Breast Biopsy...Not My Idea of a Good Time

Did the breast biopsy, and I can honestly say, I'd rather get a root canal. You saw the picture I posted in my last post. Torture chamber, yessiree. Laying on my stomach with my boob through a hole so they can xray it while they are probing it...lots of pulling and prodding. Under that table there was a world of busy going on, and I was powerless to stop it.

Initially, I only had pain from the prick of the needle which numbed the incision spot, about like the needleprick from your dentist for a root canal or cavity filling. But the position I was made to lay in on that damn table had my neck and back in spasms by halfway through it. This is no massage table, people. No hole for your head to hang in its natural position while your back and shoulders are massaged into bliss. Imagine laying on a chaise lounge on your stomach, sunbathing, but with your left arm above your head, and your head staying sharply to the right. For an hour. When I sunbathe, I move around alot. Not comfortable to keep one position on a flat surface. Apparently no one's told the mammogram/biopsy people this. I finally had to turn my head awkwardly to the left just to keep from screaming out with the cramp in my neck. This didn't help at all. Here comes a cramp beginning on the other side.

I had my iPod music going and tried to doze off but they were pulling me this way and that and machines were making noise and they were flashing xrays the whole time. When they got the tissue they needed, they went to look at the xrays again, and did a few more to be sure they had the right spot. They put in a titanium marker to denote the place for my next mammogram. That stays with me. Finally I was released from the vise and my incision was patched up. I was bleeding through the gauze but I was made to do another standing mammogram in the next room to be compare to my originals. More bleeding, on the machine, on the floor, on my robe. Surprisedly, I did not get sick at any of this. I should get a medal. Oh, guess I did...a titanium one.


This Stereotactic Biopsy/through-the-hole-in-the-table procedure was done because there was no obvious lump to sample, so they had to go in guided by the multiple xrays. When it was done, I was sent home with an icepack and more gauze to try to stop the bleeding. Only Tylenol for the pain. I wandered out of there in a daze. Such a weird experience.

The worst after-effect is my neck and back still aching from the odd position and a tender spot on my breast. My chiropractor did what he could for the neck and back. Ice has helped too. My only other post-procedure woe is waiting to hear from the doctor on the results. I'm sure that I'm not the most important thing on her docket, but hoping for today or tomorrow.

First Mammogram...Another Encounter with My Mortality

Next Tuesday I'm going back to my local hospital for a procedure. Two rounds of mammography in the last two weeks have shown tiny dots the radiologist is calling "calcifications" in my left breast.

This began with my first mammogram screening, which was advised after my annual woman's check-up in June. Now that I'm 40, this is what we do. Got a call back for more films, to check some things. I've been told by many people this is normal since they had no previous exams to compare to. No biggie. Last Monday I went back. The tech showed me on the previous film what they were looking to re-check. She did several more pictures, squeezing even tighter and more concentrated on the offending areas. The radiologist then came in and explained the left side showed some dots that aren't "textbook-looking" (as in obviously something to be worried about), but aren't what they'd write off as nothing, so they must, to be safe, do a biopsy to pull out the tissue and test it. So this is what I will be doing next Tuesday morning:

(from Bing Health)

Stereotactic biopsy This type of biopsy uses breast X-rays (mammograms) to pinpoint the location of suspicious areas within the breast. For this procedure, you generally lie facedown on a padded biopsy table with one of your breasts positioned in a hole in the table. You may need to remain in this position for 30 minutes to 1 hour. The table is raised several feet, and the radiologist performing the procedure sits below the table. Your breast is firmly compressed between two plates while mammograms are taken to show the radiologist the exact location of the area for biopsy. A small incision — about one-quarter-inch long (about 6 millimeters) — is made into your breast. A radiologist inserts either a needle or a vacuum-powered probe and removes several samples of tissue to ensure an adequate sample. The tissue sample is sent to a pathologist for analysis.





Yeesh, not fun. This picture looks like a torture device imposed on women in the 1700's when they were suspected of witchcraft. At this point in time, I will worry about getting through the procedure, and just resting in the aftermath. My gynocologist explained she will call me "in about a week" with the results. I fully expect to be in the 80% mentioned below:

"Being told that you should have a breast biopsy might make you anxious. But consider this reassuring fact: In the U.S., 80 percent of women who undergo a breast biopsy learn that they don't have cancer."

