I Got A Liebster Award And Now I Feel Like I'm All That!

My darling new friend at A Fly On Our (Chicken Coop) Wall (check out her blog - she's smart and funny) has bestowed an honor on me. She has nominated me for the Liebster award, and I will forgive her for turning my mindless ramblings into a homework assignment. 

First, I am supposed to tell you eleven random facts about me.

1. I love to drive. I'd drive anywhere, in anything, at any time. Especially if I can be alone.

2. I weighed 10 pounds when I was born, had club feet and was jaundiced. There are no pictures documenting any of this (thank GOD).

3. I  met my husband on the telephone, through work.

4. I was a master tree climber when I was a kid.

5. I can pick objects up with my toes. Which probably helped me be a master tree climber.

6. Really strong peppermint flavoring makes me sneeze.

7. I always shave my left leg first.

8. I sometimes (okay, often) count on my fingers.

9. The flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz still scare me so much that I have to cover my eyes and watch them through my fingers.

10. I'm really not superstitious, but I figure crossing my fingers never hurts.

11. I look like Gomer Pyle when I wear a baseball cap. As a result, you'll probably never see me in a baseball cap.

And now I have to answer eleven questions (here comes the homework).

1. What inspired you to begin blogging? Less than a year ago, I hardly knew what a blog was. The only one I read belonged to my friend Dawn. Then on March 2, 2012, I was diagnosed with stage 1 breast cancer. My head was so full of information and emotions that I felt if I didn't record all of them, I would explode. Plus, I didn't want to forget any of it. I thought about just creating a journal, then decided what the hell, I'd make it a blog. I did minimal research and, flying by the seat of my pants (which is not unusual for me), I launched "Backsies Is What There Is Not."  My hope with it has always been that someone, somewhere, going through a breast cancer diagnosis will find it and be helped by it.

2. If you had to watch the same movie over and over for a day, which would it be? Hmmm, probably "Young Frankenstein." I can quote most of it already.

3. Do you prefer living in the city, the country, or somewhere in between? I've never lived in the country. I think I would be scared. I lived in a loft apartment on Music Row in Nashville and loved it, but I think, bottom line, I am more of an in-between person. Suburbia. Suburgatory. Whatever. 

4. If you could choose any profession, meaning you would have the skillset required and money was not a deciding factor, what would you do?  I've always wanted to be a nurse, although my family might tell you that I am not a very good one when they are sick. 

5. How is your driving? Are you aggressive behind the wheel or are you patient and generous? Have you gotten any speeding tickets? I am an excellent driver, because I had an excellent driver's ed behind-the-wheel instructor (shout out to Mike Noland, wherever you are). I'm not aggressive, but I'm not patient, either. I used to drive too fast, but once I had kids, that was over. Never got a speeding ticket, although I was pulled over once when I was in college. I attribute the sundress I was wearing for getting me out of a ticket.

6. What life lesson do you find yourself having to learn over and over again? Don't take everything personally.

7. Do you prefer Coke or Pepsi? No brainer. But it has to be DIET Coke. Give me regular Coke or any Pepsi product, and I would rather go thirsty.

8. Do you have a favorite Bible verse? If so, what is it? "I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me."  Philippians 4:13  As a mom and preschool teacher, I also like, "Do everything without complaining or arguing."  Philippians 2:14.

9. Which do you prefer - physical books or e-books? I've never read an e-book, but as someone who likes to read in bed and who usually reads until she falls asleep and drops the book on her chest, an e-book just doesn't seem like a good idea. 

10. What one thing do you absolutely not leave home without? Besides the obvious keys/purse/cell phone? Underpants. I always wear underpants. CUTE ones, but I always have them on. Well, unless I'm in a swim suit.

11. What one thing scares you the most? Besides the flying monkeys? That something will happen to one of my children. Don't ask me what, because I don't want to go there.

The next part of this award is to pass it on to some other new bloggers. I have recently made some new blogging friends, but as they have all been doing it longer than I have, or better than I have, or both, they most likely have already received the Liebster Award. I will reserve my right to bestow the award on someone else at a later date. In the meantime, if you're looking for some great reads, check out my reading list under "My Blog List."  And if you don't look at anything else, please check out:

Underachiever's Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess
Since You Asked....
 A Fly On Our (Chicken Coop) Wall 

They have been exceptionally kind to this fledgling blogger, besides being excellent writers of some of my favorite blogs.

Peace out.

