The Long and the Short of It

First, the short:

On Friday morning, after a couple hours of prep, my left boob had a c-section and gave birth to a luminescent, jello-like, pinky-peach, bubbly blob about the size of my ring finger, with a disproportionately large black eyeball. 

I affectionately had called him Bob, while I was expecting (because I suspected it’d be a boy. And I’m partial to one-syllable names). Doctor Janzen gave me a good long look at my just-born lil Pokemon (he resembles Exeggcute) before whisking him off to ICU where they’ll determine which astronomical sign he is. Despite being born in July, I’m hoping he’s not a Cancer, but more of a Gemini like me.

As per usual, after C-sections (I’ve had three. My non-Pokemon boys were cut out of me too), they stitched me up, strapped a maxi pad on the incision and told me to take it easy for 4 -5 days with no heavy lifting, no exercise and no showering. And if my already “generously proportioned breast” (her descriptive words, not mine) swelled up two more cup sizes, I was to go to the hospital immediately.  

(I JUST recently completed a similar set of guidelines re: 4 – 5 days of no showering, no make up, no scratching, no wearing a bra, after I had a brown woman burn the 3000 moles and marks off my back with a white hot pointy buzzy thing in her garage/salon.) (They are still healing.)

(I could insert a photo of my back here, but it might make you throw up.)

The boob freezing came out Friday evening, about 8 hours after the procedure, and my mid-left chest region caught on fire while I was in a sold-out Imax theatre, sitting in the top section, in the centre of the middle row, watching The Lion King inbetween 8 people I love.

Hakuna Matata

I’ve since taken my sorry ass to the lake for 4 days where I’ll be by myself, obeying doctor’s orders of not exercising, not showering, not bothering people with my moaning, reading books during the day and watching shooting stars at night while my boob knits itself back together. 

#bestsummerever

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you're curious about the process of having a full surgical biopsy, here's the long of it. This is what you can expect the journey to be like... BUT HONEST, FEEL FREE TO SKIP THIS PART and scroll to the bottom to read The Three Things I'm Thankful For if you don't need to see the details. (Drew. I'm thinking of you.)

In Spring 2017, during an annual mammogram, a cluster of suspicious cells was detected. In June 2017 I had a needle biopsy (undertaken while I was lying on my side, while my left boob was squished in a mammogram machine.) The cells were removed and a titanium pin was inserted. The results came back benign.

In December 2018, during my annual mammogram, a cluster of suspicious cells were detected again; this time the recommendation was to test again in 6 months.

In May 2019, I felt a lump and made an appointment for another mammogram. Which detected the suspicious cell cluster again (I named her Betty) and the gumball sized bump (I named Bob). I met with my doc who made an appointment for me with Valley Imaging for a screening. Where they took better pictures of Betty and Bob, and immediately sent me over to their other imaging area for an ultrasound.

They recommended a biopsy. So I met again with my doctor who filled out the paperwork, (which I drove over to J P Surgical Centre and left with their administration desk) and we (well, mostly I) waited.

A few days after I got back from Palm Springs (June 2019) I had a(nother) needle biopsy, this time an ultrasound biopsy; which was much more comfortable that the June 2017 mammogram biopsy. The radiologist who performed the procedure biopsied both Betty and Bob but felt certain both were innocent. Betty was a cluster of water-filled cysts and Bob was a ball of old blood (which he drained with a syringe.)

(A few days after this process, my boob was black and blue with bruising. SO. Very. Colourful. I have pics, but that might be too much information.)
:)

I was surprised then, when the day I was getting the moles/bumps from my back removed, (for fun and vanity. No medical reason) I received a call asking me to come in to the surgical centre to talk about my biopsy results. I met with Dr. Janzen, (who coincidentally saved my mom's life in 2007 when her bowel blew) and found out that one of the biopsied samples came back with the recommendation that it needed to be removed. So we made an appointment for the following Friday (June 19) to have a full surgical biopsy. I was to prepare to be there for 3 hours.

One of my concerns was my back. It was a scabby, spotted mess of healing dots. I looked like the worst case of chicken pox had broken out - not one inch of skin was spared. Truly. A mess. Ask my mom. She was the one who applied the ancient, smelly, magical Indian healing cream, then wrapped me in Saran cling film each night.

ANYWAYS. The worst of my back was somewhat healed (except the ones along my bra strap line, two of those are infected I think and the rest were still scabbed over) so on Friday morning I drove over to the surgical centre.

Ten minutes to fill out the paperwork. Five minutes in the waiting room. Then into an ultrasound lab, with Elizabeth, to figure out if it was Bob or Betty who was the problem. (Interestingly, she and every doctor during the day, referred to both masses as Bob and Betty as well.) For half an hour she rubbed her wand over my lubricated flesh and I coulda just had a nap. But she talked the whole time, telling me what she was seeing, stopping now and then to make a mark on my skin.

She found Bob easily. Despite being drained of old blood a few weeks ago, he'd grown again. Meanwhile Betty was hiding. After all the photos were taken, a very friendly, confident male Doc came in and explained what he'd be doing. He moved the screen around so I could watch.

First he froze the area ("Freezing needle going in. Going to pinch for a sec...") then he showed me a special syringe. "I'm going to insert this syringe right into Bob, and once it's in place, I'll feed this wire through. See the little hook on the end? It's going to attach to the wall of the tumor. If I've done a good job of freezing you, you won't feel a thing. Once the wire is in place, I'll remove the syringe. We'll dress the wound, you'll sit back out in the waiting area for a few minutes, then we'll take some more pics with the ultrasound machine."

