Pink, Pink everywhere! October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and we see pink ribbons everywhere. Literally, everywhere. From pink hair extensions to NFL football players shoes.
I am so grateful that everyone is so willing to discuss breast cancer out in the open. It is no longer taboo to talk about mammograms, self breast exams and mastectomies. As a woman with breast cancer in my family, I am grateful for this. Believe me, I am happy to see anything supporting women and the need to save the ta-ta's and wipe out breast cancer.
But let's not forget the guys. Prostate cancer is more common in men than breast cancer is in women. One out of 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime. Yet, we don't talk about prostate cancer nearly as much. It's OK to talk boobies, then it should be OK to talk wieners and butts, right?
I think sometimes prostate cancer is overlooked or just taken for granted. Oh, you have your prostate taken out and everything is fine. It is not that simple. One out of 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime. And the diagnosis can be devastating. Just as devastating a breast cancer diagnosis, if not more.
A man diagnosed first has to understand that he has cancer. Cancer which can kill you if it has spread. Cancer. Then he learns his treatment options. Many times, the best most effective way to treat it is to try and get rid of the cancer surgically by removing the prostate and often times the nerves that provide the ability to achieve an erection. If a man chooses surgery, he then learns the possible side effects from surgery.
Imagine it.
You are an active man. You have hobbies, such has golf, running, playing with your children or grandchildren. And, as a man, you enjoy intimacy with your wife. Let's face it, we all enjoy sex, even our parents (as horrible as the mental images may be). You just learned you have cancer. Once you wrap your mind around that in itself, you think...OK, get the F***ker out. But then after your chat with your doctor you learn getting the F***er out means this:
We may get rid of all the cancer! (YEAH. This is the great part!!!)
But....
You may never have sex again. OK, that really sucks. But, I may not have cancer. So, OK, I can deal with that.
Oh yeah, did you know the prostate is wrapped around your urethra? So, you may lose control of both your bladder and your bowels. Most men experience bladder incontinence for at least some time, often times it is at least several months before bladder control returns. A small percentage of men never regain bladder control. Some men have fecal incontinence as well.
Wow. So I have cancer AND I may not be able to have sex AND I may have to wear diapers. That, really, really sucks.
But, I may not have cancer. So, OK, get the F***er out.
But, we don't talk about this one like we talk about boobies. We don't talk about how devastating this would be for a man, for any person really. I think about my husband. How humiliating it would be for him to want to play golf but worried his diaper would leak. Or not be able to go swimming with the kids because he might pee in the pool. (Mom, you may not want to read this next part). And, frankly, how I would miss being intimate with him. Intimacy is a big part of our marriage. And, we would both miss it if it were not possible.
But we don't talk about this one like we talk about boobies.
We talk openly about breast self-exams, but we don't talk openly about how important it is for a man over the age of 50 to have an exam every year. Not the simple "turn your head an cough" exam. Not just a blood test. But the yucky digital prostate exam. Y'all know what this means, I don't need to elaborate. But we should be able to say it just as much as we say mammogram or self-breast exam.
It can save your life. It can save the life of a man you know, a man you love. How many men in your life are over the age of 50? I know it's uncomfortable and embarrassing.
But, let's get real. Us girls have been having embarrassing, invasive vaginal exams for years. Many of us, since our teens. Especially for those of us that have had fertility, menstrual or child-bearing issues. I have lost count of how many medical personnel have seen between my legs for various reasons. You boys can handle an exam once a year.
But we don't talk about it like we talk about boobies.
The fact is, cancer sucks. Cancer sucks. No matter what kind, it just sucks. But, we have to get rid of the embarrassing stigmas that go with and just do whatever is necessary to kick cancer's ass.
We have to talk about boobies and wieners and butts. We have to talk about them to everyone we know. To save ourselves, our parents, our friends and our children.
So go on and "think pink" this month and every month...but also think about the other ones we don't talk about or wear blazened across a t-shirt. We need to save the wieners and the butts just as much as we need to save the ta-ta's.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
It looks like an ordinary table...
Isn't it funny what can instantly trigger a memory in your mind?
That perfume your grandmother always wore. The lasagna that only your mom can make. A handkerchief just like your grandfather's. Pumpkins that remind you of sitting on the kitchen floor scooping out "the guts" in only your underwear (so your clothes didn't get goopy).