To Make A Long Story Short - Nah, It's Just Plain Long

My daughter is always trying to get me to write a blog post about her. Every time she brings it up, I never fail to mention that my blog is actually about ME, and if she wants a blog post about herself, she can start her own blog. But today, her 14th birthday, I will write about her birth.

We had recently moved to Joplin from Los Angeles. I was 38 and pregnant. My medical file had   "A.M.A." written on it in big, red letters (that would be Advanced Maternal Age - isn't that sweet?). I had a three year old, was busy moving into a new house ("Can you lift your end of the couch a little higher?" This said by my husband. To me. Honeymoon phase obviously over.) and  I was TIRED. In spite of my A.M.A., I passed prenatal tests with flying colors until the Alpha-Fetoprotein Screening, a test which assesses the probability of genetic disorders, which came back indicating there was a chance my baby had Down's Syndrome.

I chose to have an amniocentesis (a test done by inserting a needle into the amniotic sac and extracting amniotic fluid, which is then tested for genetic abnormalities), because I wanted to become as prepared as possible if the baby did, indeed, have Down's Syndrome. The test is done at around 20 weeks, which means halfway through the pregnancy, and carries a risk of miscarriage.

My doctor was explaining this to me shortly before the procedure, telling me one in 400 amnios resulted in miscarriage.

"But I've never had a patient have a miscarriage after performing an amnio," said my OB.

"How many have you done?" I asked.

"Around 300," he replied.

"Then we're far enough from 400 that it should be good."

I mean, seriously, if he were on 370, 380, I would have figured his streak was close to being over. 

The amnio was performed without incident (although the ultrasound that is performed simultaneously to allow the doctor to properly insert the needle showed my baby's tiny little fist reaching for that needle. I kept telling him, "Don't poke my kid!"), and the waiting game began.

Apparently, I wasn't a very happy person to be around those two weeks I spent waiting for the results. But the doctor's office finally, FINALLY, called with the good news that everything was fine. No Down's Syndrome. Then I was asked, "Do you want to know the sex of the baby?" 

Hmmm. We DIDN'T want to know with our first child (and it's a good thing we were pretty stupid about ultrasounds, because it was apparently pretty obvious it was a boy). But after the stress of the past few weeks, I decided I didn't want any more surprises (famous last words) and said yes. And at that point, that bulge in my belly became "Emma."

My biscuit oven must be a comfy, cozy place, because neither of my babies were in any hurry to leave it. My son was taken out through a trap door, and for those of you who have actually done it the way you're supposed to, his head was still freely floating. Had not dropped a smidge. My daughter had the same plan to set up housekeeping in my uterus and also was scheduled to leave via the trap door (the SAME trap door, in case you're curious).

I was given a spinal anesthesia for this delivery. All was fine, until a few minutes after my OB started the procedure, and I began to notice a roaring in my ears. I didn't say anything at first, but as it got louder and louder, I thought I had better speak up. I did so by saying, "Is anyone concerned that I have roaring in my ears?" 

I don't remember much after that, although I certainly got the hint that yes, indeedy, the nurse-anesthetist was VERY concerned and summoned the  anesthesiologist. I remember my hands, which were strapped down out to my sides (the same Jesus-on-the-cross position I was later in for my bilateral mastectomy), getting numb, and they put some kind of mask over my face. I remember trying to wiggle my fingers, so I could signal to my husband that I was okay. I remember hearing the words "too high" spoken with reference to my spinal.

At some point, a nurse showed me my baby girl, wrapped up in a blanket, then they whisked her away to the nursery, taking my husband along with her. 

The roaring went away and at some point, the mask was removed. I remember telling my OB I could FEEL him putting me back together, but he swore that he was nowhere near the area in which I felt pain.

Finally, I was in the recovery room, being tended to by a lovely nurse named Michelle (you can read about her here and here), who told me I was having premature ventricular contractions, meaning too-early heartbeats that originate in the ventricles and disrupt the heart's normal rhythm (thank you, clevelandclinic.org). An anesthesiologist was called into the recovery room. A cardiologist was consulted. Michelle kept talking to me cheerfully, telling me that it wasn't uncommon to have PVCs. 

One of my delivery room nurses came in to check on me, asking if anyone had brought my baby to me yet.  When she found out that I hadn't seen her, other than the quick glimpse in the delivery room as doctors and nurses swarmed about me after my spinal went too high, she marched off to "get that baby girl" for me. Finally, more than two hours after she was born, I got to see her. The nurse had to help me hold her, because my hands were still a little numb.

She was beautiful.

