Let Me Tell You About My Operation

I have a scar on my chin now, a nice thin line about an inch and a half long from just under my lip curving down to the right. Nice may be the wrong word, because under the skin in a wider circle something very hard insists itself upon my awareness. I try not to touch, but I touch often, just to see if it's still there and still hard. It is, both.

The professionals--the one who made the scar by cutting and the one I go to church with who might have made a less noticeable scar but who does not take medicare--tell me no worries. It will fade, hardness go away, etc., etc. Okay. I hope so.

It's basal cell carcinoma, skin cancer. Or, as someone close to me might say, cancer elbow of the chin. Pressure on the site is not to be desired--it hurts. Funny, too, because the incision is still kind of numb. A strange kind of numb that hurts under pressure. What are those nerves in there thinking?

Basal cell carcinoma. It's not the first. I hope it's the last. Does my attitude have anything to do with this whole phenomenon? I hope not, because I don't expect it will be the last. I just want it to be. At least it's not melanoma.

This one--he calls it a tumor--was bigger and deeper than the last ones, bigger and deeper than the dr who calls me Sweetie expected. I take no comfort in that. Size is not what I hope for. Cuts and many stitches, not what I hope for. Just happen to be what I got this time.

And, this time, when he said, "Sorry, kid [or Bud or Sweetie or whatever he was calling me at that moment], for messing up your face," I said, "Yeah, I've heard that before." That made him laugh, laugh hard. I can't figure why because he never laughs at what I say, like he doesn't hear me or something.

Maybe it was the first wise crack he actually understood and knew it was safe to laugh at. After all, I am the patient and must be handled carefully, even when cutting and, apparently, when cracking wise.

I say all this because I had begun to think he has only a one-way sense of humor. You know, what he says you laugh at; what you say he doesn't laugh at. And I asked him if he had a sense of humor, and he said, "Yes, of course." And I said, "Oh sure, you laugh at what you say, but you don't laugh at what I say." And he said, "I never know how to take what you say." Which was better than a laugh any day.

Ruthless

It’s what I have to be as I dig through stuff, bag it up, and get it out of my house. I’m on a kick, a get-rid-of-it kick. You know the old rule: box it up, and if you don’t unbox for use in six months, you don’t need it, so get rid of it. Makes sense. Apparently not as easy as it sounds. There’s always the “what if” factor, the maybe I’ll want this . . . factor, or the maybe someone could use it. . . factor.

Those are false and evil notions. You must push such notions from your brain. Be ruthless.

I can do it. Just last week I gave away two big JC Penney’s bags full of T-shirts from my travels. You know, go someplace, buy a shirt with that place’s name on it, take it home, and never wear it. I just put those shirts in a bag and sent them to DI. Well, I did call my daughter Ann and ask if she wanted to look through them first because maybe her boys . . . She said, “No.” That helped. They’re gone. They were some good shirts, you know.

Today I got a large box down from the high closet shelf. It had T-shirts for Quilt printed in black marker on the side. I opened the box. Mistake. Close to sin if you really want to get rid of stuff. It’s best not to look. Actually, Ann got the box down for me, and so again I asked if she wanted to look through the shirts, knowing she didn’t. But she said, “Maybe.” Hmmm. I don’t know if it was her maybe or my weakness in these matters that had me wondering if someone could . . . I caught myself and remembered that the box had been on that shelf for nine years.

Some of the shirts were my husband’s, and I thought I should look at them for the memories. You should never let yourself think about something like that. Be ruthless. So I put the lid on, and one of these days I’ll get those shirts down the stairs and into the car for a DI trip. I’m sure I will. But first I might ask Andrew if he thinks his boys might like to use them for sleeping shirts.

Just now Ann, who is here and finally doing what I have asked for at least ten or so years—going through her stuff that is still in my house although she has not been in my house for those ten or so years—walks up carrying the Cabbage Patch doll I made for her about twenty-five years ago. She says, “I’m not keeping this,” then seems to remember where she is, my house, and who is standing next to her, me, and who made the doll, and she says, “Not that I don’t appreciate all the work you did to make this for me, Mom.” And I’m thinking, “Yeah. I sanded and smoothed the head, painted it and baked it in the oven. I made the body, sewed dimples into the knees and into the backs of the hands. I made the fingers and toes, stuffed the thing, and mounted the head on it. Yeah.”

She must be reading my thoughts. “Well, maybe Johnny would like to carry it around.”

I say, “Well, maybe, but it’s quite dirty, Ann.” Because the truth is that I’m glad I made it for her, glad she loved it and played with it and dressed and undressed it. But, really, those days are gone, and it doesn’t matter to me if she throws the doll out.

So why I’m worried about those T-shirts I do not know.

Speaking of Words

Driving down Broadway today I passed an auto repair-type shop with a sign out front which read: auto technition . . .

I don't know the rest of it. Really, just that one word caught my eye. Technition.

Now I have to wonder about a word like technical. Or should it be technitol? Or maybe like this: as ignition comes from ignite--so technition comes from technite.

I know. I'm carrying on too long about this.

A Challenge All Right

I've been challenged by my daughter Alyce to do the Biggest Loser Spring 2009 Challenge with her. Or, as BL puts it, CHALLENGE! Makes me think of our public library. The sign on the building says LIBRARY! I guess the ! means we'd better be serious about it. I try not to smile in the LIBRARY!

I think I'm taking the CHALLENGE! seriously, but it's only one day so far. Hard to know if I've established a trend.

What it means is that I'm earning points for everything I do and don't do--according to BL standards--right during the day. A point for not eating sweets; a point for no soda; a point for eating "5 servings of fruits/veggies" but no indication of what constitutes a serving; a point for drinking 64 oz. of water, but I think drinking that much water should be worth more than one point. Maybe a point for every time I have to visit the toilet. But that's not the way the BL people see it.

Yesterday I got 7 out of 8 possible points. I didn't take a vitamin. But I did get 7 hours of sleep and did do 30 minutes of physical activity, although they call it a workout. I walked for 50 minutes and claimed a point for it. I hope that's legal.

At this moment I'd like to protest that I am not fat. But obviously I am or I wouldn't have accepted this challenge. I need to lose about 8 pounds so I can buy a nice black dress, which is what I am to wear to Alyce's wedding reception (45 days away), and look decent in it. Eight pounds doesn't sound like a lot, but I've already shed eight pounds--pre BL CHALLENGE!--and, having done that, sat down and felt complacent and began to think I could eat out any time I wanted and eat whatever I wanted.

If you've never needed to drop pounds you don't know what I'm talking about.

It's 11:30 a.m. and I have had about 12 oz. of water. I'd best get busy drinking. Take my walk first.

Ah Yes

Spring stuck a toe in the water yesterday. The afternoon sparkled. Birdsong floated in air, skin regaled itself in sunshine, arms lifted skyward in praise of blue. I, for one, am ready for more. Come on Spring, take the plunge.

Worry

I have told my children not to worry, but, apparently, I have not taught them not to worry. They worry, like me, like their grandmothers, perhaps like their great-grandmothers. And, yes, like their dad.

Worry never fixed anything or solved any problem or helped one living soul. But it is part of our humanity and of our genetic identity. Some of us, anyway.

As for me, I keep trying not to worry, because I truly understand about it--its uselessness, its wastefulness, its harm of our peace.

But, you say, there is always so much to worry about. I say, "my point exactly." All the worrying in this world has not changed that.

I have told my children, and myself, it is foolish to get down on your knees and ask the Lord's help, then get up and shoulder the worry again.

Proverbs 3:5 Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

This rather preachy posting is for me, obviously. A reminder.