And then he did all those things and I watched.

I went back out into the waiting area, filled with dressed people, and I was wearing two blue gowns and had a little wire poking through my skin.

The ultrasound tech took some pics of me, from various angles then ushered me back to the (now packed) waiting room.

A very short wait later, Belle called me into the operating room.

She took off my gowns, (I still had my capri's on) and tucked me in with a heated blanket on the operating gurney. She raised the platform up, chatting with me the whole time, as she took my blood pressure and heart rate. Dr. Janzen arrived, asked me how I was feeling, then asked if my boob still felt frozen. I said yes. "I'll add more freezing as we go. You shouldn't feel a thing except for some tugging. If you feel anything sharp, let me know and I'll add more freezing. OK?" And with that, the surgical lights came on, the heated blanket was pulled away from my left side, a surgical sheet was spread across my chest (I'm assuming with a strategic hole cut out) and draped over my head. I was asked to lift my arm and put it behind my head, which was a bit tricky because back in May I did something to my rotator cuff (remember? I dropped and broke my camera that day) and movement was challenging. But I did it. Then I turned my head to the right, sighed and closed my eyes.

She kept me informed as to what she was doing, asking often if I could feel anything sharp. When I said yes, she'd top up the freezing. But really, a sharp prick to a mostly frozen sack of flesh IS NOTHING COMPARED TO HAVING A WHITE HOT POKEY THING BURN YOUR BACK FOR 2.5 HOURS. I'd rather have 16 biopsies that go through that mole thing again. Hahaha.

Belle came and sat beside me on the right side and held my hand whenever something big was happening to my boob. She whispered, "are you ok?" (Much tugging an poking and tugging and wiggling is going on.)
"Yeah! I'm totally fine." I answered.
"Do you have a happy place? Is that it? Are you there now?"
"You know it," I replied.

I was very relaxed. Totally at peace. And thinking my upcoming evening plans (dinner and Lion King with my kids and Dani's family) and then my weekend plans of spending a couple days at the lake. The forecast was for sunshine and I have a few new books to read. Nothing but good times ahead.

Dr. J then asked Belle to get Elizabeth, so she could take a look at something. E came in a took a peak inside my boob. Then she asked E to get that other doc to come in and have a look inside the opening she'd made in my skin. He took a peak. They all agreed. Another ultrasound after we were done was not necessary. (I guess they do that to ensure the surgeon got it all out.)

"This is very contained, " said Dr J. "Would you like to see it?"
"SEE WHAT?" I asked.
"Bob."
"Uh. I'm OK."
"You sure? I think you might be interested."
"Really?"
"Yeah. The other's have had a look and it's apparent I have got it all. Here..."

I look over to the screen, thinking I'll see a black and white image show up.
But she reaches her hand around the sheet so I can see what's between her fingers.
It's Bob.
She's kinda rolling and squeezing him so I get a good look at all angles.
She's in awe of what's she's just removed from my body.
I'm not sure how I feel.

But Bob looks like a blush-coloured, bubbly-bodied, see-through sea horse with a black eye. Or like an embryo, in the early stages. With a little wire sticking out of him. Crazy. I didn't throw up. Or gag. I am getting so good at this.

She left the room and told me she'd be back to sew me up. With the sheet off my face, I could see my distorted reflection in the surgical lights just above my body. There was my boob. With a gaping gash in it and bloody gauze all around. And sharp shiny instruments laying on my chest. SO much peace. Not a second of panic or fear. Just total chill. (If you were praying, thank you.)

A few minutes later she was back. She sewed me up then left without saying a word. Her work was done and she was on to her next patient. Belle applied the dressings, taped me up, helped me get my top on then gave me the low down. (Don't do anything for 4 - 5 days. If something happens, get help. Good luck.)

I hopped off the table, drove over to the Indian restaurant to pick up some samosa's for lunch, stopped in at Pharmasave to get some extra strength Tylenol, got to my mom's house where I lay down in the dark, cool basement for a nap.

I met everyone for dinner, feeling fine and then halfway through the movie the freezing wore off and holy hell, a fire the size of British Columbia erupted on my chest. After the movie ended, I started driving east, stopping to get gas at Whatcom Rd and catching some Pokemon in Yarrow. By the time I got to Cultus it was midnight and my left side was needing some love. After 14 trips up n down those stairs to get my stuff up into the cabin from my truck (only able to carry 3 pounds at a time = many trips back and forth) I popped a few Tylenol, had a quick bath, and got into bed wondering if sleep was going to be a problem.

I woke up at noon on Saturday.
So no. Sleeping was not an issue.

The burning has stopped. And the deep throbbing has as well. I'm just very tender and waiting for the egg-shaped bump to appear which should not concern me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've blogged about this so that if you, or someone you love, has found a lump, this is what you can expect. So far? This part of the journey is not scary or painful. If you're over 40, make sure you're getting regular mammograms. In BC they're free. No excuses. Just do it.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Things I'm Thankful For:

1. Smart doctors
2. Compassionate, experienced, wise care workers/nurses/medical staff
3. Free health care
4. Praying friends
5. Movies
6. Family
7. Sunny days
8. Good books
9. Messages and emails and texts and love
10. Tylenol
11. Peace-filled soul
12. Summer evenings.


xo

Month of June. So far.