After about four hours in the recovery room, I was finally taken to my room, where my parents, husband, and three year old son were there to greet us, and everything seemed to be back to normal. But it wasn't. Someone came in the room to hook up a Holter monitor, so my PVCs could be monitored. (If you've ever worn a hospital gown before and wondered why there was a little pocket in the center of the chest, this would be why.) The monitor was about the size of a hand-held video game and had about a half dozen very thin wires that attached to electrodes which were placed on my person in various places. When I would nurse the baby, the monitor would clunk into her. She would clutch the wires in her fingers while she nursed, and I would have to untangle her with one hand while holding her with the other.  The nurses brought in a roll-away bed for my husband, so he could stay with me. Some kind of special iv needle was inserted in the back of my hand "in case they needed it." Sleep did not come easily.

The next morning, the cardiologist ordered an echocardiogram, which is an ultrasound of the heart. The technician who performed it was very professional and never said a word during the procedure, but we could tell by what she WASN'T saying that something was very wrong. Later that afternoon, the cardiologist, Dr. Craig, came in to give us the results.

They weren't exactly encouraging.

I had peripartum cardiomyopathy, a relatively rare, life-threatening condition characterized by left ventricular dysfunction and symptoms of heart failure that can occur in a previously healthy woman, occuring in the last trimester of pregnancy or up to five months after delivery (Thanks again, clevelandclinic.com). The heart becomes weak and can't pump blood efficiently. This causes the heart to enlarge, which then causes the mitral valve to leak. 

It can lead to heart failure.

The statistics were grim. One-third of the patients with peripartum cardiomyopathy get better. One-third get worse. One-third stay the same. It is worse with subsequent pregnancies, so I was not to get pregnant again. I would immediately be put on digoxin, a drug used to treat heart failure and which helps the heart work more efficiently, and a blood pressure medication so the heart wouldn't have to work too hard. I would not be able to breastfeed. If I did not improve, then I would need valve replacement. Or a heart transplant.

These are not words a hormonal woman wants to hear.

My brother and sister-in-law were there when we got the news, and they took on the task of telling my parents for me. The shock of the diagnosis, the possibility of surgery, the possibility of heart failure were impossible to fathom. But telling me I couldn't breastfeed my baby, when there was a very real possibility that I might not live to do anything else with her, had me inconsolable. So much so that the OB on call (naturally it was the weekend) spent hours doing research to find a blood pressure medication that would be compatible with breastfeeding. The downside? I would have to take it every six hours, around the clock, as long as I was still nursing.

I spent the next 24 hours feeling very scared and very sorry for myself. Then I decided it was time to suck it up and be positive.

For the next year, I got up every night at 3 a.m. (even though the baby started sleeping through the night at five weeks old) to take the blood pressure medicine. (To this day, if I happen to look at the clock at 9:00 or 3:00, a.m. or p.m., I jump a little, thinking it's time for my medicine.) I went to the cardiologist every month. Follow up echocardiograms showed my heart slowly returning to a normal size (kind of like the Grinch's heart). It turned out I was one of the lucky one-third who got better, and after three years, I was dismissed by the cardiologist.

I still have PVCs, especially after surgeries, and they continue to trouble my dear recovery room  nurse Michelle. And my oncologist has certainly noticed them. My husband used to take my pulse while I was sleeping, making sure my heart was beating, checking on the frequency of the PVCs. They are not dangerous, in and of themselves. 

I dodged a bullet with the cardiomyopathy. I dodged one with my breast cancer. I'm hoping no more bullets come my way, but if they do, I'll don my Wonder Woman bracelets and deflect those, too. 

Mice Are STILL Not Nice

An update on the ongoing mouse eradication. 

Mousies #1 and #2 got snapped in a trap. They were wittle mice, but I am not sad.

Mousie #3 went for the Smarties strategically placed on a glue board sometime after noon on Monday and before 8 a.m. on Wednesday. My assistant teacher, Melissa, found it not long after we arrived but well before the kiddos did. I knew she found something by the squawk she let out and her hasty retreat from the Mouse Cabinet, shaking her head and saying, "It's still alive! It's moving! It's not dead!"

I took a few steps toward that side of the room, saw #3 squirming, let out a shriek, and ran. From what, I don't know. It wasn't going to attack me or anything, but it's just so ICKY.

The commotion in the room (plus me screaming, "DOUGGGGGGG!!!") brought our building engineer to the room. He sauntered in and picked up the glue board, taking it outside to give it the Little Bunny Foo Foo treatment before disposing of the glue board and its, um, contents.

It was another baby, but I'm still not sad, especially after seeing what happened to my penguin.

