In the waiting room at the breast center, called back for a suspicious finding.
It’s been three years since my last call back – but it isn’t any easier.
Tinned 70’s music is playing out of the ceiling. The clay colored decor is broken up only by magenta half gowns on a table, and a five foot tall Christmas tree, decorated in sparkly pink and gold ornaments, and topped with a bow to match.
I’ve had my screening mammogram, and I’m back to repeat.
I know the next words coming will bring exceeding relief, or fear. Maybe even terror.
Working as an RN, I know so many stories. I’ve seen them, from the best case scenarios to the worst.
I just want to have an “everything is okay, thanks for coming back”.
I wait. Play sudoku. My phone is on “do not disturb”.
I’m disturbed.
I’m escorted back for a more intense mammogram. I hope this will be the test that reveals I’m fine.
It’s not.
The tech comes out and tells me in a hushed voice that the radiologist “wants to see an ultrasound”.
My heart is racing.
I update my people.
I’m called back for the ultrasound.
I’m trying not to read too much into the sonographer’s mannerisms. She’s nice – but not too nice. Kind, but is it in a pitying way?
I lay on the sheet draped table, my feet and ankles awkwardly hanging over the end. I bend my knees and draw them in.
I close my eyes and sing a hymn in my mind. I don’t dare look, because I know too much…and I don’t know enough.
I’m asked to put my arm over my head, and I’m a ballerina again, reminded of my childhood, and 14 years of ballet lessons. I imagine myself at the barre instead of here.
Anywhere but here.
She spends a lot more time taking pictures.
She’s scanning my sentinel node area.
Lord, let this please just be her bring thorough.
All the types of the C word I know are running through my mind.
Please, God, no.
She tells me to sit and cover myself back up.
This is the ultimate in agonizing waiting.
She’s at the computer, typing in data. I know my images are probably on the screen, and I refuse to look. I’m thinking of my favorite surgeon, and hoping I don’t have to call her soon.
The tech answers a call from the radiologist, who’s high, disembodied voice goes on and on, directing her.
I keep my eyes closed.
I tell her that it’s moments like this that I wish I wasn’t a nurse. We make small talk about my job, and then she lets it slip that “it’s 3mm so it’s hard to find just the right spot to image”.
Now I know.
Now I want it absolutely identified – so it can be eradicated
Another ultrasound. More pictures. I imagine myself floating.
Then the next call confirms what I already know – I’ve “bought myself a biopsy”.
We schedule it. She explains the outpatient needle biopsy procedure.
My husband is on his feet before I hit the waiting room. We embrace for a long time, then walk out, hand in hand
She was born in the South, raised in the South, and cooks Southern.
She’s cooked everything from scratch my whole life…with the exception of when my dad was on temporary duty in the military. Then it was pizza, hotdogs, and rarely, fast food!
Her crowning glory is Thanksgiving dinner! Her side dishes steal the show. Cornbread dressing made from scratch from dried bread and fresh corn bread,, white gravy with egg, fresh cranberry relish,snapped green beans cooked with fat back, and pumpkin pie. Alternately, we’d also have pecan pie, too.
For many years, she made very good sweet potatoes.
As soon as I could reach the stove, my mother started teaching me how to cook. Inevitably, I learned how to make the Southern treasured recipes that she passed down to me.
I’ve held fast and true to the methods and recipes that are ingrained in my soul, but not written down anywhere else.
A couple of decades ago, I decided to change the way I made the sweet potatoes.
Instead of cooking the sweet potatoes in a sauce, I started drizzling a sauce over the top of the sweet potatoes.
The sauce itself has changed and morphed into something really quite spectacular. So much so, my mother has stopped making sweet potatoes and I have taken over.
Every year I think I could do it a little bit better. This year, I browned the butter first.
I came home from a busy day working as an RN, and was turning on the oven to preheat even as I was putting away my nursing bag and taking off my shoes.
I grabbed the first thing a saw – a bunch of quickly deteriorating bananas. I methodically made 2 loaves of banana bread.
My husbands said we’ve got to eat dinner, why are you doing this now?
At the moment, I honestly didn’t have an answer that made sense. I said the bananas were overripe.
They’d be that way for hours. Another day, even.
I needed to comfort myself, though. Even though I knew I wasn’t going to eat but a small test slice, I was preparing this gift of sweet breads for my family and coworkers.
As I took a breath when the loaves went into the oven, I began to tell my husband about the call I had been on right before I got home.
Barb had a heart attack that morning.
In a panic, I had called her son – one of my oldest best friends – as soon as I got the word.
When I as 14, I met Barb – and she was an extra mother in my life for decades now.
Hysterically funny, she and I laughed and laughed over the years with her son.