Lessseee.
Since we last talked, on top working every day, I've had dinner with my kids at the beach at English Bay, hung out at Chapters/Starbucks in Langley with Terry, had a breast biopsy in Surrey, went to the library then Pokemon catching with Heather in New West, listened to The Best Lecture ever at Regent College in Vancouver with Kim, had dinner and saw Wonder Woman in Coquitlam with Jenn and spent a solo night at the lake alternating between not obsessing about the possibility of drunk young people peering in the front window and talking to God about my life.


(That was one sentence.
I rock at saying many words in a row.)

I've been out for 17 consecutive nights, doing fun things with my favorite people, but I am completely enjoying being by myself right now. I just love the quiet. The privacy. The freedom. It's the introvert in me; it bubbles out when I'm doing a solitary weekend at the lake.


Back in March when I was contemplating this stage of life (menopause) I had strong feelings.
I'm on the descent side of the hill.
Had I wasted the trip up?
Aging is A Thing.
Our bodies were never created to last forever. There is an expiry date and mine is likely closer to me at this point than my birthdate is.

Like, I will not be 35 again.
I will not be able to do the things that a 35 year old can do. Things such as, have a baby. Plan to have a 50th wedding anniversary. Get up off the floor without groaning. Go bra-less. Repair instead of pull teeth. Remember entire grocery lists. Read menus without pulling out a flashlight and magnifying glass.

So back in March, I made my peace about that.
I was going to embrace this new balding-in-some-areas-super-hairy-in-others stage of life.

I start by booking an appointment to have a complete physical on the Thursday before long Easter weekend (April 12). (Might as well chat with my doc about My Changing Body.)  In anticipation of that chat, I arrange appointments to have blood tests and a mammogram done on April 3.

But the weeks before those tests? I am preparing.
I plan to get "A" in Blood and "A" in Boob. So I get a membership to my local gym, stop eating chocolate and bread, add salmon and flax to my diet, massage a serum onto my scalp to stimulate new growth, and loose zero pounds and 0 inches while gaining 36 new baby hairs.

On April 3 I take a number at the blood clinic, and realizing that I have an hour wait, go over to the mammogram office, have my breast-squishing appointment which takes 32 seconds, go back to the blood clinic and have 14 vials of blood removed. We be testing e'rrthing.

On April 5, my doctor calls me. My potassium numbers are off, he is issuing another test be done in a few days. He is NOT concerned; he figures it is a just a glitchy thing; nothing to be worried about. When he tells me not to worry? I don't.

I buy a few bananas and plan on getting my bloodwork re-done a few days later. Then on Thurs April 6 afternoon, Valley Imaging calls. Something has shown up on my films, could I come back in? They'd like to redo the left side and get a better look. Like, come in, right away? Like the following day? Could I come back on Friday?

So I go back on Friday, their last appointment of the day. The technician assures me that in most cases its nothing, but they just need to see the cluster of cells from another angle. She shows me the film (and, ahem, if I do say so myself, my boob looked awfully perky when squished and photographed from that angle) and I'm glad I'm not the radiologist in charge because I cannot see a cluster of anything.

She takes the photo, then asks me to go back into the changing room while the radiologist views it. If he isn't satisfied, we'd try again.

He's not satisfied, so we do it again, from a different angle.

Again, I sit in the changing room. Again, he needs another angle.

We repeat this a few times and by the last time I am praying in my head, "Dear God. No cancer. No cancer. No cancer. No cancer. No cancer. Please..."

"You can go now," she says. "But your doctor will be calling you. You'll need an appointment so it can be looked at with an ultrasound machine..."

So I go home on Friday afternoon thinking I am going to skip over menopause and head right for the finish line. There would be no long, slow decline into old age, I am going straight to dead.

On Monday morning (April 10) at 9 am, my doctor calls, "Jane? Can you come in to the office? Today? Right away?"

"So, I guess you know that there is a cluster of calcified cells in your left breast. Most times it doesn't mean anything, but we won't know for sure until we do a biopsy. I've been in touch with the Jimmy Pattison Outpatient Centre and they'll call you in a day or two to set up the appointment..."

Oy.
Things were moving so fast. There was such a sense of immediacy to it all. Get er done, now.

I leave his office and get my blood retested. Now that I'd eaten three bananas, I am confident my potassium levels will be excellent. (Spoiler alert. They are.)

On Thursday (April 12) I am back at the doctor's office, the date of my previously arranged full physical appointment. Every part of me is very thoroughly examined. We check my blood pressure twice, because the first time I am naked and thinking about breast cancer. Which really messes with the numbers. The second time I am dressed and thinking about things that are good, and excellent, and beautiful, and worthy of praise, and the text message that makes me smile - and the outcome is perfect.

"Have they called you about an appointment yet?"
"Nope, not yet."
"Well they will. It might be because it's a short week, due to Easter, that they haven't yet. But they will. And you're in good hands. If they find something, you'll be automatically booked to see a cancer specialist, a breast specialist and a plastic surgeon. You'll be in their system and you will be well cared for."

"OK."

On Mon April 24, I call my doctor's office to make an appointment to have my moles removed. "By the way," I say to the regular admin assistant, back from two weeks vacation, "I still haven't heard about an appointment. Can you check for me?"

