Funniest Five Momfinitions

Inspired by Momfinitions at ParentsConnect.com, my 5 Momfinitions -- I don't think I need to tell you that all of these are actual and true words in our household, but I just did *wink*

This first one comes from my mom & has been handed down lovingly to both myself and my sister. It surprisingly sees a lot of use.

Beepleberry
noun: Any round-ish object (bead, button, game piece, decorated ponytail holder) for which you, in your addled & busy parental state of existence, can no longer remember the name. As in, "Jackie, hand me that beepleberry over there on the dresser."

(No, it doesn't really help anyone looking for the object; but just knowing that I share the same frustrations -- and memory loss -- as my mother and sister is somehow oddly comforting.)

C'mere Sneer
noun: The look on a child's face when they are going to show you something they know you will find unpleasant & they will not be found guilty of of responsible for. As in, "C'mere and see what Johnny did."

C'mere Fear
noun: The apprehension & fear a parent feels when asked to come see something a child has discovered or created.

A recent example:

Destiny: "Dad, c'mere... There's something weird on the fence."

Dad follows (while I, not addressed directly, remained in the house full of c'mere fear).

Dad returns, child is in her room, reading.

Me: "Well?"

Dad: "A bird must have had a heart attack or something while perched on the fence by the basketball hoop, & now it's stuck there. I checked to see if it can be knocked off -- with a poke of a stick -- but it's really stuck there."

Me: "What?!"

He repeats what he just said.

I head out to look.

Freaked & disgusted, I return to the house.

Me: "Did you take a picture of it?"

Dad: "No."

Me: "Really? You take photos of everything..."

Then I headed out to take photos for you, dear blog reader.



(Sorry if they are hard to see; the sun was behind the black bird body.)

I'm not in agreement over the cause of death; it looks more like a tornado blasted the poor bird into our fence. But we've had no tornado or gale force winds... Nor am I going to perform a bird autopsy to prove it. Draw your own conclusions.

OK, back to the remaining momfinitions.

C'mere Smear
noun: The residue left on your person after a child has tugged on you &/or your clothing in order to get you to follow them.

(I can only count myself lucky that Destiny did not touch this or hubby or I when she came to get someone to see the dead bird!)

Rearitis
noun: 1) The condition which afflicts your child so that he or she is the last one out the door, last one in line, etc.; to "bring up the rear" consistently & chronically.

2) The condition which afflicts your child (or spouse) in such a way that they fail or are unable to shut doors behind them; to have such a long tail, that, though invisible, it prevents the closing of doors.

Permissive Parents, Stop Ruining Your Children

I was at the doctor's again; this time to have my stitches removed. In yet another exam room, the prominently placed sign: "Do not allow children to open drawers or touch the equipment."

It is not just my jaded opinion, but verified with the staff, that these signs are needed because parents are far too permissive with their children. And it's not just the lazy parents who don't actually supervise their children, but those who angrily defend their "right" to let their children touch whatever they want.

I first started seeing this when working retail when we mere clerks served double-duty as retail employees and babysitters/prison matrons to parents who let their children climb shelving, spin & sit under clothing racks, run behind the cash-wrap desks and play with the registers, scoot under fitting room doors, etc. Naturally, it is an uncomfortable place to be in, to mention to parents that their child is doing is wrong, so typically we just phrased the infractions as alerts. It didn't really have the desired affects.

"Excuse me, but your son is behind the counter," was met with the whiny, "But Johnny is curious," or the more superior & defensive, "I believe it is best to encourage curiosity in children."

When, "Excuse me, M'am, but your child is climbing the denim wall..." was met with a blank stare, you'd continue, "The wall really isn't designed for that; it's not safe." Often, after yelling at her child to get off the wall, the mom would angrily stride for the door, loudly & indignantly announcing how she would, "never shop here again; the store store staff is too rude!"

But my favorites were the parents who would point store clerks out to their children saying, "See that mean lady over there? You'd better behave in here, or she'll get you." (No wonder so many children freak-out in shopping malls!) In truth, there's little we can do in today's world of "Don't touch/talk to/admonish/ my child!" So it was a 50-50 split as to if the kid would run-a-muck or not

From there, it's only gotten worse, for as I aged and had children & my friends & extended family had children, I then had to face bratty children in other settings allowed to the same or worse -- including in my own home.

I just don't get it.

Back in my day, when we rode dinosaurs, it never even entered my head to open a drawer or cabinet at the doctor's office. Not because 'doctors are gods'; but I was then -- and still am -- operating from the very same sense of privacy & respect given to the drawers and cabinets at other people's homes. It's not my stuff; so I have business prying. And I teach my children the same.

