Blog title borrowed from poet Ted Kooser
Around noon today my awesome plastic surgeon switched out my temporary implants for my forever boobs. Luis said that when he came to talk to him afterwards he was really happy with the result. I’m so excited to see them when I change the bandages tomorrow. AND they took out my port!
Last year, in the toddler classroom at his school, Diego had his first crush. It was serious business. He and Valentina were peasinapod all year. When it came time to choose pre-school classrooms, we chose Yellow Door for D and they chose Aqua Door for V. We didn’t see her over the summer. One morning last week—the first week of school—we ran into her in the courtyard. D lit up like a thousand-watt bulb. That evening, when he and I lay in his bed talking about his day at school, I asked him if he played on the playground. “No, Mami,” he said. “I didn’t play on the playground because I was standing at the fence looking and looking for Valentina.”
Relevant to the quote I posted a few days ago, about clinging to old ways of being that do not serve us and/or are destructive, I’ve been focusing on paying attention to my internal chatter. Wow, what a bitch I am to myself! I’m so hard on myself, it’s crazy. Another crazy thing is that so many of us are. I’ve started noticing when I put myself down, and I change direction and talk to myself the way I would talk to anyone I love. I do this when I’m frustrated with other people, too. I think, “What is the loving thing to do right now?” Man, it’s a game changer.
It’s so awkward
when your kids start disciplining their toys.
Surgery for forever boobs is a short month away. Wow. The end of treatment. Removal of my port. Cutting the umbilical cord between me and my oncologist as we stretch our visits. I am attached, to all of it. Parking on the third floor of the garage every Tuesday morning. Sitting in Joann’s room, the non-chemo infusion room. Chatting with her while she sticks a needle into the quarter-sized plastic object just under the skin below my right collarbone—a direct line to my jugular vien. Reading while I wait for the bag of Herceptin to drain, which takes 30 minutes. Checking in with my oncologist, Dr. Wang, of Miami breast cancer fame. I worry out loud about a blood test/ultrasound/scan and she says: Just expect it to be okay. Let me tell you, I’ve taken those words to heart. I’m fairly certain Dr. Wang, who is a medical doctor through and through, did not mean to point me in the direction of New Thought, but that’s where her attitude of expecting things to be okay led me. I can’t bring myself to fully believe that if I think something it will happen, but I can say with certainty that if I think and behave like a healthy person, I feel like a healthy person, and I’m happier that way—happier than when I think about the stats and worry about what slice of the pie I’ll end up in. Sweet baby jesus, would you believe me if I told you I just meant to write about my forever boobs?
So anyway. There are choices. Round. Teardrop shaped. Good arguments for both.
Happy Friday, friends.
I get so nervous the morning of my kids’ check-ups when I know they’ll be getting shots. I hate the instantaneous switch from I’m happy! What’s that thing? I’M SCREAMING AND NOT HAPPY NOW.
I took Lu for her 2-year appointment and held her tight while the nurse gave her a vaccine. Luci pushed me off, looked at the nurse and calmly said, “I need a bandaid.”