how they feel, even if they’re pea gravel, so if they change you will know. Also, if you’re considered dense or even if you’re not, insist on a 3-D mammogram, even if your doctor whines that insurance might not cover it. Learn the cost and just do it, charge it if you have to. I didn’t know I needed to request this kind and I’m certain if I had, this would have been caught even earlier when it was even smaller. I’m lucky in so many ways to have good insurance, a strong body and the boundless perseverance that I do.

And lastly, be kind to yourself. Really kind. Because the not benigns hate that. And more importantly, because you, my dear, are worth it.

Postscript: I just learned my lymph nodes are completely clear and the margins around the mass they took are clean. All signs are that I’ll only need radiation but another test due back in two weeks will confirm. Suffice it to say, I am over the moon and thankful beyond measure.

 

Atlanta, Love

Cause for celebrating

IMG_4394We’re both ’63 babies growing up in Atlanta. He and I both recall riding south down Peachtree Street in the ’70s, rounding the corner at Brookwood Station and passing the TraveLodge sign on the left, the one with the bear in a stocking cap holding a candle, its shared “L” to a child reading Trave Lodge vs. the intended Travel Lodge. It was probably a Sunday morning that our respective cars would climb the hill toward Pershing Point, he, many Sundays bound for Sacred Heart in his family’s International Travelall, and me, every Sunday on my way to St. Luke’s in our wood-paneled Country Squire. We realized our paths likely crossed again in Athens in the ‘80s when we were both at Legion Field for an REM concert, arguably one of their best.

His favorite color is purple and mine is yellow. We’re opposites on the color wheel and in other ways, too. My chatty ENFP-ness interrupts his logical INTJ down time, pulling him out of his own head, nudging him to connect. I think we fill in each other, and after all these years, hopefully better understand the intricate mechanics of boundaries and balance and belonging. Or at least by now, we know what we don’t know, and want to know more.

Opposites attract yet do their share of repelling too. We finish each other’s sentences, exchange a knowing glance across a room, and tell funny stories from our braided outlooks, but we also bicker about stupid things, vying for control. We look out for each other, though. He maps out my routes without asking, and I issue egg alerts when dining at friends’ has him fork to mouth about to discover what’s lurking in his potato salad. And in loads of other ways, too. We run late or very occasionally arrive at our version of early, which most would regard as being on time.

He likes his bedsheets untucked, his feet kicking them loose, and I prefer cozy and tucked in — give me a crisp hospital corner, even better. I joke he’s a Belgian beer and IPA snob, and he pokes fun at my occasional cold Bud in a can, in honor of my dad, who he sometimes reminds me of. He lotions his feet at night and I do my hands. We share two houses, two kids, two cats and one dog, and endless logistics. We share a life that can be full and frustrating, fractured and fascinating. He’s the velvety Chianti to my sparkly Prosecco. He’s my then and my now. He’s my love, he’s my vow.  Cheers to October 1, and to our 25th anniversary.

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