(from a good webpage on this: http://www.bing.com/health/article/mayo-127182/Breast-biopsy?q=breast+biopsy&FORM=FFF)

Hang in there with me friends, more to come...

Back to School for the Kids, Back to Crazytown for Mom

The dreaded end of summer. I love the new commericial for that Easy Button store, what is that Staples?, where the kids show the moms the back-to-school supply list, and the moms who are all busy (in the kitchen like, icing a cake- wtf?) all faint at the sight of it. That stupid school-supply list is such a pain in the ass, I do feel clammy when the stores start printing them and putting them out. Our tax dollars apparently go toward the school's teacher's lounge's widescreen TV and the fish tank in the school lobby, because it's not going toward pencils for the kids to write with.


Aside from gathering all this ridiculous stuff needed for the kids' first day of school (4 large glue sticks-- for each kid? What the hell are they gluing over the course of the next 9 months? 100,000 popsicle sticks to build their own lockers?), its time for new backpacks, tennis shoes, and blue jeans. Texas has a "tax-free" weekend, where sales tax is waived if you go out to the stores with the throngs of other idiots trying to save 8.25% on clothes that are marked up 20% higher than any other weekend of the year.

Blue jeans can wait. Seriously. It's 102 degrees in August and September and kids here do not need to wear blue jeans. As sweaty and dirty as they end up by the end of the school day, they should probably continue to wear their summer clothes until the holes in them are so large and the stains are so dark that they go straight into the rag pile.

Backpacks? Debatable. I have at least 3 perfectly capable backpacks that my girls have laying around with play stuff in them, and a few scuffs on the outside or bottom of them. But to send them to school with the same backpack as last year? Oh, the horror! Jansport has a great business going, advertising the fashion side of backpacks. You don't want to be caught dead with last year's styles. Chillgirl claimed she NEEDED one with two zippers. Not one zipper, Mom, two. I never got a clear answer on why this was necessary. I chalk it up to 2nd grader fashion-sense. Lil Lady was so thrilled with her new backpack choice, she walked around with it on, acting out how she'll say hi to her friends when she gets to her new middle school.

Speaking of middle school...My kid will be going to middle school this year. Lil Lady can't possibly be old enough for this. How did I let this happen? She's only 11! Oh wait, that's middle school-aged. Dammit. Her entering middle school causes anxiety for her mother. I try my best not to let it show, but I had many ups and downs during my "junior high" (as we used to call it) years. High school was bad too, but I'm avoiding those worries for 3 more years.

Middle school is when boys notice girls and stop being their friends and start "going with" them. When the boys are not going with the girls, they are being mean to the girls, popping bra-straps, starting rumors, calling them names. It's when girl start watching what they wear and what others are wearing. Brand names matter. Trends are the be-all and end-all of a girls' existence.

And then there are the Mean Girls. Oh yeah, boys are bad, but girls are worse in middle school. This is when cliques are solidified, lines are drawn, and lunch tables are discriminatory. I remember. One night you are at a slumber party having a grand ole time, and the next Monday at school you are a pariah who is being scorned for your pajama choices. I fought with girls in junior high. I mean fought, as in slapping-around scuffles. I don't even know who the heck I thought I was back then. I'm a mild-mannered middle-aged woman with a slight case of road-rage, and at worst passively-aggressively huffing or rolling my eyes in a slow-moving line at the grocery store. Back then, I was on the defense, hardened by too many stupid girl-on-girl rumors gone wild and losses of a BFF over a poorly-chosen outfit from an off-brand store. Lil Lady knows none of this. She is envisioning a continuation of 5th grade and I am praying that is exactly what we'll get. But with Facebook, text messaging and cell phone calls, I feel the rumor-mill will be rampant and the girl fights will continue on as they have for centuries.

So I'm off to yet another big-box store for the oh-so necessary Pocket-Folder-with-NO-Brads- two in red, two in blue and four Non-perforated Spirals, as my summer-restored sanity is slowly on the decline.