As I grew into adulthood, she became even more important to me – she became a mentor, someone who gave me advice, and eventually someone to commiserate with about being a grandmother. She has quite literally walked with me from being a teenager to being a grandmother.
My frantic rush to bake yesterday was a coping mechanism.
I needed to make something and share it.
I didn’t realize how badly I was affected by the news until the loaves hit the oven.
As soon as they did, I was sobbing like a baby.
It never crossed my mind that I could lose her. We live on separate coasts and don’t talk as frequently, but I love her fiercely. She’s knit into the fabric of my life like very few people are.
As I smeared the tears over my face and sobbed out the story to my husband, it hit me that I was stress baking.
Banning the ability to go to her, I was baking for others.
As I write this, the report so far has been good.
In the mean time, I added a browned sugar glaze to the top of the loaves at 10pm last night.
I was on the beach, on one of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean.
We were there to relax under an umbrella, rising to snorkel, swimming lazily, gliding over rocks, coral, and the occasional sea turtle.
The tide proved to be strong this day. Despite wearing flippers on my feet, my arms and legs could not keep up with the force of the ocean.
Exhausted, I fought my way back to the shore, and flopped back down on my chair.
Not for long. It was hot, and I was restless.
Rising, I walked along the shoreline. Many people were looking for shells, but I spotted a cool green shadow among the pebbles that rolled with the tide.
Sea glass.
I picked it up, amazed to have found it for the first time in the wild.
As I ran my fingers over and over the surface, I was amazed at how smooth it was.
It had started whole.
Formerly trash, it had been smashed into countless small pieces, tumbled and formed by the sea, sand, and rocks.
It had been battered.
It had been cast aside.
Now, in the palm of my hand, it felt warm, soft, and comforting.
The clear, colored shards were now opaque and smooth, hiding the story that got them there.
There were many more outcasts littering the beach that day, and I took a few to remind me of this tropical beach.
The rough tide.
Most of all, to remind me of what happens when we let go and let what happens…happen.
Paul Reubens, known as Pee Wee Herman, died today.
This news came with a rush of sadness for me.
“Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” was his big cinematic hit, and it debuted in 1985. I never saw it in theaters.
I was a young mother of one, and by 1988, my first love was dead, and I was a struggling single mom.
A VHS copy of this movie was in my home, and my young son wore that movie out.
Every day, day after day, my toddler son watched this movie over and over, until both of us had most of the dialogue memorized.
He would act out his favorite scenes, with the timing in sync with the screen.
Every time the “Large Marge” scene came on, he would run and hide, terrified of the truck cab scene he knew was coming.
Over the years we would still answer each other with lines from the movie, or with the signature Pee Wee laugh. Even my dad would get involved in the shenanigans. It is woven in our family memories – happy, silly times.
I can see my son standing in front of the TV, acting, laughing, full of joy.
Today is a bittersweet day.
I think I’m going to see if I can find the movie on a streaming service and watch it today.
Every summer is hot, but this summer is one for the books.
It’s late afternoon and I let the dogs out – as I open the back porch door, I smell the Weber grill. Grease, propane, and the scent of memories of grilled food flood my nose. The grill is red, and it’s hot in the afternoon sun.
The heat index is triple digits.
The air is like a heavy blanket on my asthmatic lungs, smothering me. The tropical plants are drawn in or wilting, fresh from this morning’s watering. I’ll have to soak them down again if rain doesn’t come.
Big, luscious hibiscus blooms have turned into crisp, papery discs, ready to be pressed in books. “Ode To Summer.”
The dogs skirt the concrete, keeping their pads off a surface you can fry an egg on. No lingering to smell or sniffing around for squirrels.
They rush back into the house, and the a/c, and I thank God for its coolness. The slow, sultry breeze outside does nothing to comfort. It only carries the suffering in air form.
I peer out the window and see the high clouds in the blurry summer sky.
I’ve had a very active imagination for as long as I can remember.
The only girl in a military family, I had a continuous running series of stories that I would return to often, depending on where I was.
In high school this kicked into high gear, and I spent a lot of time writing my stories down. It was an amazing process for me – the stories would unfold even as I wrote them. I wouldn’t know how the story would end, until I finished.
I had a running story I brought to school a few pages at a time, and my friends would read it.
I also wrote a lot of poetry. I had a lot of feelings that were intense, and my observations came out through the poems I struggled with.
I won state and national writing awards. I’ve been published. It came and went so fast.
Fast forward a few decades.
I’m going to see one of my favorite writers tomorrow.
His columns inspire me, and his stories resonate.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Wife, Mama, and a writer.
It’s time to pull that writer off the back burner.
WriteRN Ramblings 
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