"Sure. OH, it looks like they're still waiting for paperwork from us. We faxed it but they didn't receive it. I'll get that over to them today."

Meanwhile, I'm reading books. I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy has me bawling on the exercise bike at the gym. She describes, in detail, the journey from discovering the lump, to having her left breast removed (two week journey) to chemo and radiation to reconstructive surgery and years of follow up. Sigh. I too, could have a breast removed, so for the next few weeks, as I sleep on my right side, my left hand cups my left boob. It would be so empty and vacant with it gone.  Brenda's But If Not has me facing the possibility of God saying 'no' to the "Please no cancer" plea. Find the Good has me thinking about my obituary... what would mine say? Who would write it? Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, is a behind the scenes look at cremation, and well, just yuck.

"Dear God. Cancer? Oy. My life is Yours, so do what is best for Your purposes. I don't think I'm making much of a difference with my life, so if You can use my death, for something good, then have at 'er. But can it not hurt? Why am I such a weinie about pain? Help me to be brave. And strong. And an "A" student in ending well. Could you look after my kids? Bring into their lives someone who loves them like You do. Someone who will remind them that You are good..."
"PS. Could you arrange for that biopsy appointment to happen soon. This waiting bit is hard."

(So many conversations between me and The Almighty lately.)

On Thurs May 4, I am naked again, on the examining table at my doctor's office. He has a needle in one hand and a scalpel in the other. While he removes moles he asks, "Have they called? Booked an appointment yet?"

"Not yet. Ow. I asked Christine to check for me a few minutes ago, and apparently they still haven't received, ow, the paperwork from you."

"Shame. I think they're having problems with their fax machine."

"Would it be OK if, ow, you gave me the papers and I just drive them over there?"

"Sure! Are you certain you want to do that? It's not out of your way?"

"Well. It's my boob. And I'd like it looked at. At this point, I'd drive those papers to Toronto. But, no, it's not out of my way. I live close to the clinic."

So the next morning, May 5, with the freezing out and all my former mole sites aching with the sting of a million bees, I drive over to the clinic, take a number and wait for the opportunity to make an appointment.

I will spare you the details, but between May 5 and May 24, there are many phone calls, lost films, broken fax machines, and voicemail messages resulting in an appointment for a breast biopsy scheduled Tues June 6.

I keep myself very busy between May 24 and June 6. I am out every night with friends or family. I see movies, read books, go out for tea. Or coffee. Or dinners. I pray incessantly. I make plans for the summer. I dream about next summer. I catch Pokemon. I tell my kids. And my mom, sister, cousin. I let my boss know why I keeping needing time off for doctor appointments. I look at my chest every day because there's a chance it won't look like this forever. I do NOT go on the internet to look at pictures of breast cancer survivors. I DO buy a new expensive lacy bra in anticipation that I will be wearing it all year.

But mostly, despite the busy-ness and all the people in my life, this is a solo-journey. I allow myself to be scared for only ten minutes a day. The other 23 hours and 50 minutes, I think on things that are good, and excellent, and beautiful, and wonderful, and fun and lovely, and worthy of praise.

I work from home on Tues June 6, until Julie arrives. I am in the midst of eating a healthy breakfast:

She brings an alternative:

And we leave a few minutes later.

For those who may be facing Breast Biopsies in their future, I'll write out the details. Knowledge is power. Feel free to stop reading if this post has gone on long enough already. No really. My feelings won't be hurt (haha, like I'd even know) if you close this page right now.

First of all, I was planning on driving to the appointment myself. I'm independent that way. But their third reminder phone message, "You are encouraged to bring someone along for support and transportation ..." prompted me to accept Julie's offer to give me a ride. I warned her that this could be a three hour ordeal, so she was prepared with a fully charged phone and some new games. I had a book along.

We park, pay, then go directly to 2C as instructed. I hand them my ID then find a seat in the bright, windowed waiting area. Five minutes later, I am given a file folder and instructed to go around the corner to Corridor 5.  There is another waiting room there, so Jule comes with me. A few minutes later a man requiring a breast ultrasound and much attention joins our little group in Corridor 5. My name is called and I am directed to a changing room where I remove everything from the waist up and put on two blue gowns, one opening front, and one opening to the back.

I put my clothes in the plastic bag supplied and return to my seat next to Jule. Discussion in our waiting room has moved on to a Surrey-inspired mix of theology and biology as folks passionately argue about the extra rib men have ("myth has it that women were formed from one of man's ribs, that's why you have one more...") ("women have less ribs because they need more interior space to grow a baby, everyone knows that..."). The (overweight, whining, middle-aged) male who is waiting for his ultrasound contributes his two bits by declaring HIS procedure is going to hurt way more than ours. He knew that for sure.

Jule mentions that while I was changing, nurses had been calling those that had afternoon ultrasound appointments asking them to delay coming in. They were running about two hours behind schedule and only starting the 10:30 am ultrasounds now at 12:30.

"Good thing I paid for three hours."
"Good thing I've got a fully charged phone."

"Jane? This way."

I follow the technician/nurse (Shawna) into the room across the hall, assuming I'm going into another holding area.

"You can put your bag and your gowns on the chair, here, then come sit here."

I am in a procedure room. They may be running behind in giving ultrasounds, but they're right on time doing biopsies.