But apparently this is no longer commonplace.

This shouldn't be so surprising to me; after all these years, I've seen enough permissive parents & their bratty children that my eyebrows should not be able to get any higher. But still, it's shocking to think that the numbers, the percentages, have grown so high that doctors' offices must make signs & post them in every room.

Reading them filled me with a great sense of shame -- how dare our society be so rude & reckless that we force people to make signs to admonish what should be commonsense, common courtesy.

In all of these situations of permissiveness, the parents not only risk their child's safety, & potentially the safety of others, but they undermine their own authority with their children and give their children a sense of entitlement.

Even if the children are not physically harmed, they are crippled by developing a belligerent sense of entitlement.

It is part of a parent's duties to teach their children better, to demand that they give respect in order to earn it; when they don't, they end up with brats, bullies and the sorts of children and adults that no one respects or wants to be around.

When "Not Tonight, Honey, I Have A Headache" Is Good News For Your Breasts

WebMD reports that a Follow-up Study Confirms That Migraine Headache Sufferers Have Lower Breast Cancer Risk:

Women who experience migraine headaches have a significantly lower risk of getting breast cancer than those who don't suffer the headaches, according to a new study.

The recent study is a follow-up to research published in 2008 that also found migraine headache sufferers have a significantly reduced risk of getting breast cancer. The newer study has thousands more participants from a wider age range than did the previous one.

"It does appear that migraines may protect women from breast cancer, and that it's equally protective for both younger and older women," says Christopher Li, MD, PhD, the lead author of both studies and a breast cancer epidemiologist and associate member of the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center's Public Health Sciences Division in Seattle.

"We see a 26% reduction in risk associated with migraine," he tells WebMD. The study is published in Cancer Epidemiology, Biomarkers & Prevention.

This is the first good news I've had about my migraines. (And now I'm off to call my migraine suffering mom & tell her the good news too.)

More Thoughts On Autsim & Acting

It continues to be difficult yet surprising for me to watch my daughter perform in public. Last week, at Trollwood's celebration of the end of the summer performing arts camp (called "Sun Celebration"), I once again watched my daughter perform.

I have to say that she was the best in the "Acting For The Camera" class -- and that's a big call for me because, as I have shared, I tend to spend more time protectively yet critically watching her, her interactions with others (and their reactions to her), comparing her to the others in terms of performance & acceptance among her classmates. So when this mother claims her kid was the best, it's a really big (and slightly uncomfortable) deal. I was so proud of her! Very emotional, but I struggled to maintain "normal parent appearance" for everyone's sake.

During the musical production number Allie was in, I did notice that she, in typical Asperger's fashion, had her eyes locked upwards, towards the ceiling. It seems that all my years of coaching her to look people in the face when speaking to them worked very well for the scenes she worked with one other student actor; but when on stage in a musical number, facing the audience, she does not know where to look, how to smile out towards the audience, etc. Something I think I may address with her... Or possibly contact Trollwood about in terms of educating their instructors. (Allie cannot be the only spectrum person they will work with at Trollwood, let alone in other settings.)

But my fears of Allie's continued interest in (obsession with) the performing arts are now shifting from "will she fit in?" to the more typical cautions that most parents of kids who dream of being on the stage (or directing etc. etc.). My main focus now is to convince her to keep a day job, continue her education, while she works toward The Dream in such a highly competitive job market.

This is one time, I know her resistance to "the practical" is completely as to be expected. ;)

July 9th Version of Thursday Thunks

The Thursday Thunks meme:

1. Do you tend to have a guilty conscious?

No. Why -- do you think I should?

2. Do you still have your wisdom teeth?

Nope. And thanks for bringing up the painful memory of the removal of impacted molars, pudding & blood clots.

3. Peanut Butter - creamy or crunchy?

Creamy. (But hubby loves the crunchy -- of course, he also butters his bread first, then puts on the peanut butter. This requires his wife to nag him about regular cholesterol screenings.)

4. Get up off your butt. Take 5 steps. Which leg did you start out on?

My right leg.

5. What color is your favorite kitchen utensil?

The rubber spatula that's covered in (and continually dips into) cake & cookie batter. Yum.

6. Did you watch the Michael Jackson memorial/funeral?

I saw parts of it on other shows, blogs etc. (Was it actually possible to avoid it without changing your life?)

7. Do you know anyone who graduated from high school this year? Were you invited to their graduation party? Did you go?

Yes, yes, and no. (Maybe I should change the answer to #1 after all...)

8. White with black stripes or black with white stripes?

Depends on my shoes.

