Mammograms and ashes

I walked 14 blocks to get my mammogram today, which is, by the way, February 13, the day before Valentines Day and Ash Wednesday.

Nothing happened at the clinic that was out of the ordinary, except Keli, my boob-smashing technician, did seem overly worried about my discomfort. “Is this more difficult for you than usual?” “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” “Are you going to be OK?” I sort of laughed, at least, I felt like I sort of laughed, but, you know, when you are leaned over just a little at the waist, with your chin up, looking over your shoulder, right breast pulled up, spread out, then pancaked between two plates that get screwed down tighter… tighter… and just a little bit tighter — well, I imagine my hahaha sounded more like: AH!AH!AH!

I did try to reassure Keli, I told her, nothing more painful than usual, but you, know, not something I look forward to. But seriously, she acted like I was acting like a big baby, that all the other women who come in and get their boobs smashed take it like they’re having a picnic in the park. Or maybe they really do laugh, and tell jokes, and gossip about the Grammys.

It is always a traumatic experience for me. The feeling-me-up part. The boob smashing part. Even the sitting around with other patients in the in-between area, we all have lost our business suit jackets and we’re sitting around in these blousey, pastel, one-snap, open-in-the-front tops, boobs flapping in the wind, so to speak. I always try to make small talk but it usually doesn’t go over very well. It’s humbling, even to the point of being humiliating, I think. Fondling our “love pillows” and putting them through the wringer. Literally. (I always wonder what men would think if they had to have it done to their penises.)

And it always comes up with either the groper or the smasher, that I had a biopsy a few years back and still have a metal flag implanted in the questionable area. “You know, they could feel that last year when they did your exam,” groper lady said. “It’s in your chart.” So, yeah, the thought of it being something more than an uncomfortable 30 minutes, that always dances on to center stage at some point. This year, the woman who did the exam, gave me her all-clear — “well, at least I didn’t feel anything abnormal” — and then pointed out the age/breast cancer chart. At my age, it’s one in 50. At the age of 80, it’s like one in five. I nervously joked that if I make it to 80, I probably won’t have breasts. She laughed and said, “That’s right.”

On the walk back to work, I thought about the act that had just been perpetrated on my breasts. Wondered how that could be OK for them, to be twisted, stretched, lifted, pulled, pressed with a pressurized vise.

Poor things.

Then I saw something I could hardly believe. There on the corner of 8th and Bannock in downtown Boise was a sign: ASHES TO GO. An Episcopal minister — a woman — was there at the ready with a bowl of ashes. I walked up to her, took my sunglasses off, closed my eyes. She crossed my forehead and said: “From ashes you came, to ashes you will return.”

Somehow, that made everything OK.

Can’t wait for Valentines Day.

‘Children’s deaths trigger gun safety project’

I’ve been stewing on this for a while – at least a month.

You see, I am a non-violent peacenik. At least, that’s what they used to call us in the ’70s – not sure what the nomenclature is today. I grew up opposing violence, guns, wars – in high school, one of the most inspirational and defining books I read was Dalton Trumbo’s “Johnny Got His Gun.” I wrote papers espousing nonviolence, wrote a speech on “Love” and performed it in forensics. I still remember the first line: “Love, a four-letter word meaning … what? What does love mean to you?”

When my children were young – 3, 4 and 8 – we lived in Aurora, Colo. At the time, there had been a spate of accidental shootings – you know, kids playing with their parents’ guns or their friends’ parents’ guns. It scared me, and I worried about my children and their safety. When they were asked to go over for a play date to little Jimmy’s or Lisa’s house, I wanted to first ask: Well, do you have any guns?

I researched and wrote a story about gun safety, knowing that no publication would touch an article on gun control. It was my first paid article, published Nov. 19, 1986, by the Aurora Sentinel. I think they paid me $35 – I’ve got the check stub somewhere.

The article talks about how much toy guns look like real guns (they still do). It talks about what you can do to make your guns safe (keep them unloaded, bullets and guns in separate locations). I interviewed Aurora Police Officer Joe Petrucelli, who had been a first responder to one of the accidents. He described the heart-wrenching scene: one boy fleeing the house, blood on his shirt. Inside, a distraught father standing over his 14-year-old son, who was bleeding from a fatal gunshot wound to the head.