"Have you ever had a breast biopsy before? No? Well, I'll walk you through it. My name's Shawna and from now til we're done, I won't be leaving this room. There will be another technician helping and Dr. LongNameThatICannotRemember will be here shortly. The first thing we'll do is get you into a position that best allows us to photograph and remove those calcified cells. You may be in a sitting position, or we may have you lying down. Once we've found the best position, you'll have to hold it for at least 20 minutes, so we need to make sure you're comfortable. Once we're set, we'll take a set of photos, to make sure we've got them in the centre of this tray. Then Dr. LongName will come in, clean the area, and freeze it. Once you're frozen, we'll take another set of pics to make sure you've not moved, then he will insert a long needle and extract some cells. Then he'll lift it up, give it a bit of a twist and go back to pick up some more. He will repeat this 6 times, gathering cells in the entire area. 
You won't feel any pain, but you will feel the pressure of the needle going up and down, and you will hear the machines making a noise with every extraction. 

Once he's removed them, we will pause to photograph again, making sure he removed cells from the correct area. If something has slipped, we're re-do that procedure. Sometimes it takes 2 - 3 times to get it. Nothing to worry about. It won't hurt. It's common to redo any of these procedures along the way. 

Once we've got a good sampling, he'll remove the needle, insert this tiny metal clip, and put it deep into your breast as a marker for the future. 

We'll take a few more pictures to ensure the clip is in the right spot. If it's not, he'll go back. Again, nothing to worry about. 

When he's given us the all clear, he'll leave and I'll remove your breast from the machine, apply pressure to stop the bleeding, use two steri-strips to cover the wound, pack it, then bandage you. The bleeding should stop in an hour or so. I should mention that there's a risk of infection, but it's very rare. We are very sterile here. 

So, just relax, and we'll get started."


I mention that I faint around needles. And am a little bit nervous about potential pain. She says it's good that I will be in the lying down position, and if I feel ANY pain, I'm to let her know and they'll give me more freezing.

I was hoping they could freeze my brain. While there is only a 20% chance that the cells are cancerous, I have friends with cancer. They are part of that 20%. I could be too. And while they use sterilized equipment and only 2% get an infection, I have a friend who's been hooked up to an IV for over two weeks getting mega doses of antibiotics fighting an E.Coli infection he got during a prostrate biopsy. Those numbers and faces were on my mind while she maneuvers me into position.

"God? Help me be brave. I do not want to cry. Or carry on. Help me think about things that are good. And beautiful. And lovely. And excellent. And worthy of praise. Please let me not imagine pain where there is none. Please help me to lie still so they don't have to do things over and over again. Your will be done. Could Your will not include pain?"

A tear escapes as she gently mashes my left boob into the machine. She puts her hand on my arm and asks if I'm OK. Now that I'm positioned correctly, her goal is to make me as comfortable as possible.

"How's this arm?" she asks. It's the one stretched up and out, and my head is resting on it.
"I think it's going to fall asleep."
"Let's put it here, then, shall we?" And she adds an extension to the gurney, giving my arm a place to land. "Let's add a pillow under here..."

"Would you like a pillow between your knees?" (I'm lying on my left side with my knees bent.)
"How about behind your back, would a pillow feel good there?"
"Your right arm? Is it going to be OK, resting on your hip? Or should we find another position? Another pillow perhaps? How about a warm blanket?..."

I want to marry Shawna and have her tuck me in at night.

With me all comfy, the show gets started, exactly as she described.

A small area is cleaned with solution, I feel a small prick as the doc starts freezing the area, and then the apparatus that's housing the needle is pulled into position and the cell retrieval begins. Shawna is sitting beside my head, giving me a running commentary. "He's just removed the first cells. And he's removed the second batch. You're half way done...."

I slip into my own thoughts, feeling confident that I'm with a team who knows what they're doing.

"Do you have any summer vacation plans?" Shawna asks.

"Yeah, Going to New York with friends at the end of July."

"Fun! Shopping and sight-seeing?"

"Abit, but mostly we're going to see a concert. Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles... How about you? Any holiday plans?"

"We get the last week of July off, and thought we'd go to Iceland, but flights are way more than we expected and we can't find a direct flight..."

"Iceland is on my list places to visit too! ..."

We talk about travel for a few seconds and then we're done. Cells have been removed (all of them, it turns out. He didn't just take a sampling, he took them all), pics have been taken, metal clip has been inserted, doc has left the room and the body part that's been squished has been released from the machine.

Shawna removes the pillows and has me lie flat on my back while she applies a surprising amount of pressure for such a small gal. Once she's satisfied I won't bleed out, she bandages me up, applies the cutest lil ice pack you ever did see, and tells me I can get dressed.

As I go behind the curtain to put my top on, I overhear them; "That was the quickest, most efficient, easiest biopsy ever. It was perfect." They high five each other. Thank you, God.

I thank them both for being totally awesome at what they do and give Shawna an (likely, inappropriate) hug. She hands me a take-home package of gauze and instructions and reminds me to take some Tylenol to help with pain management once the freezing is out.

"Your doctor will call you with the results in a week. Maybe 10 days. Possibly two weeks. Try not to worry; in 80% of the cases, it's absolutely nothing."

Jule looks at me when I step into the hallway.

"WHAT? You're done already? It hasn't even been 20 minutes. I haven't eaten my packed lunch. Or played any games..."  (She's been visiting with the crowd in the waiting room.)

