Mammy

Today I experienced my first Mammogram. I think of it as a Rite of Passage day in my life. Sweet 16. Right to vote at 18. Beverages at 21. Lower insurance and rent a car at 25. At 40...mammogram! You know…all the big days! I am exhausted due to lack of sleep last night. Too much wine and I don’t sleep well. My brain won’t turn off and I don’t sleep well. The two of them together. Not good.

On my way I am struck by the notion that one of the things I was perseverating on all night long was not forgetting coffee in the morning. It would be such a night ride to my first mammogram with a Cup of Joe in hand with French Vanilla Creamer. I forgot to even make the coffee. Lovely.

When I get to the office, the check in lady seems a little off. She is on the phone and then is off and says she will be with me in just a minute; she is in the middle of something she must finish. I am totally cool with that. What person doesn’t have that and the gal is perfectly polite about it. Then she gets up and leaves. Another gal sticks her head around the counter and says, “Did she help you?” “Nope.” I am quickly ushered over to the check in area and within a minute, I am all set. Profuse apologies ensue about not getting to me quicker. I am kind of humored, because quite frankly, I am just fine.

Quickly, my name is called and I am led into a room that distinctly reminds me of a spa waiting room. Lockers for personals, a pretty pink and white robe to go on top. Then a delightful light turquoise room with a beautiful couch and chairs and nice foot rests. I notice the sign that reminds us ladies that women come to the Breast Center for all types of tests, so if someone who comes to the waiting room after you, gets called first, it is okay. No one will be left behind. I figure that is the polite way to say, “Hold your britches and wait your turn.” So I sit and wait.

After a bit, a technician comes into the room and says my name. Both myself and the only other woman in the room answer:

“I am Melinda, are you Melinda too?”

“I am, are you?”

“I am.”

We give the gal both our last names and she takes back the other Melinda after we do proper introductions. What are the chances? So funny. Life is like that, gives you a little humor when you need it.

The room then begins to fill up and other women are called back, before me. I, of course, don’t even let it phase me, because I read the sign and it says not to worry. So, of course, I don’t worry. By chance, the woman who checked me in comes in and looks at me.

“You haven’t been called back yet?”

“Nope.”

“Let me look into that.”

All of a sudden she comes out and apologizes profusely again. My tech then comes to get me and explains that the computer system is having troubles today and I didn’t go through. No biggie, I am not in a hurry and all is good. But no, the poor mammographer is just beside herself that I had to wait. She tries to put me in the computer, but I won’t go, so she just says let’s do the exam and worry about the paper work later. Okay, I am cool with that too.

Having another person touch my breasts is a little weird. Okay, a lot weird. The tech is gentle and acts like those suckers will break if she moves them too much. I am just thinking that this is a little undignified of a test. I am bothered by it more than my pap. I find it is uncomfortable, but doesn’t really hurt. It is quick, but again, weird. I get the spiel about if I get a call back it is not a big deal and does not necessarily mean cancer. They just want to look a little closer that is all. Whatever lady, if you call me back in, I will be freaked. You have been forewarned.

The funny thing is that I am not worried about the mammogram or the impending results. I don’t really worry that they computers are down and I had to wait. I am over my weirdness about having someone touch, but not fondle my breast. More than ANYTHING else about this could be life-altering test of prevention…I didn’t get to put on deodorant and lotion. I am totally obsessing about it. My hands look like a lizard. I need a mani. Do I smell? Yeah, life altering, Rite of Passage I tell ya.

Of Construction and Lizards or The Things we Endure for Family

Lately, I had been feeling lonely for the Spokanites. As I chose to go to Kansas for Mid-Winter Break, I hadn’t been there since my 40^th birthday and there was a 7week old nephew calling my name…”Auntie Mel, come see me!” So we planned to go on Monday of Spring Break. As Sunday rolled around and Rachel’s cough was just subsiding and the Boy’s game got cancelled due to the infernal, horrid weather of April in Seattle; we packed up early and went on our merry way to Spokane.

About an hour from town, my sister in law text we could stay at her house because of the construction zone. Hmmm…I knew my parents had work done on the house, and I knew it involved bathrooms, but I truly thought they were put back together and things were finished or nearly so. Should have known. Home projects are not my Mom & Dad’s forte’. At. All. In fact, they have started them more than several times in my life and many have been left unfinished. This time it was supposed to be different. They had hired out and the projects were to be completed. Until the money ran out, that is. Then they were having a brother finish it…don’t know what happened there. The long and short of it is, I walked into a home that not only had one working toilet, but no working bathroom sinks. In fact, the main floor bathroom was empty. Yes, empty. It gets better. When the construction began, the idea was to bring the laundry upstairs and put in a shower/bath/apartment of some kind in the downstairs. Well the washer and dryer did come up and the shower did go down. So now the only shower in the house is in the basement that is so filthy that you have to wear shoes of some sort down to it in order not to get dirty coming up. You have got to be kidding me! Nope, I am not. Those are the construction zones. Then there is the rest of the house. The kitchen is usable and you can sit in the living room. That is about all the usable space available. You cannot sit at the kitchen table-it is PILED with boxes of who knows what, because I was too upset to even look.