On the first day of school, my babies will be up with the sun and headed to their new little social circles and classrooms. Learning about life from their teachers, classmates, and cafeteria-worker ladies. Homework struggles, after-school activities, the TAKS test (don't get me started on that piece of trash) and parent-teacher conferences are in my near, and no-doubt insane future.

My own lessons in Eat, Pray, Love...

I've been mulling around a blog idea since I've had so much on my mind, but haven't been able to put anything into concrete thoughts or sentences. One major theme from all these musings that continues to pop up is I'm Growing Up.

I have been through teenagerhood, when I thought I knew everything. I went through my twenties, when I didn't know a whole lot of anything. I made it through my thirties, when I began to question everything.

Now I'm just barely into my 40's and I recognize the fact that I have learned from all those other eras, and that I could possibly be in the actual prime of my life.



I'm smarter now for my kids. I stay on top of their well-being and safety and mental roundness and general childhood experiences. I want them to remember these years as ones full of playing "school" or "store" with their friends and cousins, riding bikes with friends up and down our street, and challenging the neighborhood kids in a footrace. I think they will remember experiencing new things like snowskiing, Broadway shows, UT football games, and waterslide parks. They will look back and be happy and grateful I let them try to find where their talents lay, in dance, gymnastics, volleyball, music, acting or art. They have come through a divorce with bumps in the road, but an overall sense of peace knowing their parents each love them and we still are able to be friendly when they see us together. They can take pieces of each of these memories into their adult lives and tell people, "I had a good childhood".



I have learned in my career that I do not want to own a business but I want to be respected and asked for my opinions when a topic comes up on which I have years of experience to contribute. I would like to work for someone strong enough to make smart business decisions but not pompous enough that he or she cannot ask the trusted employees for help. I have learned I don't like to gush my appreciation for a good work environment or advancement in the company's ranks, but I will work hard to show my employer I am thankful for the fact that I don't hate to come into my job every day. I learned that I LOVE to travel on the company's dime. :)

Speaking of travel...I learned that I will continue to accept invitations to or plan excursions to any place in the country or world where I can see something I've never seen before. I don't even have to know much about where I'm going because by the time I leave I will know more. I want to see mountain ranges, and beaches, and ancient ruins, and beautiful stained-glass-filled churches-- any of the wonders of the world. On a smaller scale, I will plan to visit more sleepy towns I can walk around instead of drive, more islands with gorgeous sunsets and hard-working townspeople, and countrysides or farmlands with seasonal colors bursting from crops or trees I don't get to witness at home. And while I travel, I will eat...just about anything and everything.



I have learned I can be alone sometimes and I now appreciate these times. I have settled into ignoring the pull to jump on the phone or make plans to visit someone for every free moment. I can enjoy a solitary bikeride and gazing at the quiet scenery, or a long ride in the car with my favorite music blaring and the windows down, or the prayerful moments at church where I thank God for all His wisdom in bringing me so far to this place in my life. I can be at home straightening up or doing laundry and not even have the TV on, and listen to the silence, or I can take the dogs out with my headphones on, lost in thought, for a long walk. I actually take note of these instances because they were so rare in years before now, and I snuggle into them and feel at home.

And I have learned a few things about men. And a few things about my needs with men. I know all the "types" now and which are good for me and which are probably trouble. I don't feel comfortable with the overly-manicured metrosexual guy, but would like my man to own a suit and dress shoes. I need him to have an education and know something about the world or have an interesting take on it. I like a man who can talk to me, and not only by texting or email or Facebook. It seems to be rare to get a man to open his mouth and speak his mind. All the electronics today are giving men permission to turn more inward and not have much to say. I need a man to rebel against this urge.

I demand that a man at least attempt to open the door for me, even if I beat him to it. I don't need him to pay for me all the time, but he can try to reach for his wallet. I would like him to be active, and busy with his own activities but be interested in mine as well.