She took me home, I swallowed two Tylenol, worked for an hour, then had a nap in the sun.

That evening I went looking for Pokemon in New West while my freezing came out. Pffft. It was uncomfortable, but pain? Not a bit. Maybe 2/10 if I bumped the site.

The next day I went to work, then spent the evening listening to the very best seminar/lecture at Regent. If you ever get a chance to listen to Gordon T Smith of Ambrose University talk on the topic of Being A Christian in a Secular World, GO. SO inspiring. So entertaining. So wisdom-packed. So good. So encouraging. We need to be leading the charge in areas of social justice, in the fight against sex-trafficking, in the care and compassion for refugees and homeless...

The following day after work, I met Jenn for dinner at the Coquitlam VIP theatres. Her bday gift to me was Wonder Woman. I whispered to her, half way through, "I friggen love this movie..." Haha. It was so much fun. Just the right amount of dialogue and action and romance and fighting and I think I'd be up to seeing it again. We sat in the theatre and talked for awhile (usually my favorite part of the evening... unwrapping what we'd both just watched) before saying goodbye in the parking lot.

Once I was settled in my truck, I turned on my phone and caught a few Pokemon, checked my twitter notifications, read my messenger conversations, sent a note to the kids telling them that Wonder Woman was incredible, then noticed a voice mail message from an unknown phone number, left at 8 pm.