I was living in Denver at the time of the Columbine shooting. My kids were in high school, too, and my youngest had almost attended Columbine that year – it was in his dad’s neighborhood. I remember it as the first tragedy I saw play out on my computer screen instead of the TV.

On July 20 of this year, I woke up to read about the horrific shooting in Aurora. One of my sons, now in his 20s, lives in Denver. He had called me the night before. He was excited because he was going to a midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises. I tried to call him – no answer. I can hardly describe my terror. I was out of my body, calling the Aurora police, hospitals where the victims had been taken. I called every one of them. I had to tell them my son’s name. Every time they checked, I felt myself going more and more numb. My stomach fluttered; I was sweating, weeping, shaking. What could I do? I was so far away. I kept calling his number: no answer. I called his dad, said: You need to go check on him RIGHT NOW.

Finally he called me back. He had gone to a different theater; just woke up. His phone had been recharging. He was fine; didn’t even know about the shootings yet.

I felt relieved. But connected somehow to all the parents and loved ones of the theater shooting victims. I began following Denver news so I could keep up with all the related stories. I felt like a cousin or aunt or sister to all the victims.

Fast forward to today. Why I am writing this blog.

As the IBR special sections editor, I get to work on a variety of annual publications. Right now, I am conducting interviews for the IBR Women of the Year. There are 50 of them, and they are all amazing women. I am awe-struck at their stories and inspired by them.

Near the end of an interview, one of the women looked up and saw the first article I had ever written, the one on gun safety. It is framed and hangs on my office wall.

“Wow,” she said. “You wrote that how long ago? You could have written it today. And you were in Aurora? You should revisit that or use it to re-open the conversation.”

I’m not an idealistic 16-year-old peacenik anymore. I am an idealistic mother and a grandmother. This whole gun thing is goofy, in my opinion. If I had my way, we would toss all the guns in the river. I know, that is not realistic. But the way I look at them? They are death sticks. And right now it’s easy for angry, drunk, sick, disturbed people to grab them and use them. I believe that if they weren’t around and people had to get creative to kill someone, there would be fewer deaths from enraged people, drunks and sickos.

But I know – and you know – that’s not going to happen. Nobody in this country will ever – at least in my lifetime – invoke a ban on all guns.

So, how can anyone be so upset by making some rules to keep people safer? To make it harder for humans to shoot and kill other humans? You do not need an automatic weapon to shoot game or wildlife. You do not need high-capacity magazines. You do not need to allow felons or the mentally ill access to guns.

Do you?

In closing, I want to give one of our IBR Women of the Year a shout-out. Thank you.

And consider this conversation re-opened.

Happy New Year? Happy Life!

Nothing like a mammogram to put some perspective on things. I admit, I am not a monthly breast checker, but I resolve to be. Every year. I will get to know each millimeter, every pore. I will stand up, lay down, arms over my head like Marilyn or on my hips like Michelle. I will make them perky, use my fingertips and palms, check under my arms, look from the side, use a mirror.
I wonder if the reason I usually fall off the breast-check wagon is because it makes me think of what if. What if I find a lump, what if it’s cancer, what if they can’t fix it, what if… I die?
This is not a happy crappy blog post so you can quietly stop reading and click to your Facebook or Twitter posts now, I will never know and you may be happier by avoiding the rest. See, my son-in-law had a heart attack on New Year’s Day. He was 36, fit and trim, low cholesterol. Maybe his blood pressure was on the high side. He was a smoker. (Not anymore.) They put a stent in his heart artery, the left anterior descending artery, they call that one “the widow maker.” He’s OK — maybe a little spooked, maybe whenever his heart skips a beat or he becomes aware of it for whatever reason, he’s, well, he’s anxious. Of course he is. Because he was forced to think about that what if thing I was talking about, that what if thing none of us ever wants to think about.
I have been trying to get my head around what happened to my son-in-law. And then my mind wanders or I’ll have a dream. About my mom and dad. Or one of my brothers. Or my friend David.
Then, today, the mammogram. “Take a breath,” the technician sang out, each time she clicked the X-ray switch. After she had tightened the vise. Just. One. More. Crank.
So I will check my breasts. I will pay attention to the angels around me. I will be there to babysit whenever my son-in-law gets the jitters. I’ve got ‘em, too, just not the same.
And I will follow my X-ray technician’s advice.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Happy New Year, happy life!

This is not, I repeat NOT one of those you know, holiday letters!