According to Wikipedia (don't judge me), mama mouse, in her prime, can produce 10-12 mousettes at a time.

GAHHHHHHHHH!!!

WHERE. ARE. THE REST OF THEM?

Stay tuned.

Because I Couldn't Come Up With 20

Get a roll of pennies ready and play "I Have Never" with me. Throw in a penny for every one of these you've done, but I haven't.

I have never had even one itsy bitsy sip of coffee.

I have never experienced labor.

I have never been in a car accident.

I have never played golf. (But I've driven a golf cart. On a golf course. In the dark....)

I have never eaten sushi.

I have never, even in college, drunk so much alcohol that I got sick. (See my aversion to getting sick here).  

I have never mowed a lawn.

I have never changed a tire.

I have never smoked a cigarette. (I PRETENDED to occasionally, to look cool, but I just held it and waved it around.)

I have never gotten a speeding ticket.

I have never shoplifted, although someone I was with took a pair of patterned tights that I wanted to buy and stuck them in a shopping bag and walked out of the department store with them, because she didn't want to take the time for me to wait in line to buy them. I was MORTIFIED and sure the Shoplifting Police were going to find me. I was so shaken up by it that, as I was putting the tights on later that day to wear to a concert, I stuck my thumbnail through them and ruined them, then had to return to the department store and actually BUY a pair, WHICH IS WHAT I WAS TRYING TO DO IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I have never eaten a s'more. (I like the individual components, but I don't want to eat them all together. Except I like Moon Pies, so that doesn't really make a lot of sense.)

I have never owned a dog.

I have never learned to swim.

I have never had a pedicure.

I have never seen the Hornet Spook Light. I've never even TRIED to see the Hornet Spook Light.

Anybody have any pennies left? (Shout out to Donna, Jennifer and Amy with a big "I doubt it.") Go ahead and challenge me.

I Yam What I Yam

Several of the bloggers I follow have posted blog entries telling readers a little more about themselves than they would find on their "About" page. Since there is virtually nothing ON my "About" page, here are a few facts you can mentally pencil in. (Since most of my readers actually KNOW me, I'm not sure I can come up with much to surprise them.)

Who am I, anyway?

I have three hard and fast rules that I will not break regarding my children, particularly relating to sports or other competitions. I will not wear a shirt that says "______'s Mom". I will not write messages on my car. (Have seen such delights as "Go, Caitlyn! Shake it, baby!" on a minivan at a dance competition for kids 12 and under. That's just wrong on so many levels.) And I will not go "woo!" I am not, nor will I ever be, a Woo Girl. (This includes wooing during  Zumba.)

Robin and the Woo Girls, "How I Met Your Mother"

I hate, hate, HAAAAAAAATE coffee. I hate the way it tastes. I hate the way it smells. I hate the way it looks. I hate it when someone tries to get me to taste something that "just has a little coffee in it - you won't even taste it." YES, I WILL! BECAUSE IT'S DISGUSTING AND CANNOT BE HIDDEN IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER.

I collect snow globes. Not fancy, music box snow globes, but the cheap, plastic ones that you find at souvenir shops. Or try to find them. They aren't easy to find these days. I look for one everywhere we travel. I love snow globes so much that, if I find out YOU are going somewhere I haven't been before, I will probably ask you to bring me one back with you. (Ironically, although they are MADE in China, you cannot BUY one in China. Not that I've ever been to China. But I know someone who has....)

I love to sing. I sing in the car like I'm a rock star. I sing in the shower. I sing when I'm cleaning the house. I just DON'T do it in front of other people. Except for preschoolers. They don't judge. (And Melissa, who, by virtue of her job helping me with the preschoolers, is subject to my singing as well. Sorry, Melissa.)

I don't have a poker face. And I'm a terrible liar. I blame it on the dimples. They always give me away.

While I am very patient with preschoolers, I'm very impatient with other things in life. I touch wet  paint. I open the oven door multiple times to peek at what's baking. I CAN'T WAIT for the microwave timer to get to zero. I flip hamburgers and pancakes too soon. I make a right on red and take a different route to avoid sitting at a red light. My nail polish always has a finger print in it from checking it. I refresh my facebook page, blog stats, and email a hundred times a day (well, that might be a slight exaggeration). 

I love to read, especially murder mysteries. In fact, I get so involved in the mysteries that I read that SOMETIMES, I dream I have killed someone and hidden the body. HEY, THEY'RE JUST DREAMS, PEOPLE! RELAX!