9. If we were to call your 6th grade teacher, what would they say about you?

She, like all the others, would all remember my sister. Even though she was two grades behind me, she made the impressions. It was weird being the older sister who when she got to class heard, "Oh, you must be Jackie's sister!"

10. Can you draw a perfect circle?

I don't think I've tried (can't think of anything I draw that requires a perfect circle; it's usually natural things).

11. What was your favorite scratch & sniff sticker scent?

The one not in the room. I get serious headaches from such chemical concoctions.

12. What does your sibling do for a living?

The famous Jackie is an (infamous) corporate attorney. (And her reputation making abilities do help her intimidate today!)

13. How many light switches and electrical outlets are in the room that you are in right now?

Who can tell with all the bookshelves?

14. Do you know sign language?

No. I've always thought it should be taught along with English (and worldwide, with their native/usual language classes) from the beginning of school.

15. Do you step on cracks in the sidewalk?

I neither walk to step on nor avoid them (unless they present a danger). I am usually walking with purpose (to the grocery store, library etc.), talking with children &/or husband, &/or enjoying the scenery on a stroll and too absorbed in something else to notice.

16. And the sheets on your bed look like....?

Umm, simple plain white, I believe. With lots of pet hair. (A per-pet-ual problem.)

17. What is something that everyone else has, but you don't?

I don't know everyone else has. I don't concern myself with The Joneses unless they are a danger to themselves or others, need help, or something. As for family & friends, I don't view things in the "have vs. have-not" sort of a way... And as the mom of special needs kids, I don't view traits, skills, needs, etc. that way either. Things are a process.

Defying Autism? More Like Damning Autism

When asked to participate in the blog tour for Defying Autism by Karen Mayer Cunningham, I responded by saying:

I'd be interested in reviewing a copy of this book, possibly interviewing the author... But I must warn you, I'm rather skeptical about this. As the parent of a (now adult) child on the autism spectrum, I'm really a hard sell on cures -- no matter how miraculous.

Let me know if you/the author are up to the challenge...

Karen Power of Christian Speaker Services, the one organizing the blog book tour, replied favorably:

I totally understand. And, Karen Mayer Cunningham isn't trying to push the cure. It's her story, her journey, and what she learned along the way. I think it's more for the mothers/parents than about the cure.

I have to include this information along with my review for several reasons.

First of all, after 20 years parenting my own child with Asperger's, I've run the gambit, from spiritual to scientific, from dietary to "refrigerator mom" (and even less flattering approaches), only to end up where we are today, with a daughter with serious delays who remains on the spectrum. So I'm more than a little skeptical about "cures for autism."

Secondly, I want to be fair with this book review and provide a disclaimer of my own beliefs as well as documentation of my stance with the folks involved in promoting the book.

A few other reasons will be illuminated along the way.

Defying Autism: A Miraculous Story Of Hope by Karen Mayer Cunningham is an easy to read slim book of 115 pages which, unless you are upset by the material, can easily be read in an hour or two. The first two chapters deal with Karen's return as the prodigal-esque daughter -- and frankly, as I read them, I wondered why they were included in the book. But as we near the end of Biblical proportions, such context adds to the story. For you see, once Karen's son James becomes difficult & is diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum, a large part of Karen's guilt centers around belief that she is, through her son, being punished for being less than perfect.

This is not uncommon among the parents of special needs children; even if you aren't particularly religious. Nor is the reaction/response of Karen's husband, Tom, who accuses Karen of being a bad mother. Guilt is typically the inward path of blame that women take; males tend to externalize their blame. This is a large part of why many marriages between parents of special needs children end in divorce.

If these issues were familiar to me, the problems with school & childcare providers were doubly so.

Like Karen, I'd had to battle schools & utter very real threats of legal actions and media attentions. I'd also had horrible scenes & difficult times with childcare (from baby sitters to childcare centers) because those providing the childcare had no clue what to do. I've faced the same ignorance, accusations & animosity Karen faced -- and then some, because my daughter was actually booted from childcare centers & punished at school, despite her "special ed kid" stamp. So I knew how Karen felt when she & her family were treated so poorly by their church's childcare & the public school.

I sighed & ached as I read of Karen's external battles & internal struggles; it certainly isn't easy parenting special needs children. Especially when the child "looks normal" but then displays otherwise. Like Karen, I've often thought that if my child looked special (had Down's or was in a wheelchair, for example), that more allowances & understanding would be given -- to both the child and the parent. (But I wouldn't, as the author does on page 72, call a classically autistic child "deathly, deathly ill with no hope for a cure.")

Also unlike the author, I've never received any such miracle healing of my child.