Two seconds later, I listen to my doc say, "Jane, your biopsy results are negative. You are totally clear."
And then I had a little cry.


~~~~~~~~~~~~`


Three things I'm thankful for:

1. Our medical services. The gentle care of biopsy nurses/ultrasound technicians. The wisdom of doctors. The modern facilities that are so close to home.

2. The peace I felt once I turned the whole thing over to God. (I may have had to turn it over to him a couple times a day, but still. These past two months of waiting have mostly been peace-filled.)

3. Fun, full days. And quiet, reflective ones.

Shalom, friends,
xo

Thinking Good Thoughts

On Feb 21 I saw my doctor about getting a re-fill for my prescription for high blood pressure pills.
While I'm waiting in the examining room, I get a 6 word text that makes me smile and causes my heart to sing a little bit.

Doc, entering the room 2 minutes later: Hi! What can I do for you today?

Me: Hiya, I need a refill.

Doc: That's easy enough. Let's get that done.

Me, as he tightens the band around my arm: I ran out about 5 weeks ago, so it'll probably be high.

Doc, as he starts pumping that thing that makes the band strangle my bicep: That's actually OK. We'll get a good baseline of what you're at without meds.

Me, thinking about that text and grinning in my soul: Okie doke.

Doc, reading the numbers in surprise: Interesting. You are normal. Right in the healthy range.

(I'd been on these meds ever since Max started using drugs. And then my house got robbed. Then my truck was stolen. Then I lost my job. Then I had an empty nest. Then my dad had a stroke...and so on. Every time he checked my blood pressure in the past 6 years, I had something heavy (usually my dad or my kids) on my mind. This was likely the first time this decade that my blood pressure has been tested and I've had happy thoughts in my head.)

We decided I should probs keep taking them, as this day's reading may have been a fluke.

I really wanted to ask him to give me a few minutes (to get all worked up and worried about something) and do the test again. I wanted to see just how much having negative thoughts could affect a blood pressure reading. But I didn't want to waste his time. So I left it. BUT I WAS SURE I COULD CHANGE MY BLOOD PRESSURE SIMPLY BY ALTERING MY THOUGHTS.

On April 13, I was back at the doctors, this time for my annual (well, bi-annual) physical, complete with all the touchy feelies. While on the stir-up table, partially covered with a blue piece of paper the size of a napkin, he checks my eyes, ears, throat, lungs and tests my blood pressure again. 

This time? 

I have big heavy thoughts on my heart; like, after he puts the blood pressure thingy back on the wall, his attention will turn back to me and all my below-the-neck-parts. 

Not unexpectedly, my blood pressure numbers are high. 

I lay back on the table and count the dots in the ceiling tiles while he continues his examination. When he's done, he leaves the room so I can put my clothes back on. 

Him, after re-entering the room: You're very healthy...

Me: Can you check my blood pressure again?

Him: Happy to. It should be lower now that you're seated in a chair, dressed?

Me, already thinking about things that make me very happy: Definitely.

Know what? 

IT WAS.

It was totally lower and right in the healthy zone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A friend is struggling with anxiety and depression, and her psychiatrist concluded, after 5 months of treatment, that the root cause of her struggle is "Constant Rumination". 

"Ruminating is like wearing a constant groove in a record, you replay the same thoughts over and over until it is nearly impossible to stop."

So I said to her, "Uh, so, instead of thinking the thoughts that you are, maybe you're supposed to think on things that are good and excellent and pure and spectacularly incredible?"

Haha.

Who knew that Bible verses were good for your health?

Three things I'm thankful for:

1. The power we have to think about anything we choose to.

2. Smart people; like doctors.

3. God knew what He was doing when He left us a Bible full of wisdom for everyday living.

On the blackboard wall in the Creative Dept at work:

May the Fourth

I have a notebook filled with blog post ideas; some of those ideas I'm even passionate about.

One of these days I'll do a decent post.

Today is not that day.

Three things I'm thankful for:

1. Doctors with sharp scalpels. He removed (a big number) of skin tags/moles this afternoon and saved all the bits for me on his tray, thinking I might be interested in seeing how much of my body was sliced off.

I wasn't.

But considerate of him, I thought. Some people might be curious.

2. Thankful for freezing. How did people in the olden days survive surgery without it? Crazy.

3. A quiet evening, with no plans, other than to fully experience the sensation of a million bee stings as that freezing wore off. Mindy of The Mindy Project helped me pass the time.

Peace,
xo

Time. And How It Heals.

Remember that time on June 23 when I had a spot removed from my face?

(That's the spot, right beside my tear duct.)

This is what my face looked like 8 hours post op.

And this is what my face looked like most of last summer...

And then I stopped taking close up pics of my face.

haha.


Are you in the midst of a Time-Will-Heal-This situation? Is the wound still open? Is the blood still seeping? Have the stitches started itching? Are scabs forming? Is the bruising lightening up? What part of the healing process are you currently in?

Know this.

Time does heal most things.

When my marriage ended it was predicted that I would grieve one year for every 5 years that my ex and I were together. "They" were right.

And I was told it would take 2 years for my face to heal. And I'm going to believe "they" are right about this too.

There is nothing I can do to speed up the process. Healing takes time.
But I can stop taking pics of my scar site and obsessing over it. I can do what was recommended, and that is to wear sunscreen on my face when I'm in the sun. I can gently massage the area once a day for a few minutes. And I can wear make up so that while the healing is taking place, I can carry on about my business without worrying that everyone is looking at it and wondering what happened.

Because that's the thing with healing. A tiny, indiscernible amount of healing takes place every day. It's not like you go for 729 days with a gaping wound that is still leaking blood to completely healed on that magical day at the end of 2 years. Nope; every day along the way, it gets better.  (And if it's not - then go back to the professionals to find out what needs to be done to get back on track.)

ANYWAY.

All that to say, by way of encouragement, is that you will recover from the pain of divorce, the emptiness of a broken relationship, the grief of a death, the wounds from surgery, in time.

Ten months later, the surgical site is still healing.
Without make-up it's more obvious, so really, only me and God know how large that surgical site bump is and where the zig zag scar starts and ends.

And if this is as good as it gets? I'm OK with that. 85% healed is an "A".

:)


Three things I'm thankful for:

1. Time

2. Smart people

3. Make-up

4. Friends who are willing to watch TV in my basement with me, but text first to determine the dress code.
Her: Are we were comfy clothes?
Me: Yes.
Her: Bras?
Me: Mine is not currently on, but I didn't want to expose you to that so I was planning on pulling the girls up out of my pants and have them hoisted to where they belong before you get here.
Her: If you must.

5. Friends who set aside your favorite eggs for you at their Easter celebration and give them to you two weeks later when you go out for dinner. This? Is love.

6. And I am especially thankful for hot sunny Saturdays.
This is where I sat while I did laundry.

Shalom friends,
xo

Drama Queen x 1000

I arrived at the lake late on Friday, after attending the Good Friday service at Northview and having a late dinner with my mom. 