I have fear of a man who has not committed to a wife or children at our age as of yet. I have reasons for this, which anyone following me can refer back to, but I think I have been through all this damn growth because of my commitments and my failures of those commitments, and because of the love I have for my children. I have talked to men who have not been there yet, and I immediately get the sense that they just don't KNOW...and therefore, cannot know me. It may be shortsighted or prejudicial, but it is my experience, and that is all I have.

I am sure to have another 40 years or more to live. Wow, another lifetime. Just think of it, more decades of knowledge to revisit these current lessons and revise, edit, ignore, or laugh at them. I am happy for now, and I am looking to the future with a soothing serenity.

How TxCris Almost Bought the Farm, Thanks to a Carrot

Yesterday at work a terrifying thing happened. I nearly met my Maker for lunch.

I was in my office kitchen making my salad for lunch as usual, and chomping on a raw carrot while I chopped up my veggies.



As I finished my carrot, the last piece got lodged in my windpipe. It felt like it was in the front of my throat, like I could touch it through the skin at the base of my neck. Faaack...I could breathe but it was uncomfortable...and soon my throat and chest began cramp up, in painful little spasms. I sat there a minute gulping and waiting for it to move. So I'm thinking I should try to drink water to dislodge it. So I take a swig.

The water felt like it did not go down my throat, in fact, it plugged me up, as in like a trapdoor closed on my airway. Literally-- no air. So I got up, coughing, and tried to spit it out in the sink and by now I'm wheezing and gasping for breath. Breathing in was impossible, my eyes teared up. I'm pacing and in panic-mode now.

I went in the bathroom and tried to make myself vomit, but that didn't help, and still I was barely getting air through. I was figuring out that the throwing-up tube and the breathing tube are separate and just because when your stomach is churning and throwing up makes that better, it does nothing for a stuck carrot in the windpipe.

Next I try to bounce my stomach region on a chair in the breakroom, but it was too lightweight and moved without forcing any air. Its amazing how your mind starts groping for Oprah and Today Show episodes for procedures on choking. But then I kept thinking of those 20/20 stories of people who weren't so lucky and didn't make it when help was only a person or a phone call away. So I'm starting to think 911. Would they even make it to me before I blacked out? The nearest fire station is half a block away. Would any of the EMS dudes be hot? (just kidding on that last one, but I did think that later on) This was all going through my brain in nano-seconds.

My co-worker finally heard all the ruckus from the front of our office and called back "Are you ok?" and I managed to croak "No!".

She came walking back toward the breakroom, not sure if I was kidding, and I was pacing around gulping for air, and then I just backed into her and grabbed her arms to wrap around me and she instinctively gave me 3 squeezes. It didn't force the carrot out but the water came out and I spit and could breathe a little better. Thank the Lawd!

I still could feel the carrot and it still hurt and I was walking around forcing myself to cough and leaning over and trying to vomit and nothing was moving that damn thing. I was able to breathe, just not comfortably. My co-worker stood there mesmerized at what the hell was happening, but also amazed that she was able to perform under pressure. "I'm always the panicky one!" she said with a proud smile. Told her thank you, and I do thank God I wasn't alone.

After a minute of us staring at each other and wondering what to do next, I felt the stupid carrot miraculously move down on its own and I could breathe normal again.

Bizaare. I really feel had an inkling what it feels like to drown. It's horrifying.

Here's a description of the Heimlich if anyone's interested in saving a life if they see this happening to a loved one:

If choking is occurring, the Red Cross recommends a "five-and-five" approach to delivering first aid:
■First, deliver five back blows between the person's shoulder blades with the heel of your hand.
■Next, perform five abdominal thrusts (also known as the Heimlich maneuver).
■Alternate between five back blows and five abdominal thrusts until the blockage is dislodged.

To perform abdominal thrusts (Heimlich maneuver) on someone else:
■Stand behind the person. Wrap your arms around the waist. Tip the person forward slightly.
■Make a fist with one hand. Position it slightly above the person's navel.
■Grasp the fist with the other hand. Press hard into the abdomen with a quick, upward thrust — as if trying to lift the person up.
■Perform a total of five abdominal thrusts, if needed. If the blockage still isn't dislodged, repeat the five-and-five cycle.



If you're the only rescuer, perform back blows and abdominal thrusts before calling 911 or your local emergency number for help. If another person is available, have that person call for help while you perform first aid.

