Budding Violinist

I'm doing my best to not go down the "holy hell what did we just do to permanently damage everyone's hearing" rabbit hole. I have ear plugs and headphones at the ready, just in case the rumors are true that it's really that bad.

But, in an autism home, we have that stuff at the ready anyway, because sometimes our hearing gets super sensitive. Usually it's before me or one of the boys gets sick, or if someone else has been yelling and melting and raging at me for hours, like he has been recently...since weeks before the start of the school year...because transition...and his twelfth birthday...and testosterone...sixth grade. The season is changing, the days are becoming shorter, and the air has grown invigoratingly brisk at our house....the Big-Leaf Maples are turning golden-orangey-brown, and the Honey Crisps are fresh and huge and crunchy and amazing...and with a little peanut butter...I SAID GODDAMN!!! 

I'm trying in earnest to let go of the fact that my younger son is merely nine. Not even 9-1/2. He doesn't know the formalities of a proper orchestra. I'm pretty sure he's not even aware that Classical Music is a genre. Or what a genre is.... Or that any form of music really existed before Elvis or the Beatles...or his personal favorite, Iron Maiden. He's not aware that a couple of hundred years before the Beatles were even born, people were composing and playing music in an entirely different way than they do today. I mean, seriously, the only reason they know the name Beethoven is because they've heard the Beatles version of "Roll Over Beethoven"...and yes, I know Chuck Berry did it first...but just roll with me here, you guys, mkay? And Mozart? Fuhgeddaboutit. The fact that the man who is probably the most famous classical music composer died at the young age of 35? My kid's head would explode.

Most days, my older son has a Beatles Bubble Bath Break: long hot soak in the tub, with the Beatles playing on the blue tooth speaker. During the summer, the bath usually occurred after lunch, for an hour or so. And now after school: first snack, then bath. What's your picture schedule say, Mr. Sixth Grade? You have Hapkido and can spend about 20 minutes in the tub today. First Beatles Bubble Bath Break, then Hapkido. I'm setting a timer on Alexa that says "GET OUT OF THE TUB!" in 20 minutes. He is capable of turning on the speaker and telling Alexa to shuffle the Beatles. It's good for him; gives him an opportunity to work on his annunciation. Also, he's completely capable of doing this all on his own. But, I draw the bath...and put in the goddamn bubbles. Because god knows that blue syrupy soapy shit would end up all over the goddamn walls, which would ultimately create more Bitch Work for me. You know, part of the problem with being a mom is our children have this attitude of "Someone will come along and clean this up!" and they run away beating each other like the monkeys that they are. Maybe I should give him a "how to draw your own goddamn bubble bath" lesson. He's probably capable of doing that on his own....

Up here on the North Olympic Peninsula, in my children's school district, they start teaching strings in fourth grade. And the music teachers are fucking serious about it. No fiddle farting around, if you will. They even sent home a letter saying, essentially, that if you snooze you loose and waiting till fifth or sixth grade isn't an option. It's now or never, kiddies. I know because the day the strings teacher introduced strings, my child told me about the letter, saying that is was on Gold Paper. He didn't know WTF was written in the letter. But, dammit it was on Gold Paper! I was told by my 9-year-old that he needed to go to the music store today. And that we needed to sign up for his music lessons today. And that waiting till tomorrow wasn't an option. I communicated to my son that until I read the letter on Gold Paper, and had more information on how much money all of this was going to cost, I was absolutely not going to take him and his brother to a music store right this second. Because it's a little more important to go home, get a Beatles Bubble Bath Break and some goddamn food and then go to Hapkido and get thrown around. I pay a monthly tuition for back up parenting, and we're not missing Hapkido, thank you. So, let's go home so I can read the Golden Letter and gather more information about Strings Night.

The 9-year-olds

I made arrangements with a good friend, who also has a 9-year-old boy, to go to dinner and then go to Strings Night. I think the woman from the music store thought my friend and I we were a married couple. Because my friend and I, and both 9-year-old boys, all have the same last name. As if all Andersons are related. The woman from the music store mixed up our contracts and put my friend's credit card number on my contract, too. So, to make sure that my friend wasn't paying for two violin rentals, I requested that the woman from the music store redo my contract. She became rather flustered, but agreed to redo the contract. We didn't say anything about our marital status. But we did provide different mailing addresses on each contract, just to really confuse the woman from the music store.