It's not that I have not prayed; it's not that others have not prayed for my daughter. It's just that my daughter's situation remains (albeit some advancement due to continuing professional assistance, counseling, medication for sleep/stress, & ongoing education).

Having tried various spiritual treatments (finding them at best supportive to me emotionally -- the power of which should not be underestimated), I am not comfortable suggesting a miracle cure as a way to extend hope to other parents. It's rather dubious, actually. For it is at this point of non-miracle that one must then realize the doorway is open for such questions as:

• "If playing Christian music, anointing with oil, &/or other rituals of faith combined with prayer were all that was required to receive God's attention, His miracle, then why do so many suffer?"
• "Am I so sinful that my child must suffer?"
• "Am I of the right church?"
• "Do I follow the right God?"

All of this is not only more guilt for mother ("Are my sins are too great?") but dangerous rhetoric ("Whose God is greater?"). We parents did not "give" our children autism; that's self-defeating and does not support our children. All faiths offer forgiveness and each faith can offer up miracle healings of their own; but still, what a dangerous argumentative path in our times of intolerance.

While I certainly do not begrudge James his healing, Karen her miracle, or anyone their belief in faith, I can, as I do with Jenny McCarthy, remain skeptical & express concern over what is offered as hope but comes with so much rejection. And in this case, it comes with judgment too.

On page 111:

Not every autistic child is demonically possessed, but autism is a curse. In that sense, it must be seen as an oppressive and tormenting force that must be faced with more than just the standard social service tools. The enemy of God wants the people of God ignorant and in despair; this is the ultimate curse. But the Father is in the curse-busting business, and so whether He leads us to phenomenally gifted physicians and clinicians, or to alternative therapies, or to those who know how to address spiritual matters in the power of the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth, He wants us to be free. He wants our children to be free.

Calling autism a "curse" is more than just dangerous in terms of guilt & religious intolerance; it's damning of the individual with autism.

There are things equal-to or worse than autism (where is God during such "curses" as domestic violence, rape, murder, war?) and many on the spectrum would not change who they are. In fact, some folks, such as my daughter's therapist, call autism a gift. Others might not go so far as to call it a gift (I personally struggle with that label myself; from time to time asking for the gift receipt so that I might exchange my daughter's Asperger's for the singing talent to win American Idol), but, like Horton says, "A person's a person," no matter where they sit on the autism spectrum.

If Defying Autism is, as Powers says, "more for the mothers/parents than about the cure," then the author goes about it all wrong. If this bit, from page 110, doesn't "promise a cure," it sure implies it:

This is something only God can do. This is bigger than what the medical field could promise or state agencies manage or those with good intentions assist. It is called a miracle.

(There's a reason people in the medical field don't promise a cure; they'd get sued.)

As the mother of one child diagnosed Asperger's (and one being screened for the spectrum), I found the condemnation of a "curse" far overshadowing any ability to commiserate, let alone be hopeful. In fact, I found Karen Mayer Cunningham's book inflammatory & antagonizing.

It's difficult to say that even if the author had skipped the whole curse bit if I'd have felt better about the book... But she didn't and the aftertaste is too bitter, too strong.

But I suppose, if you are feeling isolated in parenting a child on the autism spectrum (and are unwilling to get yourself to one of the plethora of online networks or real-world support groups), Defying Autism might help you feel less alone... Similarly, if you've got a relative who just doesn't "get it", this book might help them understand some of your struggles, fears, guilts etc... But for me, suggesting someone learn more about autism by reading a copy of a book that calls my kid "cursed" would be horrific. (Would you call your child in a wheelchair "cursed" or "demonically possessed?" I don't think so.)

In any case, I'd caution readers against expecting a healing miracle.

And you might be better off tearing out page 111 entirely.

Medical Moments: July Begins With A Bang

July 1: Had two cysts removed. One on my arm that I'd had for 7-8 years (thought it was a over-the-counter product resistant wart) and one on my breast (the start & end of cellulitis).

Not quite prepared for:

The local does not "sting" -- it burns. Burns like hell.

Surreal moments when you see where the action in on your body, say as the doctor stitches up your arm, but you feel tugging elsewhere, like at your elbow.

Though the cysts were dot-like, the eye-shaped holes where they once were are long and deep; resulting in centipede-like stitches and "dents" where the meat was. Someone should have warned me.

My body mourned the loss by making me weepy. (Family completely enjoyed mocking me.)

July 5: Went in about 6 a.m. with incomprehensible, unbearable chest & back pain. After hours in emergency room, upper GI, EKG, x-rays and assorted other tests, I was pronounced as "not having a heart attack."