Needless to say due to my lovely cynical inferences, my mother’s house has been a l-o-n-g standing javelin in my side. It looks like a museum-or maybe more like an antique shop that has no prices, because NOTHING is for sale. Several years ago, my mom asked me to help her clean out and organize her home. I asked if we could throw things away or donate? Upon her answer, I declined helping her. It was just too much and I knew with my feelings it wouldn’t be pretty. More like WWIII and our already shaky relationship probably couldn’t handle it. I try VERY hard not to be judgmental and to rather be very graceful and polite about the house. I used to go and clean, clean, clean, pickup, pickup, pickup-but I just wanted to cry. Total and utter frustration. Unfortunately now, I just tear up and have decided I am not enabling their behaviors anymore. Mom starts something, doesn’t finish, wants dad to finish-it is his duty to their marriage and she moves on to something else. Dad never signed up for the project in the first place and is now passive aggressive about the expectation of help. It is the vicious cycle which is my parent’s relationship. It has driven them for over 30 years, I don’t expect it will stop soon. Sometimes, it then becomes my brothers’ issues and they will help. I feel badly for them, because they live there and I think they feel maybe not obligated, but something. One day when we are there, my mom turns to me and says, “You want to paint my bathroom?” First, I am on vacation. Second, I have my own home I take care of on my own. Third, no enabling. That really should be first, huh? Last, if you have read about or know about the week of my wedding…yeah, not ever painting for Mom again.

Another thing we do when I we are in Spokane is visit a reptile store my son has found online. He has always had a great love of animals and right now he is into Crested Geckos. I like them, they are easy to take care of and he is enthralled by them. So we go to the store only to find that the gal is out and ends up being 2 hours late. Sis and I end up at the Hobby Lobby with Mom, which isn’t as bad as I expected it would be. Because she is late, the owner gives my son a large discount on a yearling Crestie. He doesn’t have enough money and my dad ponies up. Great…now we get to take a gecko on a car ride across the state. Here is where the rest of the story begins.

We pick up my son’s new lizard on the way out of town. The woman is very helpful and makes a habitat box for us to transport the currently nameless gecko. All is well and our trek back to Seattle assumes. At our first rest stop, Sis and I need to make a pit stop. As we come out of the rest room and back to the car, I notice my 13 year old, ultra-confident son in the back seat from the front with a panic on his face. It doesn’t even dawn on me what is about to occur. “Mom, he got out. Since it was quiet in the car I went to pet him and he jumped, and now he is under your seat.” You are kidding, right? No, not kidding. We look under the seats, we move luggage to look in the car, we look under the other seat, we look everywhere. Then we spy the little bugger by the gas petal. Mind you it 41 degrees and snaining (snow/rain) outside and I am half in and half out of my car, my butt hanging out for anyone to see. Good thing I had on my “best butt” jeans…right? I finagle my body into a contortion where I should be able to reach the little bugger and I do. Right on the frickin’ tail. Do you know what happens to a reptile tail when the animal feels threatened? Let me be the one to inform you…they let it drop. It is their evolutionary defense mechanism. By the way, when they drop their tail, it isn’t done…it writhes and wriggles and moves like a worm-for a LONG time. I am horrified and mesmerized all at once, and then I remember the gecko and I realized it has scampered into the console of the car. Yes, the console. No way? Yes, way…

What do we do? We crawl under with a flashlight and look for it for 30 minutes. I take apart as much of the console as I can to see if we can find it. We can’t. Sis is almost in hysteria in the back not wanting it to get hurt. I am being a good supportive mom and reassure her. The Boy is feeling guilty and apologizing and I am apologizing to him about the tail. In most varieties of geckos, the tail will grow back…not in Cresties though, just my luck. Finally, I make the decision that we are leaving. Either the animal will live and come out or it will die. Either way, sitting there is not going to help. So with my crying daughter and my concerned son, we continue. I do inform the kids that this could have a really good ending or a really bad one, so be prepared for either. They know and say okay. I begin praying that the gecko comes out, “Please Jesus let the gecko, come out, PLEASE!!!!” The realist also starts kicking in. “What happens if it doesn’t?” If it dies in there, my car will stink, if it is in there alive we gotta get it out! I decided if we get to Moses Lake and he hasn’t shown up, we go to the nearest Chevy dealership and see what they can do. All I am thinking is the $100 gecko is discounted and purchased for $65. Now how much will he be if they charge me to take apart me car? I just got out of debt…apparently, I may go back in. About 10 minutes east of Moses Lake, the boy yells, “There he is, I see his nose, pull over Mom!” And there, pointed like the A-framed roof of a house is the nose of this Dalmatian, Harlequin Crestie. I about shout, “Halleluiah Jesus!” I find a pen and touch the reptile; he once again scampers, but this time to the boy’s side of the car by his feet. I grab a sweatshirt and throw it over the animal; slowly I pick it up and back into its travel habitat it goes. It feels like the platform of bricks is lifted off my chest. The Boy holds on to that box for the rest of the way home with a vise like grip. He is grateful, I am thankful. Our second Crestie becomes Houdini.