If the person becomes unconscious, perform standard CPR with chest compressions.

If you're alone and choking, you'll be unable to effectively deliver back blows to yourself. However, you can still perform abdominal thrusts to dislodge the item.

To perform abdominal thrusts (Heimlich maneuver) on yourself:
■Place a fist slightly above your navel.
■Grasp your fist with the other hand and bend over a hard surface — a countertop or chair will do.
■Shove your fist inward and upward.

Man, I am blessed. I almost died eating something healthy that's supposed to prolong my life. Take-home lesson here, folks-- Chew Your Food.

Cautionary Tips from the Trenches on Online Dating

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What Would Weight Watchers Do?

I weighed in today 1.6 lbs up from last week at my Weight Watchers meeting. I expected this because my class ring on my right hand was not loose. That's how I gauge how puffy I am on any given day. Today, all day, it was tight. Boo. I was down last week 2.8 from the week before. Yay. But I lost some of that ground this week. Boo. Could Weight Watchers help me figure out what went wrong?

What I didn't tell ole' Weight Watchers, especially the little old guy with the white hair who checked me in and was sure to point out my "gain" on my tracking booklet with his pentip, is that I turned 40 last Sunday AND swam/biked/ran a triathlon.


My heartrate monitor watch clocked me at burning over 1600 calories during that one hour and 44 minute race, and so I did not track my food for the day. I figured it being my birthday, and doing that kind of excercise gave me a free pass for the day. I didn't go out to eat after the race, I ate at home, and even smuggled a 94% fat-free popcorn bag into the movies in my daughter's little purse (what?) so I didn't overdo it. And when I say not overdoing it that was only until we had frozen yogurt after the movie and I added taboo chocolate candy mix-ins to my strawberry/banana/cake batter frozen yogurt. Hey, it was lowfat yogurt! And chopped up Snickers. And white chocolate chips. And maybe some almonds. I kinda went crazy, so I kinda forget what all went in there.

Still, it only weighed like 3 ounces on the Yogurt Experience (shameless plug- in Round Rock near the Outlets, you gotta try it) scale, if that. It's not like I won any free yogurt for having the heaviest weight and get my name on the YE whiteboard. My yogurt cup felt a little like I did at the WW meeting last week- happily underweight.

So anyway, I didn't mention all this to little old white-haired dude giving me that "sorry you sucked this week" look at my WW meeting today. Nor did I bring it up when the meeting leader asked if anyone did a 5K in any way this past week, since apparently that was the most recent WW challenge- to WALK a 5K in a week.

What should I have done? Oh hi, ma'am? Yes, I did. Umm yeah, it was a 5K on the end of a triathlon that I kicked-ass on and beat my 2 years ago personal best time on. Um, and I RAN it, yes, even the hills. Yeah, and I trained almost every day before that, with several runs and walks totally well over a 5K.

Oh, and ma'am? Did I mention I GAINED 1.6 lbs this week? What do you make of that? Shrieks and gasps, I'm sure. So, I didn't want to confuse/discourage/annoy the others in the WW meeting, and I kept quiet and sulked instead.

My triathlon friend and I are convinced it's water weight, and we are surely right, based on how much we drink before, during, and after a race like that. Or our marathon bike rides we do on other weekends. We are always puffy as hell after them. It's hot as hades out there and you MUST drink and drink and drink water, or your body will revolt and/or possibly quit. As in die. We both do WW and know we can't eat double just because we get in a good work-out. No reason to sabotage ourselves, so I am perplexed, other than my birthday-frozen-yogurt-fest, as to what my body was trying to say today on that scale.

Again, I did not speak up and spew this paradox onto the room, but I need to figure it out. It's a riddle best worked on by myself, with myself. Me and my Body will have a talk and come to some sort of agreement. I don't need that "you suck" look each week after I've busted your ass, literally, and have you, Body, show up 3 days later looking and weighing all puffy. If you, Body, can figure out how to eliminate faster, let's say in only 24 hours, then I will keep taking your ass, literally, to YE for sweet, happy yogurt treats. Deal?