Comforting? Yes... But...

For that much pain, and all those tests, you think you should know more.

Or that they would at least know more.

I was sent home with a script for 12 pain pills and a sheet of paper that said "atypical chest pain."

Hunter Hughes Or Mortgage Blues? It's Tough To Choose

My son turned 9 today.

Not being able to see him for his birthday I am reminded why... And that just makes me sad & ill.

To cheer myself up, I am writing a little conversation we had just about two months ago.

After talking about the girls' plans for "the future," careers & whatnot, I turned to Hunter and asked, "So, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Without skipping a beat, he replied, "A hobo."

"Why is that?" I managed to ask rather nonchalantly.

"Because I'm not going to put all my money into a house."

My son, the future hobo. Is this a result of the current influx of media coverage of bad home loans, or is he just planning on being the next Howard Hughes?

Can't Get Enough Of Me(me)

Elizabeth tagged me. OK, so she tagged me at Kitsch Slapped; but since this meme is personal silliness & probably not something Twolia would like to pay me for, I'm doing it here. Send all hate mail to the comment box below.

Meme Rules:
1. Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention; add a question of your own.
2. Tag eight other un-tagged people.

1. What is your current obsession?

I can have only one?! Or I guess they only want me to list one... Which, from the sound of it, I should say I'm currently obsessing about Directions V. Implications. But in my heart, I'm still obsessing over my ride on a toy train to Death Valley where I met Native & Japanese Americans (the latter of which were photographed by Ansel Adams), so the short answer is T. R. Goodwin.

I could have just said his name, right? But then you probably wouldn't have recognized it let alone even considered clicking it. (You know I'm right.)

2. What do you see outside your window?

The cute 1020's apartment building across the street is having a bit of a face lift.

3. If you could have any super power what would it be?

The ability to end apathy.

4. Which animal would you be?

OK, this picking one thing... You just don't understand. I'm a Gemini, people. Well, a Gemini-Cancer cusp, baby, which makes me a moody set of twins. Gemini's have great difficulty picking "just one" of anything -- how do you think a moody one can do it?

If I must...

I choose human -- because I like the opposable thumbs and the ability to read & write.

5. Who was the last person you hugged?

My husband.

6.What is your favorite color?

Purple

7. What's your favorite food in the whole world?

Sheesh, another "favorite" question. I'm going to say Diet Coke simply because it's the one food (hey, you buy it in a grocery store) I constantly have.

8. What's the last thing you bought?

A copy of a Death Valley '49ers "Keepsake" booklet on T.R. Goodwin, published in 1978; I told you I was obsessed about him.

9. What are you listening to right now?

Pink's Stupid Girls. (Stopping now to dance & sing. BRB.)

10. If you could buy one object right now, what would it be?

How much money do I have? Is this one of those "if money weren't a problem" questions or a "what are you currently lusting for" questions? I refuse to answer on the grounds that A) I'll be giving the wrong answer &/or B) enticing other bidders into a bidding war with Ms Shallow-Pockets.

11. What's on your beside table?

What's not on the dresser by the bed?! Keys, jewelry, books, cards, lube, knick-knacks & paddy-whacks of all sorts.

12. If you could have a house totally paid for, and fully furnished, anywhere in the world, where would it be?

Right now, given the family situations, I'd say Minneapolis.

13. What piddly, rather insignificant, selfish wish do you hold in your pathetic little heart right now?

That more people would participate in my carnivals: History Is Ephemeral Carnival & New Vintage Reviews Carnival.

14. What is your favorite children's book?

I'm going to take the time to seek help for one of my favorite books from my childhood... I don't know the name or anything. But the cover was pinkish-purple and it was about two dinosaurs (or maybe a rhino & a hippo?) on a picnic. As I recall, the illustrations were black, white & grey sketches, not brightly colored. Anyone know of it?

15. What is your biggest fear/phobia?

Intolerance.

16. What's the bravest thing you've done in the past year?

Allowing myself to be photographed for a magazine article -- and, now, showing you.

17. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?

Just an hour? Then I say to bed for a nap. (An hour in any museum or coveted destination spot would only be a tease for me.)

18. What did you want to become as a child?

A horse.

No, this does not negate #4,

19. What posters/pictures do you have on your bedroom wall?

Nothing. Nadda. Zip. We moved to that bedroom when the eldest moved out to the group home two years ago and we haven't made the time to attack such a project. (Mainly because the walls of this old house are plaster -- and one of the bedroom walls has the old 'eves slant' -- which makes hanging the giant antique frames & sconces a real bitch).