Anyway, on the one hand, I see the side of introducing strings early, because the sooner we can start band and orchestra education the better. But on the other hand, as a kid who started on viola in the sixth grade, switched to violin in Jr. High, and played violin all throughout High School, made some amazing friends by making music with them...really? Why are you preventing kids from starting strings in 5th or even 6th grade? What about us stragglers who need more time to think about making life-altering decisions, you guys?? But, ok, that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away.... do I really need to culturally reference that one, you guys? Ugh...here....

Fine.... 

Anyway...

So, I have an incredibly deep sense of gratitude for the people who play and teach Classical Music; especially those who teach the greenest, most freshly learning children. I'm the first to admit that teaching groups of fourth graders how to play a stringed instrument is not my my skill set. No, child you need to play between the fingerboard and the bridge. NOT between the bridge and the tailpiece. When you play between the bridge and the tailpiece...well, that's why it sounds like an animal dying, sweetie.

I am happy to step way the hell back and let the teacher instruct her selected area of study and expertise. I'm thrilled to buy the required book for $10. I even purchased a fold-up music stand because it was a reasonable price at $15. But, I'm not buying a shoulder rest for $25, because I know a trick for a chin rest that involves rolled up quilt batting and rubber bands, so we're gonna save a little money on that one, thank you very much. And, besides, if and when he decides to become the next Amadeus, then we can talk about the shoulder rest. He's already working on being the next Bruce Lee and Lionel Messi. And he's planning on winning all the Oscars.... So, let's take the Budding Violinist thing a little slowly...and methodically...if you will....

We are renting his instrument. Because we're not financially in a position to spend several hundred dollars on a new violin. Or even $100 on a used one. Because you're nine. And you've never played an instrument before, and I don't even know if you're going to enjoy playing, so I'm not down with spending a shit ton of money on this little adventure until I know you're gonna be into it for longer than five minutes. Seriously. Bitches. Also, I really like the fact that when we rent the violin, even though I told him to treat it like he'd treat Mrs. Ventura's Bokken, using the upmost respect and awareness, the fact remains that if he accidentally drops his violin and breaks it, or he uses the bow as a Bokken and it breaks, then it's not going to cost me a penny. Because a good friend and I took our 9-year-old boys to strings night and we signed up for a rental and have a contract. Just don't tell the music store if you use your bow as a Bokken. Actually, don't use your bow as a Bokken. Duh. It's not a weapon. Not everything is a weapon, son.

My son asked me to teach him to read music. Um...honey...I'd really love to help you with this...but it's been a really, REALLY long time since I've read music. I think it's best to let your teacher help you with this. Well...let's see...I graduated in 1990...and I was 17...and how old am I now? Yes...I turned 46 in November...so nearly thirty years since I've read music. Yes, 29 years. Thank you Junior Math Prof Rock Star. So, since your music teacher knows how to read music, she will teach you how to read music. #NotIt

But, please, don't call pizzicato "plucking." I'm gonna draw a line in the sand on that one. Seriously. I mean, I know they're fourth graders and you're trying to keep it simple. But really, in my experience, students, even young ones, are capable of meeting you where you set the bar. And, technically, you pluck a chicken. You pizzicato a violin. Or viola, cello, or bass. Also, while we're talking about this, you don't pluck your eyebrows; you tweeze your eyebrows. Just to clarify so that we're all reading the same sheet music, here.

And, I know you're following the curriculum from the book and that first you start with pizzicato, and that bow work doesn't even start until page 16. And I know that eventually, the bows are all going to flow in the same direction at the same time. However, I am curious to know when do you divide up first and second violins...? I haven't talked to my son about this yet because he'll do his best to be first chair, and he's only nine and certainly doesn't need that type of self-induced pressure. And how in the goddamn did I get to be 46?

One Good Scare

As a breast cancer survivor, I get mammograms frequently. On my right breast, the one that had cancer, I get a mammo every 6 months; on the left, as-of-now-cancer-free breast, I get one every 12 months. And my mammograms are 3-D. So they're really not messing around.