When I got there, the outside lights were off, and I promised myself that my next purchase for the cabin, besides toilet paper and dish soap, would be a wifi lightbulb for the fixture beside the front door. I could and would control that light from an app on my phone. Never again would I have to walk up to a pitch black cabin.

I brought my camera, laptop, purse, backpack, and two bags of groceries in, then turned on a few lights. After putting my laptop on the table, my purse in the laundry room, and my backpack by the stairs, I opened the fridge and put my apples and oranges in the crisper drawer, then closed the door. With my foot I pulled on the handle of the big bottom cupboard drawer (my spot for keeping things like cans of tuna and packages of pasta), and had only opened it about 6 inches when I saw the mouse turds. Many, many kernels - covering the bottom of the drawer. 

Positive that a whole family of mice (including 3 generations of ancestors from both sides) was living at the back of that drawer, I shut it quickly and ran outside. 

There were mice in my happy place. A thousand of them. 

They were going to bite me.

And get tangled in my hair. 

A crap little tiny turds into my mouth while I was sleeping. 

I messaged the kids. 

Clint told me to burn the cabin down. 

I left my boots on and made as much noise as possible, stomping my feet every few minutes. Plus I put on an action movie and had the volume up high. Those mice? Needed to know they weren't alone in Dodge anymore. 

Jane and her big black boots were staying. 

At 3 am I finally crawled into bed after a good long bubble bath soak. There were mouse turds on my pillow. And under my blanket on my sheets. 

I felt so violated. 

I stripped the bed, curled up in a sleeping bag and fell asleep with the clock radio playing at 5 am because I did not want to hear mice scurrying or plotting. 

I spent all Saturday washing bedding and towels and bathrooms and kitchen cupboards and throwing out food packaging that had been gnawed on and vacuuming floors and window sills and couches and finally at 9 pm, I was ready to go back to my mom's place. I'd set out the mouse traps (glue paper thingy's) turned off the lights, and grabbed my first load of garbage bags to dump into my truck. With two bags in one hand, my backpack on my back, my purse over my shoulder and my laptop in my other hand, I walked across the front deck and was just stepping onto the top stair when I noticed the 6 foot long possum waiting for me at the bottom, claiming the space between the cabin and my vehicle.

I screamed. 

Actually it was more like a strangled gasp, uttered with much volume. 

He just looked more intently at me, curious, maybe as to what I was doing. 

I retreated back one step up onto to the deck, averting my eyes because possums are so ugly they can melt a person's retinas. 

I stomped my feet, and glanced quickly to see if he had slithered away.  

He hadn't.

He was waiting for me. I'm sure he had sinister plans. To attack my knee caps and climb up my legs so he could scratch my face and take a chomp out of my neck like a blood sucking vampire. 

I conceded. 

Possum - 1

Jane - 0

I went back into the cabin to hang out with the mice. 

I messaged my kids. Auto correct made the communication confusing:

• Jane
  

  
  

  
  

  I may be trapped indefinitely inside the cabin. There's a possibility at the bottom of the front steps.

  
  

  As I started coming down the stairss he looked up at me. I screamed.
• 

  3/26, 9:18pm
  

  Danica
  

  
  

  
  

  A possum? ?
• 

  3/26, 9:18pm
  

  Max
  

  
  

  
  

  There's a what?
• 

  3/26, 9:18pm
  

  Jane 
  

  
  

  
  

  He just looked at me and didn't move.

  
  

  Possum.
• 

  3/26, 9:18pm
  

  Drew
  

  
  

  
  

  A possibility!!
• 

  3/26, 9:19pm
  

  Danica
  

  
  

  
  

  Watch out for those possibilities! !
• 3/26, 9:1
• 

  3/26, 9:19pm
  

  Clint
  

  
  

  
  

  Infinite possibilities at the bottom of the steps!
• 

  3/26, 9:19pm
  

  Danica
  

  
  

  
  

  Hahaha
• 

  3/26, 9:19pm
  

  Jane
  

  
  

  
  

  Mice inside. Possums outside.
• 

  3/26, 9:20pm
  

  Clint
  

  
  

  
  

  Truly terrifying! The possibilities!
• 

  3/26, 9:20pm
  

  Jane
  

  
  

  
  

  They are.

  
  

  I am not keen to try again.

  
  

  Oh bother. I can't sit here all night.
• 3/26, 9:22p

  
  

  frown emo
• 

  3/26, 9:22pm
  

  Max
  

  
  

  
  

  Yea so just leave.
• 

  3/26, 9:23pm
  

  Clint
  

  
  

  
  

  "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
• 

  3/26, 9:23pm
  

  Jane
  

  
  

  
  

  Love you.
• 

  3/26, 9:25pm
  

  Clint
  

  
  

  
  

  Do it mom. Walk down those stairs. Take the world head on
• 

  3/26, 9:31pm
  

  Max
  

  
  

  
  

  Don't live in fear

  
  

  Fear is the mind killer

  
  

  Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration
• 3/26, 9:33
• 

  3/26, 9:33pm
  

  Max
  

  
  

  
  

• 3/26, 9:34pm
  

  
  

About once a month I wish I were married. 

Saturday was one of those days. 

It would have been nice to have a man manage the lighting at the lake, handle the mice in the cupboard, help with getting the washed duvets back on the quilts, and brutally killing every possum in the greater Cultus Lake area. 

Knowing me, I'm more likely to fall in love with a guy who quotes Tolkien than one who can protect my head from rabid rodents. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I eventually did walk down those front steps, (after having a chat with the Creator of Possums and Other Nasty Things). fearless as I anticipated of all the amazing possibilities that lay beyond that bottom step. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three things I'm thankful for:

1. Charles (Tracy's husband) passed away on Good Friday and is with Jesus. Thankful for unwavering faith and hope in eternal life.

2. Easter. Everything about it. Jesus dying. And his resurrection. Forgiven sin. Unconditional love.

3. Purdy's chocolate.

4. John (and Val's) willingness to check my traps on Sunday and dispose the wee dead rodent bodies. 

5. Max's 5 YEARS CLEAN date was this weekend. So thankful and proud. 

6. I love the way my boys love each other. Haha. While I will never understand their need for trending, cutting edge, expensive, name brand clothing and accessories, they understand and support each other in it. So to celebrate Max's milestone, they arranged to purchase some designer, limited edition sneakers from an Asian fellow who was advertising them on Craigslist. The transaction was to go down at a skytrain station at 10 pm on Easter Sunday. Clint was the go to person. Max now has his shoes, as a symbol of love, and his feet are very happy. 

7. My sister. She turned 50 this weekend! I love Keg dinners. 

8. I love having girls in the family... Skip Bo.

9. SO thankful for doctors and hospitals. Last week Drew was out with the flu. He just wasn't recovering as quickly as we thought he should so at midnight (last Thursday?) I took him to emergency. They did blood work, checked his vitals, checked his urine, etc, and told him he was going to live a long and happy life. Still took a couple days after that to feel normal, but eventually he made it back to work.

Then Danica, who is still recovering from her back surgery, got severe headaches. Headaches that were so painful, she was vomiting. So her doctor recommended she get to emergency, where they hooked her up to an iv, then suspecting Meningitis, tapped her spinal column to test the fluid. It came back clear, But three days later she still had debilitating headaches so the nurse who comes to check her surgical dressings daily, suggested she follow up. So back to the hospital - and this time they did a CT Scan of her skull.  Again - it came back clear.

My poor girl has been through so much this month. 

But she too, is on the mend.  

So grateful that we live in Canada. 

Shalom, friends,

xo