How one image or smell can instantly transport you to a different time, place or person in your mind. Today it was a table. This table. It looks like an ordinary table. In my mind, it is so much more.
I saw this image on my facebook feed today. Innocently enough, appearing from a consignment store that I "liked". Instantly, my mind is flooded with images, memories and love.
You see, my grandmother had a table like this one. My beloved grandmother. She was everything to me as a child. Even now, thoughts of her fill me with emotions, even after she has been gone so long. I still miss her so much.
We called her Tutu. It sounds silly to everyone else, but that is what we called her. Tutu is the Hawaiian nickname for grandmother. My grandmother spent the better part of her life in Hawaii. She raised her children there. It became part of who she was. So we called her Tutu. Everyone did. My friends, the neighbors, kids at school when she came to volunteer and stayed to eat lunch with me. She always wore muumuus. The shapeless dresses with big, bold flower prints. If she wore pants, she always wore some kind of Hawaiian shirt. All of my friends loved her.
But I loved her most (at least in my mind). I suppose I have the same memories of her that most people have of their grandmothers. She had red hair. She smoke. She drank whiskey sours. She let me have "real" coke. We did puzzles together. We did crafts together. We colored together. And not out of coloring books. She always said that coloring books required no imagination. So we got blank paper, and construction paper and crayons and glue. She always made Christmas cookies with us. And she spend the night on Christmas eve. I remember always wanting to sleep out in the living room with her and wait for Santa. Little did I know, she was my Santa.
As a child I got to spend the night with her often. Many times the whole weekend. It was great. We took walks and went to the mall. We got grilled cheese sandwiches at Woolworth's. I still remember her apartment had white metal cabinets in the kitchen and pink tiles in the bathroom. She had all these strange and wonderful collections. Dolls from everywhere. She had sleigh bells hanging from a bookshelf. She had little jars with black sand and lava pieces from Hawaii. She had a stone mortar and pestle that I never understood why she had it. We watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. The table in her spare room always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress. She was always knitting. Baby blankets. She loved to make baby blankets. I'm not sure why.
And she had this table. I think she kept yarn in it. I actually think I had this table for a while in my room as a young teen after my mother had to move her out of her apartment. I have no idea what happened to it.
When I saw this picture on my computer screen, I immediately thought of her. I loved her more than anything. She was my safe haven. She was my everything. She was the shelter in the storm when bad things out of my control were happening all around me. In my eyes she was perfect. I cannot find the words to explain how much she meant to me, still means to me. And, I miss her.
Now that I am an adult, I know she wasn't perfect, of course. She was challenging and stubborn as mule. I am sure she had conflicts with her children similar to the ones I have with mine. I am sure my mother's memories of her are much different than mine. My mother had to care for her when she got hurt, when she was a difficult patient in the hospital. My mom had to make all those difficult decisions that grown-ups have to make when caring for an elderly parent.
I only knew her through a child's eyes. She was gone before I got to my difficult teen years. Before I graduated high school. Before I got married. Before I wrapped my babies in the same blanket she knitted for me.
I know she would love them. I think of her daily, as I tuck my son into bed, with one of the last of those baby blankets she was always knitting. When I look at his red hair that had to have come from her. When he looks at her picture and calls her "Tutu Granny". I hope she would be proud of me, and I know she would be proud of them.
My memories of her also make me thankful to my own mother. For giving me "my" Tutu. For letting me have these cherished memories of her, however perfected they are in my mind. I hope that I can provide the same for my children. Time with their "Granny" that they will always remember. Times that will become memories in their mind that will come back to them in an instant when they are adults and she is gone. The fact she has loved them since before they were born. She was in the room for each of their births. The smell of lasagna, that no one can make like her. That she makes Christmas cookies with them every year, just like Tutu did with me. That they can go to her when they need shelter. I hope that my mom becomes to them what Tutu is to me.
You see, it isn't just an ordinary table...
That perfume your grandmother always wore. The lasagna that only your mom can make. A handkerchief just like your grandfather's. Pumpkins that remind you of sitting on the kitchen floor scooping out "the guts" in only your underwear (so your clothes didn't get goopy).
How one image or smell can instantly transport you to a different time, place or person in your mind. Today it was a table. This table. It looks like an ordinary table. In my mind, it is so much more.
I saw this image on my facebook feed today. Innocently enough, appearing from a consignment store that I "liked". Instantly, my mind is flooded with images, memories and love.