On November 16th, I went in for my 6-month mammogram, and the Radiologist found two "new and unusual lumps" in my right breast, on the right side of the breast. What caused extra concern was that these two lumps were close to the surgery site from where the lime-sized tumor was removed back in March 2015. These lumps had never appeared on any other mammogram or ultrasound.

Fuck.

So the Radiologist ordered an ultrasound, which was done immediately. Like, stay in your gown, grab your clothes, and walk across the hall type of immediately. At least I didn't have to wait. Given my health history, they were not fooling around. The ultrasound showed that, indeed, these were "new and unusual lumps" and the Radiologist ordered an MRI with contrast.

Double fuck.

I left the appointment shaken up big time. In tears. Fortuitously on my way out of the Imaging Department, I bumped into Stacie, my first Port Angeles Friend; she works at the hospital. All I had to do was look at her and she knew. Stacie is an incredibly talented woman, but I know mental telepathy isn't her strongest super power, so I verbally filled her in.

And then I went home and called my Medical Oncologist's office because the order for the MRI with contrast needed to come from her. Get on it. Get that goddamed ball rolling. I'm a triple-negative breast cancer survivor turned possible patient in the last 45 minutes. Hurry up. I had an appointment with her coming up Tuesday November 22nd; two days before Thanksgiving. I had three business days to get a bilateral MRI with contrast done and read before seeing her.

Mother fuck.

Meantime, the backstory, if you'll kindly recall, was that I was the only person that can drive in my house because of Randy's tonsil cancer--and the fact that he had a goddamned seizure when they were placing his chemo port. I'm also just coming off of being sick to the point that the boys almost didn't make it to school for a few days because I was so weak and driving was difficult. All I wanted was to feel better. I was looking forward to celebrating my birthday and one year of being done with all treatments--which happen to be on the same day. Thanksgiving was coming. Christmas was coming. And then there's the entire autism thing and trying to keep life as calm as possible during the holidays.

So, after a lot of meditation, soul-searching, and discussion with my husband, I decided to not have the MRI with contrast.

Wait. What? 

I kept referring to the facts:

• the lime-sized tumor that was removed from my breast on March 20, 2015 may have been the biggest baddest type of breast cancer a young woman can get, but none of my lymph nodes were positive for cancer
• I completed all my chemotherapy
• I had 21 doses of radiation shot into my breast
• my Radiation Oncologist said she shot my right breast so full of radiation that the chances of something growing in there was incredibly slim
• my PET scans and my CT scans all showed no cancer cells post treatment
• I know my breast is at risk of lymphedema if I don't massage it regularly like the Physical Therapist/Lymphedema Specialist said to; and I do that shit twice a day because it's just what I do. 

I really intrinsically felt that the lumps were of a lymphedema nature. Call me crazy. But I know my body pretty well. My hypothesis was that if I did a deeper massage on the lumps, they'd go away. Cancer doesn't go away when you massage it.

And, so you know what lymph does in our body--it is part of the lymphatic system, a key part of our immune system. The lymphatic system helps white blood cells (and proteins and a bunch of other stuff) travel through our body. White blood cells are important because they fight infection. We have hundreds of lymph nodes all over body; our spleen and tonsils are lymph nodes. Many of the nodes are near the surface of our skin. In order to prevent lymphedema in my breast, I do these massages, which were tailored for me by a Physical Therapist/Lymphedema Specialist, who happens to have spent her professional life helping cancer patients not get lymphedema. And lymphedema is not pleasant. I have times where my right breast becomes really hard...it feels like a goddamned brick...especially when compared to my left breast...which feels like a breast. And my right breast gets really heavy and lots of pressure builds up from the inside. It hurts. So it's incredibly important to prevent lymphedema of the breast. If we move, lymph moves. So exercise is important. And so is drinking lots of water. The more hydrated we are, the healthier our entire body is, not just our lymphatic system.

So, I decided to not have the bi-lateral MRI with contrast. Not right now.

And really, the Radiologist, his entire job description is "order more tests" because that's what they do. And he looked a little like Dick Cheney. 

Not that I made my entire decision on the idea of my Radiologist looking like the former VP.