20. What is your plan for tomorrow?

To wake up and prioritize the day based on what drama has unfolded & what I didn't accomplish today.

21. What was your first job?

Working at family rummage sales -- I think we began to do that (even handle money) when we were like 5 & 7.

22. Say something to the person/s who tagged you:

Elizabeth, I totally could have stolen your answer to #18, which was, "Archaeologist, writer, artist, mom." Except for the "mom" part. I never was that into kids. Even as kid myself. I was a bookish, nerdy loner & pair bonding to create a kid was so removed from my world.

23.Post a favorite childhood photograph of yourself.

My sister doing my hair -- I call it "Beauty School Drop-Outs."



I tag... While the vanity of #22 is tempting, I don't want to annoy anyone. So anyone who wants to play, go ahead (and let me know if you do!)

For The (un)Love Of Black Fashions

TwitterMoms has posted yet another contest, this one on children's fashions:

To participate, simply write a post on your own blog that shows us your kid’s style! Feel free to upload photos, videos, etc. of your kids showing off their style in their favorite outfits. The only requirement we ask is that your post includes at least one link to www.childrensplace.com so your readers can see their colorful new summer collection. Then return to this discussion page, post a comment below summarizing your blog post, and include an active link to your qualifying blog entry.

I've recently written about Destiny and her obsession with black clothing -- again, not "goth" but "rocker style" -- and I'd love to get her into something less, well, obsessive. I don't so much mind such dress as I do the "black is a requirement" dealio McBob. See how cute she is as The Fonz!? Adorable!



Summer is about the only time I can get her to consider other colors. I remind her of how hot black is in the sun and she considers a few pieces that aren't black. If I actually won a gift certificate, I could probably steer her towards this monkey tee, maybe some solid color bermuda shorts... The trick with a tween is to not suggest it -- unless it's at a "this or nothing" point. (They always take something rather than nothing!)

But the only way I'm likely to get a gift certificate, is if y'all leave lots of comments (and comments about your kids' fashion style or your troubles about how your kid dresses); so consider it, will ya?

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Life Lessions In Lesions (Or, The Gross But Necessary Breast Post)

On Easter Sunday I had to take myself to the emergency room. It took me an hour & a half to convince myself it was necessary, even if I wasn't bleeding or otherwise looking like my life was in peril... Bad things had gone on long enough.

A few weeks ago, I was charmed (not!) to discover that I had a zit on the underside of my left breast. I know; what a complete "Eeeiiiwww!" But ladies, especially those ladies with large breasts, know that break-out on the bosom happens -- especially on the underside of the breast because, between bra cups & underwires, and, when you dare to go braless, the underside rests against your chest. The skin cannot breathe, and is often moist, perfect for bacteria etc.

Typically I slap a bit of Wayne's Whoop-Ass Healing Balm on the offending zit. (Seriously, that stuff is awesome!) Every now and then, when the zit is behaving stubbornly (and is twice as ugly), I apply the old hot water compress. Even in the worst case scenario, things come to a head and heal within a few days.

But not this sucker.

This zit was not your usual zit.

After sticking around over a week -- despite all my TLC -- it was only becoming more angry. After two weeks, on the Saturday before Easter, it was not only a zit with no head, but there was a hot, angry, red patch of skin surrounding it, working it's way towards my nipple...

I did just have my mammogram around the new year, and all was fine; surely if there was anything that was gonna burst out of my breast they would have seen it coming. But naturally such rational thinking did little when faced with such ugliness. So I probed, gently (which still pissed-off the zit and made 1/4 of my size E breast ache), lifting the skin to grab it to see if it was attached to my breast tissue. It felt like it was all "in my skin" only... There was a lumpier pocket where the zit was... But the red area wasn't just hot and sore -- the skin was thicker... Like a stale pancake or the hard top layer of Jello; bendable, but thick and sorta rigid too.

I gently washed it, applied a hot compress, then dried it and put on some of the healing balm before heading to bed.

The next morning I awoke to discover that nearly 1/2 of my breast was now red-hot angry. It hurt just awful. It was so bad, I refused sex with my husband.

"Let me see it," he says.

"No, you'll never want to have sex with me again -- at least not in the missionary position," I say.

But he does look at it; pronounces it an infection, as if that was "all" it was, and gave me the "let's continue" look. Uh, no, thanks.

Before dressing for Easter Sunday with family I applied more balm, popped some aspirin, and hoped it would just heal already.

When I returned home that evening, I was sore and tired. More washing & balm (was it bigger or was I imagining that?), more aspirin -- and a nap. I woke up feeling a bit better, but by the time dinner was over, I began thinking...