I'm a fairly good cook when I'm in the mood. (Too bad for my family that I'm not in the mood more often.)  I'm even better at the fun stuff. I love to bake: cookies, cakes, muffins, breads. I also make candy (like, for real, with a candy thermometer and everything). Except divinity. Can't make divinity. I can also decorate cakes, if the need arises. And I make the best caramel popcorn you will ever eat. No lie.

I've only thrown up three times in my entire life. The first time was when I was in kindergarten. Second time was when I was 7 and got my tonsils out (I SAID it was a sad story). The third (and final) time was December 23, 1971. I was in 6th grade. It was so very horrible that I vowed it would never happen again. And it hasn't. There were naysayers that said I wouldn't make it through pregnancy without throwing up, and when I was pregnant with my son, there was even an office pool to predict when that would happen. NO ONE WON. I'm in it for the long haul.

I have food rules. Many food rules. Like my food can't touch (I have divided plates to prevent this). And I eat one food at a time from my plate, after tasting each one first and determining the order of preference (least to best - which is the opposite of my dad, who eats the best thing first, then the best of what's left, continuing that way because, he theorizes, he is always eating the best thing on his plate that way, even when it gets down to something he doesn't like). My hamburgers have to be plain and well done. Except for McDonald's ones, which I eat as-is. I hate cheese on my burger. And don't even get me STARTED on celery. I separate M&Ms and jellybeans into colors before eating them (by color, of course). Three Musketeers bars?  I eat the chocolate coating off first, of course. Eggs are for holding cake batter and cookie dough together and never to be consumed on their own. When eating out, all sauces must go on the side, because chances are I'm not going to like them anyway. I only drink milk if it's in a real glass (no plastic). I don't drink soda out of a can or bottle. Must. Have. Ice. There are more, I assure you. IT'S AN ENDEARING QUIRK.

Now that you know all this, don't you feel us growing closer...?

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Is there anything much more delightful than spending time with an old friend? (And by "old," I mean long-established, not advanced in age. NOT.)

Last week, I got to do just that with my friend Dana. She and I have known each other since we were 12. We only lived about a block away from each other then and spent a lot of time going back and forth to each other's houses. I liked to go to hers, because her mom bought Hostess Ho Ho's and Ding Dongs and kept them in the freezer for us. Dana liked to come to my house, because my mom baked cookies.

We were close friends throughout junior high and high school. CLOSE. Like teach-me-how-to-use-tampons close.

Then we graduated from high school and our lives diverged. Dana chose marriage and kids, raising two very amazing boys and trying to raise her husband (they really were just babies when they got married). I don't know how she did it, but she also managed to attend college in between all that and then became a writer. A real one. Not just newspaper articles, which she did as well, but she's written BOOKS. 

I went straight to college, then out into the big world. Our lives could not have been more different.

(And make fun of Facebook if you will, but it is a wonderful tool for getting back in touch with old friends, ones you wish you'd never lost track of, ones who were an important part of making you who you are today. Dana and I reconnected several years ago, thanks to Facebook.)

And it's as if we were never apart. Some friendships are just LIKE that.

Dana lives near Los Angeles now (ironically, very near where I lived when I was out there, although we didn't live in the area at the same time), but, lucky me, was in St. Louis to visit her first grandchild (a darling baby girl, in case you wondered). We arranged to meet in the middle for a good visit.

We took over a booth at a Panera for hours. We laughed. We cried. We looked at my boobs (in the bathroom, in a handicapped stall, and not without raising the eyebrows of a woman who was in the next stall, who probably thought she had somehow stumbled into a bus station restroom).

It was hard to say goodbye at the end of the afternoon, but the good news is Dana plans to make frequent trips back to see that sweet baby girl. And when she does, we will make arrangements to meet again. We also have another girls get-away in the works with our high school friends Abbie and Melody (watch out, Vegas, we may be heading your way).

JUST KIDDING!!!

My friends have been so very important to me since my diagnosis. Not that they weren't BEFORE, but since then, they have been an invaluable part of my recovery, regardless whether they are a few blocks away or a few thousand miles away. They make me laugh. They build me up. They let me spill my guts. They take my mind off of things I don't want to think about. They pray for me. They admire my boobs. 



Never doubt how much I value all of you. 

Now, bring it on in for a group hug.

Mice Are Not Nice - Part III

The good news:

The bad news:

It was a baby mouse.  

We all know what that means - there are more. Many more....

The scene of the crime.

P.S.: The penguin survived the bleach water shower. He's a little skittish, though. For that matter, so am I.