Anyway, I met with my Medical Oncologist on November 22nd and we discussed my health history, my current state of life, and then proposed we repeat the mammogram and ultrasound in 2-3 months. She happens to by my husband's Medical Oncologist, too. So she knows we deal with a lot of heavy shit in life. She agreed that doing the MRI can wait; and ordered a repeat of the mammogram and ultrasound in 3 months. On the condition that I do the deeper massaging of my breast regularly. And lots of yoga. And drink lots of water and eat as healthy as possible and go for my acupuncture treatments and go for my massages. And on the condition that if the lumps are still there on February mammogram and ultrasound, we do the MRI.

Also, every three months, my Medical Oncologist checks my blood and my labs have been coming came back stellar. Like, hang a gold medal on those reports, type of illustriousness. My lab results at the meeting with my doc were awesome.

So I massaged. And massaged. And massaged my breast. And did yoga. And drank water and ate healthy. And did everything right. And the new and unusual lumps started to get smaller. Randy even agreed. It's important, in this case, that he feels me up a lot.

But maybe it's my imagination. I'll know more in three months. Get through one day at a time. Get us through the holidays. Get Randy back in the driver's seat. Get them all off to school.

It's been three months.

I had the repeat mammogram and ultrasound on Thursday February 16th.

The "new and unusual lumps" that were found on November 16 were "significantly smaller and nearly gone" so no MRI with contrast. YES!!!

Not so fast.

The mammogram showed there was another "new and unusual lump" near the bottom of my aerola, in the 5 o'clock position. And the mammo tech, who was absolutely lovely, used so much pressure on the mammogram that I ended up having some kinda fluid lean from my nipple. I didn't feel any pain when my DDD size boob was almost as flat as a pancake because my breast is so dense from all the radiation, there isn't a whole lot of sensation there anyway. In a mammogram, it's a radiation perk. In my sexuality, it's rather depressing.

Keep your gown on, let's go across the hall for your ultrasound, Mrs. Anderson. This is your ultrasound tech (a lady). Please lay down and make yourself comfortable.

Dick Cheney, enter stage left.

He doesn't like the "new and unusual lump" near my areola. Or the leak from my nipple. He doesn't like the thickened skin near the "new and unusual lump." Or the indented nipple. Yes it's new. Yes I can feel the lump. It's been there a couple of weeks. Ever since I sat in a training for 6 hours to help other special needs families in my community. I had a bad case of lymphedema and increased my massages and yoga. No I'm not able to walk outside. Have you seen the snow? Yes, I've been wearing the foam chip pads the Lymphedema Specialist/Physical Therapist gave me, even though my boob looks like a cantaloupe when I take them off. And a sports bra. The counter pressure helps decrease the pressure. And sometimes, I wear my bra to sleep.

Needle biopsy.

Goddamn mother fuck.

Tomorrow? Friday February 17th at 8:15 am at the hospital? Yes. I'll see you tomorrow. Will I have the results before I see my Medical Oncologist before I see her on Thursday February 23rd? The same day Priya and I are supposed to be in Olympia for me to receive that award from the State of Washington.

I went by myself to the biopsy. I'd been through it before and it was not as scary the second time. And, no, I don't need everyone to stop what they're doing to be there. I need to be alone for this one. But thank you, everyone, who offered.  

It takes 48 hours to get the results. Right. Holiday on Monday. President's Day. Tuesday afternoon? Probably Wednesday.

Jesus.

Thank you Doctor.

Wait. What just happened? Do I have cancer again? Fuck. I don't want to go through this again. Please. Please universe, have a little mercy. On me. On my husband. On the boys. Please. 

Stay busy. Three day weekend. Take boys to two birthday parties. Keep cancer out of your mind. Talk to Priya, who suggests we respectfully bow out of the dinner in Olympia. Priya is brilliant. She has a PhD in a hard science. I don't know which hard science, but I know Priya used to work in a lab for a pharmaceutical company. She's a bad ass. Yes, let's not go to Olympia. I don't want to sit in the car for over 5 hours of travel there and back. And sitting in a formal ceremonial dinner, regardless of the results I get on Thursday, isn't mentally something I can do right now. I want to be home that night. I don't want to sleep in a hotel room. I'll call on Tuesday. I've had the appointment with my Medical Oncologist for 3 months. I found out about the dinner and the award last month. One thing has to go. Bye-bye awards ceremony. They can mail me my award.