You see, my grandmother had a table like this one. My beloved grandmother. She was everything to me as a child. Even now, thoughts of her fill me with emotions, even after she has been gone so long. I still miss her so much.
We called her Tutu. It sounds silly to everyone else, but that is what we called her. Tutu is the Hawaiian nickname for grandmother. My grandmother spent the better part of her life in Hawaii. She raised her children there. It became part of who she was. So we called her Tutu. Everyone did. My friends, the neighbors, kids at school when she came to volunteer and stayed to eat lunch with me. She always wore muumuus. The shapeless dresses with big, bold flower prints. If she wore pants, she always wore some kind of Hawaiian shirt. All of my friends loved her.
But I loved her most (at least in my mind). I suppose I have the same memories of her that most people have of their grandmothers. She had red hair. She smoke. She drank whiskey sours. She let me have "real" coke. We did puzzles together. We did crafts together. We colored together. And not out of coloring books. She always said that coloring books required no imagination. So we got blank paper, and construction paper and crayons and glue. She always made Christmas cookies with us. And she spend the night on Christmas eve. I remember always wanting to sleep out in the living room with her and wait for Santa. Little did I know, she was my Santa.
As a child I got to spend the night with her often. Many times the whole weekend. It was great. We took walks and went to the mall. We got grilled cheese sandwiches at Woolworth's. I still remember her apartment had white metal cabinets in the kitchen and pink tiles in the bathroom. She had all these strange and wonderful collections. Dolls from everywhere. She had sleigh bells hanging from a bookshelf. She had little jars with black sand and lava pieces from Hawaii. She had a stone mortar and pestle that I never understood why she had it. We watched the Love Boat and Fantasy Island. The table in her spare room always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress. She was always knitting. Baby blankets. She loved to make baby blankets. I'm not sure why.
And she had this table. I think she kept yarn in it. I actually think I had this table for a while in my room as a young teen after my mother had to move her out of her apartment. I have no idea what happened to it.
When I saw this picture on my computer screen, I immediately thought of her. I loved her more than anything. She was my safe haven. She was my everything. She was the shelter in the storm when bad things out of my control were happening all around me. In my eyes she was perfect. I cannot find the words to explain how much she meant to me, still means to me. And, I miss her.
Now that I am an adult, I know she wasn't perfect, of course. She was challenging and stubborn as mule. I am sure she had conflicts with her children similar to the ones I have with mine. I am sure my mother's memories of her are much different than mine. My mother had to care for her when she got hurt, when she was a difficult patient in the hospital. My mom had to make all those difficult decisions that grown-ups have to make when caring for an elderly parent.
I only knew her through a child's eyes. She was gone before I got to my difficult teen years. Before I graduated high school. Before I got married. Before I wrapped my babies in the same blanket she knitted for me.
I know she would love them. I think of her daily, as I tuck my son into bed, with one of the last of those baby blankets she was always knitting. When I look at his red hair that had to have come from her. When he looks at her picture and calls her "Tutu Granny". I hope she would be proud of me, and I know she would be proud of them.
My memories of her also make me thankful to my own mother. For giving me "my" Tutu. For letting me have these cherished memories of her, however perfected they are in my mind. I hope that I can provide the same for my children. Time with their "Granny" that they will always remember. Times that will become memories in their mind that will come back to them in an instant when they are adults and she is gone. The fact she has loved them since before they were born. She was in the room for each of their births. The smell of lasagna, that no one can make like her. That she makes Christmas cookies with them every year, just like Tutu did with me. That they can go to her when they need shelter. I hope that my mom becomes to them what Tutu is to me.
You see, it isn't just an ordinary table...
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Blog, oh blog, where have you been?
Actually, the title should be...
blog, oh, blog, I have been ignoring you.
Ignoring you for the summer. To spend with the kids. To go to the beach. To swim in the pool. And oh, yeah, to look for a job.
Our summer of adjusting to being local seemed to fly by. It was filled with good intentions of painting and organizing and lots of other ambitious goals. What it was really filled with was amazing weather, time at the beach, meeting new neighbors at the pool, avoiding other neighbors (that is a whole other blog, trust me.) and just basically being amazed at being here.
The shock is beginning to wear off. Every time we were at the beach this summer still felt like vacation. Then, my husband and I would look at each other and still say, "I can't believe we actually live here." It was still hard to believe we don't have to pack everything up and make the long dreaded trip back to Indiana. You know what I mean. The last day of your vacation when you are just dreading that your days in the sun have come to an end. Dreading the long drive home.