December, 2011

Dear Dear Ones,

As I look at the calendar, I see it is that time of the year – for singing and eating and drinking, making merriment with family and friends. And catching up.

No, silly, this is NOT one of those letters!

Over the past year, I look and see I have many reasons to be oh-so grateful – I got a job, yippee, and really, really like it! My son Tyler got a great job, is ensconced in a cool apartment in Denver and living the good life. My son TJ and his lovely wife, Emily, far, far away in Illinois, produced and directed the ever-enchanting Violet, my newest granddaughter (and I got to see her, hold her, burp her, change her diaper, feed her – and most precious of all, sing to her and rock her to sleep – and smell that baby smell, the most heady perfume in the world).

I palled around in Boise with my grandson Max, now a young man of 7(!). We trudged into the Boise foothills, went to the park, took Karate lessons (I didn’t, he did) skied on Bogus Basin, went to church, a parade, the zoo, the circus (and an elephant ride!), the fair (he milked a cow!), the movies, the pumpkin patch, the mall. Everywhere I go with Max, we talk and talk, sometimes we sing and we always laugh.

I also got to get a little closer to my sweet, shy granddaughter Julia, now nearly 3 and also living in Boise (with Tracy and Joe and Max). Every time she says “hi, Grammy” on the phone, my heart melts a little more. She helped me choose flowers at Edwards Greenhouse – but mostly she wanted to pull the flower wagon! We played at the park, watched a parade, tried to go to church – she’s not much for the big, booming, singing church sounds – but mostly we played games like ring-around-the-rosie and hide-and-seek. She likes to hide in her room in the dark. She’s a great shopping companion and a great little singer and knows every word to the “Winnie-the-Pooh” song.

Don’t worry – this is not one of those letters. You’ll see.

My lovely, beautiful daughter Tracy, my oldest who is now all grown up, is carving out a burgeoning business at Coco Fringe, THE avant-garde salon in Boise. And, she’s a great mom, insists on a family dinner at the table every night, has the cleanest house in town and just goes and goes – she reminds me of my do-it-all-till-it-makes-you-dizzy mom who is no longer with us, but will always be with us. Tracy’s husband, Joe is a real college Joe and has set his sights on the geology field. He also helps with Max’s baseball team and spends hours playing catch and baseball with Max and does his own fair share of getting dinner ready and kids to bed. He loves to mow the lawn and keeps the yard ship-shape.

My husband Bob and I were happy we got to go to the Oregon Coast for a summer trip. The weather was perfect, we squenched our toes in the sand and let the sound of the surf lull us into a state of Nirvana. We met Bob’s parents there, Sara and Ralph and just gallivanted like beach bums. My favorite memory is when we built a bonfire on the beach and the seagulls ate out of Ralph’s hand.

(I promise, this is definitely not one of those long, boring happy holiday, this is what we did this year letters.)

It was a big year for Bob – he celebrated his 50th birthday by leaping out of a plane – and yes, he did have a parachute strapped on! He became the president of the board at TVCTV and works hard at the VSA, both non-profits – when he’s not creating some fabulous Bob Neal art, that is. He finished up his commission with the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step project and most recently donated a beautiful Dick and Jane style painting for a benefit art show.

Even though we have much to be grateful for, I sadly will say it has not all been roses. As with all life, we’ve had our ups and downs and we have lost some very special people in our lives. Bob lost his Uncle Lew and cousin Mark; on my side, my dear brother Dan and Aunt Alice.

But with Dan’s passing to that old grave robber cancer, came a rekindled closeness with my nephew Ken and niece Dana. Ken, who has always been more like a little brother to me, will, I hope, remain so. Dana, Dan’s lovely daughter, I hope will become a regular fixture in our lives.

(Don’t worry – this letter, not one of those, is almost over.)

Also with Dan’s passing as a side note: I am the last living member of the family I grew up with. Kind of weird. There’s nobody left alive who can corroborate or dispute any of my memories. Hmm.

Our faithful furry friends are fine. This year has been good to Payton, he has spent hours running amok in the foothills, off-leash and loving it. Hasn’t bitten a single soul. Mister, who has seemed in some sort of hibernation or stupor for the past few years, suddenly rallied after he killed and ate a mouse – I think it woke up the animal inside. Whatever the reason, he has a renewed bounce in his step, which is a feat in and of itself, considering he is one of the fattest cats I’ve ever seen.