The little dude ends up with a scratchy throat and a low-grade fever Sunday afternoon and Monday. He stays home with me on Tuesday. It was helpful, actually, to have him home that day. Momma Teresa came over and she is a goddess in her own right. We've been friends for about 10 years; her daughter is 6 months older than my oldest son. She is a professional house cleaner, and when I was diagnosed with cancer 2 years ago, Momma Teresa decided she'd clean my house every other week, for free, because she loves me and my family that much. And pretty much every other week for the past 2 years, Momma Teresa has come over. I agreed to this on the condition that sometimes she will not clean and we will only talk and have lunch, because sometimes I need my girlfriends. She was gracious enough to extend her offer when Randy was diagnosed with tonsil cancer...but I now pay her; she's a professional business woman, and I want to honor the deal. Besides, until I hear otherwise, I'm free of evidence of disease. I filled Momma Teresa in as we changed the sheets on the boys' beds.

On Wednesday, the day before I was to meet with my Medical Oncologist, her nurse called me, and left me a message saying they had "good news about my needle biopsy." ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?!? Call back immediately! Voicemail. They call me back. Voicemail. GODDAMNIT! I call back. Good news. "Benign scar tissue" says the nurse. Hallelujah! Thank you universe!

Thursday, Priya picks me up and we head to the appointment with my Medical Oncologist. Since we were going to go to Olympia, she had the day off anyway, and I know as a scientist, she secretly wants to go to a meeting with a cancer survivor and talk to a Medical Oncologist. And, Priya is East Indian. And my Medical Oncologist is East Indian. I was totally being a Matchmaker. I was also going to be the dumbest white woman in the room, and I was totally ok with it.

My Medical Oncologist, the lovely woman who helped save my life, said in her East Indian accent, "Well, it certainly was one good scare, wasn't it?" Yes, Doctor. Yes it was.

She said yes, we do need to do the bilateral MRI with contrast, but not until August, which is 6 months after the biopsy. They're watching it. I'm doing my best to not worry about my "new and unusual lump" at the 5 o'clock position at the bottom of my areola. No small task, given the last two years. Because, basically, as a cancer survivor, every single twinge, no matter how small, I wonder if it's cancer. It's typical in both survivors and care givers. Eye twitch? Cancer of the eye. Stub your toe? Cancer of the toe. Not kidding. Cancer creates that type of anxiety.

After the appointment, Priya was so excited about what the doc said, we had to find a place to sit down so she could jump on Google and look up some stuff that was explained to me, that was way above me, even though the doc explained it at a level that a second-grader could understand but went in one ear and out the other because all I really heard was "benign scar tissue. The 'new and unusual lump' is not cancer." It's not because I don't care. But I don't need to know about HER2 and estrogen receptors and progesterone receptors and blah blah blah. I need to know that, although my triple-negative cancer has a high probability of recurrence, my cancer has not come back. I need to know that I'll get my port flushed in 6 weeks. I need to know that I'll see my Medical Oncologist again in 12 weeks, and the only test I'll go through before is a blood draw. And I'll see her again in August, after the bi-lateral MRI with contrast. And after that, we can talk about the possibility of having my chemo port taken out, which my Medical Oncologist wants to leave in for two years after I'm done with all treatments...which means November. In the mean time, I'll live with the large piece of plastic and rubber implanted in my chest, above my left breast, underneath my bra strap, that has a catheter to my heart. Because if my cancer does come back, please universe, don't let this happen, then my doc can start chemo immediately.

And yes, this is a terrifying thought.

But it's also my reality.

I am cautiously optimistic that my one good scare is good enough.

Raised By Wolves

Had you been listening...

Isaac: "Mom, can we listen to U2?"

Me: "Absolutely. Which album?"

Isaac: "Um..."

Me: "The one we've been listening to? It's called Songs of Innocence."

Isaac: "Right. Can I pick the song?"

Me: "Totally. Which one?"

I: "Raised By Wolves."

Me: "You got it."

And silently I say: Sometimes I think you are. And sometimes I am afraid you will be.

And I cue it up, trying to suppress my fear and anxiety for their sake, if only for a few minutes, as we connect in music.

And we move forward in our day. 

Thankful that the sun is out.

Thankful that we are having a stay home day.

Thankful we're together as a family.

Thankful Daddy's feeling better with lots of help.

From all of us.

Thank you.