Monday, September 24, 2007

Last Thursday

I started this post last Thursday in the midst of exploration of the inner workings of my left boob.

Under the florescent rectangles on the ceiling, in a windowless room of extraordinarily cohesive drab colors, I wait. Another is told she is fine and come back in a year. I wait for the same conclusion.

On the way over, on the ferry and on the walk up steeeep Seneca Street I listened to the soothing voice of Brenda Dane from the podcast Cast On. Interspersed with delightful music Brenda's weekly trek through the world of knitting eased my anxiety as I maintained a quick pace up the hill to the hospital.

Escorted to the radiology room the technician took a quick peek and changed the paddles from normal to small due to the pancake profile of my boob. And then the stance: grab the bar with the right hand, cheek pressed against the machine and then the panels are dialed in closer and then the squeeze until I uncontrollably utter, "ohhhh!" Such a squeeze! Hold my breath. The picture is taken and I'm allowed to breathe again. But wait, the image is all white. Try again. Yet more squeezing. Same result. Then another technician is called in to help figure out why the machine can't read my boob. They decide on manual exposures instead of automatic and the result is far better after a third smashing.

Then the machine is twisted on its side. I'm instructed to put my arm out like I'm swimming (nice thought right about now) and the clamp comes down again until I can't take any more pressure. A man must have invented this torture for women. There has to be a better way than to smash my boob until it is in extreme pain.

So with the films seemingly good for review by the the radiologist I am sent back to the waiting room until the conclusion is made. Cancer or no cancer I'm waiting to hear. I am ready for either one. In the tiny windowless waiting room, with three other women, we all wait. There is a steady stream of women into the changing stalls, stripping their upper half and donning a striped gown, tied in the front. I make a big happy bow on my gown. I'm sitting in the oddest elevated chair and joke as I enter the room, "oh good I get the high chair". Joking in this environment isn't exactly what these women want to hear right now. How long will it take for my results? I'm told to keep my gown on just in case. In case? Should I start another Cast On podcast? Will it be another hour? The thought of Brenda's voice helps.

I didn't sleep very well last night, as usual, and when my kitty crawled up on me I started to pet her and the pain in my chest seemed to melt away. I guess I need to bring my cat with me wherever I go for pain relief. Maybe that's why Paris Hilton always has such a blissful look on her face, because of her little dog companion. But does she still carry that pup around anymore? I thought I read that she got rid of it.

And here I wait, with two women now. One was escorted away for her films. What will be the result? But what I really want to know is why I have gripping pain in my chest.

I've got so much catching up to do. Lots of pieces have yet to be started for my November show. There seems to have been a never ending stream of needs in the last couple of months.

And then my name is called and I'm given the come here finger signal. I think that can't be good since I heard another woman's all clear diagnosis right in front of everyone else. The technician said the radiologist described the polka dots on my film as "probably benign". This is not quite what I had expected. I wanted to have a black of white conclusion. Not a "probably", that leaves reasonable doubt. They want me to come back in six months to see if anything has changed. So in the mean time I live with do I or don't I? Uncertainty. I want concrete conclusions, no kinda sorta maybe. And now over a Chinese chicken salad, next to a scrambling three year old, I just want to cry. Cry about my boy I left at college yesterday, cry about uncertainty, cry just because I'm tired.

Forget crying how about a mood swing by trying on a designer dress. And it has to be one of the most gorgeous dresses I have ever tried on. By Nicole Miller. I felt dreamy. Perfect colors. Soft luxurious exotic fabrics. And that dress, that lovely dress, melted away my anxiety and mad me feel fabulous. Thank you Nicole.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Manzanita

i had never been to that part of the oregon coast before. what a treat to slip into a charming town for a few days in a delightful cabin within walking distance of the shore! the timing was perfect for warm temperatures and the added bonus of shopping at the local farmers market for fabulous produce. what a great town! wish i could stay for the rest of my life. but i know what the oregon coast can be like in the winter, gales over 100 miles an hour. yes, but on days like those we spent there the desire to spend more more more time amoungst the sand drifts and rustling beach grass is great. and who would have guessed that in a nearby town, wheeler, with a population of only 300, that there would be a superb fabric store that has been there for over 25 years. more later...daybreak on manzanita beach
the yummily soft sand at sunrise
watercoloring at the beach

Population 300

In the tiny town of Wheeler, population 300, I found a fantastic fabric store that was loaded with delightful offerings in this Oregon coastal hamlet. I wish our local fabric store, in a town 76 times the size of Wheeler, could offer such an array of goodies. Creative Fabric has thrived in that tiny town for over 26 years. Thanks to my family for indulging my need to stop there. It was great.