What if overnight it again doubled itself? Clearly this was no ordinary zit... What was it? The heat told me it was an infection, but what was that thing that, originally anyway, looked like a zit? With no other terminology, I called it a boil. Wasn't the treatment for a boil rather like a zit? But then it wasn't working and there was clearly an infection... But does one really go to the hospital for an emergency room boil lancing procedure? Not that I really wanted one. But it hurt. And it was ugly. Oh, gawd, if I went, not only would I be "the woman with the boil on her breast," but I'd have to say it out loud. In public. Oh ick. But after my son was hospitalized for three days because of an infection from a dog bite, I don't like to underestimate infections. In just a few hours, you couldn't find the nose on Hunter's face... What could this infection do, engulf my boob? Sounds funny, but it wasn't. Round & round I went with myself for 90 minutes until I decided that pride be damned, infections could be serious, and if it was worth an hour & a half of thinking, I should shut up and drive to the hospital.

There was the humiliating experience of announcing my problem to the registration staff person. There was the added humiliation of having to repeat it two more times -- to the intake nurse and then the doctor.

I used humor to diffuse my embarrassment. I was cracking jokes my whole time there. See, I have an anxiety condition (PTSD from domestic violence) and the whole thing made me nervous as hell. Which not only means I'm seconds away from crying, but my blood pressure goes up and then I have to explain that it's just nervousness & have them take it again... Which reminds me that the new-fangled automatic computerized blood pressure cuffs hurt -- actually leaves me bruised. And so I hate having to have them take it again -- nearly as much as I hate to tell people I'm an emotional mess. So it's make jokes and have a (possible) reason to cackle, or risk having them consider admitting me to the psych ward for emitting too much maniacal laughter -- while tears stream down my face.

But I digress.

There was the nearly comical reaction of the doctor's assistant who had to touch my breast and the affected area -- twice. Each time with a sourpuss look on her face followed by a dash to the wall dispenser of hand sanitizer and a furious scrubbing of her hands.

I know it's gross, lady, but I bet at some point in your career you've been wrist-deep in a cadaver and experienced human excrement; how's a breast boil so much worse?

(Note: The doctor wasn't so reactionary, but I guess that's 'cuz he doesn't have a breast to imagine that on.)

Anyway, after a brief Q & A (how long have you had it, me describing my treatment of it, assurance that I just had a mammogram, etc.) and several words ending in "itis" etc., the determination was "an infection." Antibiotics would be the remedy. (Initial relief at no lancing; but then, "Oh, joy, a yeast infection will be here soon!") But because the doc couldn't feel a "puss sack" he wanted an ultrasound just to be sure...

Sure of what? My nervous brain wanted to know. Looking for a "puss sack" was the answer. Oh, so if chapter one was "The Breast Boil Lady", chapter two was "Looking For A Puss Sack". What an utterly charming story this was becoming.

While awaiting escort to the ultrasound, a very cool nurse tried to get an iv with an antibiotic started. I politely warned her that I'm a hard stick & that my veins blow too; she shouldn't take it personally. Of good cheer, she proceeded, confident in her ability -- greatly underestimating my non-cooperative blood vessels. Bless her, she both tried and was kind.

While she waited, gently slapping my arms to get a vessel to sit up & take notice, I regaled her with amusing stories of other iv experiences. Like when I was giving birth to my son, how the young nurse couldn't stick me either. And I told her that it was because I was royalty; that's where the expression "blue bloods" came from, our delicate thin, blue veins. It was a joke -- but she didn't get it. She was amazed -- on her way out she repeated it to another nurse, in all seriousness. *eyeball roll*

(Whenever I tell that story, I have to include the part about how during very painful labor I rhythmically chanted, "I would not, could not, in a boat..." To which the amazed & impressionable young nurse cooed in reply, "Oh, how beautiful, I've never had a laboring mom quote poetry before!" Dr. Seuss is poetry? I mean come on. That's when I ordered my mom to get that girl away from me.)

But I digress. Again.

While I babbled on the emergency room nurse laughed -- which probably helped her mood as she grappled with my non-compliant arm veins. But even she of positive attitude had to give up on my arms. I suggested my wrists; the veins are very visible there. "Oh no, that's really really painful," she warned. She gave my hand a try -- very painfully in, & then the damn disrespectful vein blew.

I asked what would happen next... Since I was going to get a script for antibiotics, couldn't they just increase them & skip the iv antibiotic? She looked at me and seriously shook her head and then quickly said, "Oh don't worry, I've only got two tries and then I pass you onto another nurse." To which I blurted, "But what if she can't either?" She continued on, "There are only 9 of us working tonight," oblivious to my horror. "So I'm looking at 18 stab-sticks before we move onto option B?!"