Our "long drive home" from the beach is about 7 minutes now. We don't live on the beach. (I moved, I didn't win the lottery). We live in a small little town a few miles from the beach. But we live close enough. Close enough that you can smell the salty ocean air when it rains. Close enough that if you get to the beach and realize you forgot something, you can just run home and back in 20 minutes.
But still, the shock has to wear off sometime.
Now that the kids are back in school, the new reality is setting in. There are still the mundane tasks to be done. The laundry that is never-ending. The kitchen that gets dirty again the minute that you clean it. And the reality that I still don't have a job.
When the kids were home during the summer, it was easy to occupy my time with them. It seemed OK that I hadn't found a job yet. My morning routine in the summer was to spend some time on the computer in the morning looking for job postings, applying for positions that I thought suited me and then hanging out with the kids the rest of the day.
But, they are back in school now. And, here I am, still unemployed. I have a bit of job envy. Ron applied for one job, had one interview and landed a job. I have applied for countless jobs (really, I stopped counting because it was depressing me) and gone on three interviews. Three. Every day there seems to be another job rejection email just waiting to brighten my day, mocking me from its bold type in my inbox.
These are the moments that reality sets in. These are the moments when I sometimes ask myself, "What did I get myself into?" I had a great job. I had great friends. I had great neighbors (OK, most of them were great). I miss those friends, those neighbors. I miss working.
But then, I have moments like this afternoon. Sitting on the beach. It's 85 degrees. It is October 2nd. And, I have my husband on one side of me and my mother on the other side. I take a deep breath. I smell the ocean air. I listen to the waves hitting the sand.
This move was a leap of faith...the landing may not be as smooth as I would have liked, but how can I possibly complain?
blog, oh, blog, I have been ignoring you.
Ignoring you for the summer. To spend with the kids. To go to the beach. To swim in the pool. And oh, yeah, to look for a job.
Our summer of adjusting to being local seemed to fly by. It was filled with good intentions of painting and organizing and lots of other ambitious goals. What it was really filled with was amazing weather, time at the beach, meeting new neighbors at the pool, avoiding other neighbors (that is a whole other blog, trust me.) and just basically being amazed at being here.
The shock is beginning to wear off. Every time we were at the beach this summer still felt like vacation. Then, my husband and I would look at each other and still say, "I can't believe we actually live here." It was still hard to believe we don't have to pack everything up and make the long dreaded trip back to Indiana. You know what I mean. The last day of your vacation when you are just dreading that your days in the sun have come to an end. Dreading the long drive home.
Our "long drive home" from the beach is about 7 minutes now. We don't live on the beach. (I moved, I didn't win the lottery). We live in a small little town a few miles from the beach. But we live close enough. Close enough that you can smell the salty ocean air when it rains. Close enough that if you get to the beach and realize you forgot something, you can just run home and back in 20 minutes.
But still, the shock has to wear off sometime.
Now that the kids are back in school, the new reality is setting in. There are still the mundane tasks to be done. The laundry that is never-ending. The kitchen that gets dirty again the minute that you clean it. And the reality that I still don't have a job.
When the kids were home during the summer, it was easy to occupy my time with them. It seemed OK that I hadn't found a job yet. My morning routine in the summer was to spend some time on the computer in the morning looking for job postings, applying for positions that I thought suited me and then hanging out with the kids the rest of the day.
But, they are back in school now. And, here I am, still unemployed. I have a bit of job envy. Ron applied for one job, had one interview and landed a job. I have applied for countless jobs (really, I stopped counting because it was depressing me) and gone on three interviews. Three. Every day there seems to be another job rejection email just waiting to brighten my day, mocking me from its bold type in my inbox.
These are the moments that reality sets in. These are the moments when I sometimes ask myself, "What did I get myself into?" I had a great job. I had great friends. I had great neighbors (OK, most of them were great). I miss those friends, those neighbors. I miss working.
But then, I have moments like this afternoon. Sitting on the beach. It's 85 degrees. It is October 2nd. And, I have my husband on one side of me and my mother on the other side. I take a deep breath. I smell the ocean air. I listen to the waves hitting the sand.
This move was a leap of faith...the landing may not be as smooth as I would have liked, but how can I possibly complain?
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