Another pet note, on the sorrier side – Mister lost his cousin, Clawdia, Bob’s brother and sister-in-law’s cat and much beloved friend and family member. (To Mike and Rachel from all of us, our condolences. It is hard to lose a friend.)

My New Year’s resolutions: I will try to be a better person. I will try to turn down the volume on gossip – but I do love it so! I will try to be a better mom, with a less critical voice (it’s true, I can be harpy) and loving, hugging arms. I will try to be a better Grammy (I wish I could clone myself and just be a Grammy here and in Illinois, 24-7). I will try to be a better wife and try not to tell Bob what I think he should do (tongue biting! Tongue biting!). Most of all I will try to be a better me. And I will try to remind me to be happy and joyous each and every day I am here. It is a gift and I often take it for granted. Bad me.

I suppose that’s about it for this year. I hope you and yours are happy and healthy. Aren’t you glad I didn’t send one of those end-of-the-year, boring, guess-what-we-did letters?

Happy holidays,

Jeanne and Bob

You don’t need that latte!

I’ve got something — actually someONE — who rates head and shoulders over your afternoon caffeine fix.

His name is KC (his friends call him “Kace). He’s 12 years old and his Gramma (my friend and workmate) says “He’s a total social butterfly – laughing and smiling all the time. He loves everyone, loves school and his family.”

And, oh, yeah — KC has Angelman Syndrome.

It limits his speech, motor skills and communication.

But — someone in little ole Boise, Idaho has come up with software that could help KC — and other kids like him.

OneVoice – it’s a software for the iPad, and it has pictures for differently-abled people to touch so they can communicate with their family members, teachers and anyone else they need to “speak” with. According to KC’s Gramma “It is an amazing program!”

She is trying to raise money to get KC the iPad and the software. She’s about halfway there and I will vouch for her, this is not one of those I’m-the-king-of-Moldavia-and-you-have-won-the-lottery gimmicks.

This is for real.

And so is KC.

And so is his chance to finally say what he wants to say.

I say, let’s give him that chance.

Here’s the link:
Chip in for KC

Strange days

Have you had an exceptionally weird week? I think I can stand up and proudly say: I HAVE!

The first weird thing came from one of my Facebook friends. Now, even if you are one of my 400+ friends (I know, I know, that sounds like a lot but I started out “Friend”-ing every Tom, Dick and Harry, so to speak; I’ve mellowed out a bit on that front), I dare you to try to figure out who sent me the message about how the great state of Kansas outrageously, egregiously bans the sale of um, er, what I like to call “pleasure givers.” I hope you’re with me because I don’t want to spell this one out, if you know what I mean.

And, just in case one of you happens to get a likewise seemingly ridiculous message from one of your old time, high school or college buddies, don’t jump to conclusions and guffaw, posting the cut-and-pasted message on his or her Wall with “OMG — some one hijacked your Facebook ID and sent me this crazy thing — can you believe it?!” — like I did.

It turns out that he or she may have had a totally legit reason and wasn’t out of his or her mind at all. And she — or he — definitely did NOT want the er, potentially embarrassing and possibly mortifying tidbit on his or her Wall for all his or her friends to see. (Thank goodness you have a “delete” option, Facebook — thanks Zuckerberg!)

True, they may have had a glass of wine or two prior to posting the message and their judgement might have been a tad impaired by some sort of inebriating substance — but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a point.

The point is — I hope you’re still following me on this because I feel dreadfully close to losing my place here — there is nothing wrong with getting a little pleasure out of life — I endorse it. And as for it being — WHAT? ILLEGAL?? — that just goes beyond the pale.

So come on, Kansas — and Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Texas, Louisiana and Virginia. Get on the stick — and I mean that literally.

Some of us don’t lead a movie-star life. We can’t afford to jet-set around and we don’t have the money — or the inclination — to jump out of a plane on a daily basis.

We just wanna have fun.

Okay, so that was the first weird thing. And it took my whole lunch hour to tell you about it. Whew! The rest of the story? It’s coming…

Finally

T.J.’s Poem

Bert’s in the train,
Ernie’s in the way,
Bear wants cake,
Kitty wants to play.
Bunny wants to swim,
Lion’s got some flowers,
Mickey’s saying “hi” to Donald.
Puppy is hungry,
Big Bird has a balloon.
Bambi is curious,
And elephant’s blue
– TJ Gaylord, at the age of 5, circa 1989