She went to get another nurse. A not so nice nurse. A gruff by comparison nurse. Ah, but the ultrasound tech is here and I have to go!

A momentary reprieve before I remember we're looking for a "puss sack" and start to sweat away at least the bottom half of the magic marker dotted lines Nurse Sourpuss-Wash-My-Hands-Too-Vigorously had made to monitor the size of the infection area.

Embarrassed & literally sweating out what was to happen next, I ask her -- to ease my tension, you know -- if my boil was a boy or a girl. Ba-dum-dum!

"'Cuz maybe after all this fuss, I should name it..." I babble on.

Inside to myself I'm screaming, "Shut up already!" but it's babble jokingly or cry, so I say, "I suppose I shouldn't say that; you'll admit me to a different floor..."

"No, we don't do that here. We'd kick you to the curb," she says. Images of homeless mentally ill people flood my mind. It's a sobering thought & mercifully I shut up for a bit.

Then I ask, "What are we looking for here..." I don't expect her to reply with anything other than, "The doctor will tell you that," but the tech shows me the infected area, the skin line, that the infection was not in my breast tissue, and that there was no abscess to drain (back to that lancing option, were we?).

Just as I started to relax she told me she had been called from home to come in and do my ultrasound. I didn't have any jokes for that. I apologized and just thought to myself... Umm, what didn't I know about me, my boob, and my boil sorry, my infection that required a person to get out of bed at night on a holiday? I've seen that on ER, and that's not ever good.

Oh, but the gruff nurse was waiting for me; I had more attacks at sticking me to distract me for the time being.

She tied that rubber thing on my arm so tight that all but the tails of the knot disappeared in the flesh of my arm. I complained and got the gruff tough love explanation of how a tourniquet works. Uh, yeah, I know that; but sheesh when I came in here tonight my pain was a 2 or a 3 and now it was at a 5... Could we be a little nicer?

Oh, and can't we just give me a larger script for oral antibiotics and skip this iv mess?

"Oh, no then you'd need the shot."

"Fine, the shot can't be any worse than all this painful sticking."

"No, this shot hurts."

I don't think she understood the pain I was experiencing.

Anyway, this nurse fares no better -- in fact, she doesn't even try to stab me but instead, after minutes of none-to-gently slapping my arms, she says she's going to go get this lady EMT who "can stick anyone in a vehicle bouncing down the road." Awesome, I'll go anywhere to get this stabbing over with -- take me to the bouncing rescue vehicle!

But I didn't have to leave; she came to me.

She assess my multiple stab wounds & frowns; suggests my wrist.

"That's what I said, but the first nurse said it hurts a lot."

"I think it hurts worse on the hand than the wrist," she says matter-of-factly.

What the hell, let's try it.

It worked. It hurt a lot (about the same as the hand, I'd say), but it was done.

Now for the iv antibiotic. Twenty minutes of sitting and reading from the book I'd brought for the waiting area. But then, in calling hubby (so he doesn't worry about how long this is all taking), it occurs to me that I've never had this much fuss ever. Forget about the problems sticking me (I'm trying to), emergency room ultrasounds from staff that had to be called from home? Intravenous antibiotics? In addition to multiple scripts for simultaneous antibiotics? And I have to return to the urgent care center tomorrow to have it looked at again? Just what the hell did I have?

Well, as it turns out, the check-out slip says I have cellulitis. So it was a good thing I went in. Even if it was all so bizarre.

I went home and have followed all instructions -- except the "keep the area raised on pillows" because the whole area is a pillow. The directive to "rest until healed" is easy to do because cellulitis knocks you on your ass.

Days later, I've still got an ugly breast. See?



I'd apologize for this photo's grossness, but felt it was important to show women what it looks like -- so that those who recognize something like this on their own breast know to get medical attention. Got this thing or one like it? Get thee to a doctor.

I apologize for the photo's blurriness. I had to take it myself because hubby now doesn't want to see my icky boob. When I hinted at sex he was looking at my (fully covered) breast with that "Eeeiwww" expression.

"What, now that it's getting better, you don't want to see it?"

"I didn't know how gross it was; now that I do, no thank you."

Nice.

But I can wait him out. *wink*

Oh, and should you ever need to know, I was told by the doctor who gave me my follow-up exam the next day, that increased redness at the infection site for the 36 hours following antibiotics is normal. It seems contrary, but give it a few days and it will start to clear up.

And that concludes today's life lessons in lesions.

Adieu.