My Blanket of Luv

So I've been reading this book Preparing for Surgery by Peggy Huddleston, in which she gives a lot of good advice about the power of visualization and positive thinking before, during and after your procedure. Ms. Huddleston also provides true life examples of people who have lost less blood, healed faster and altogether recovered more quickly thanks to the use of collective prayer and positive statements.

One specific suggestion she gives the reader is to create a "blanket of love." The idea here is that everyone thinks about you, or prays, or whatever it is they do at exactly the same time - usually the time of the surgery. One specific idea she offers is for you to ask  people to wrap you in a "pink blanket of love."

While I like the concept, I'm not a big fan of the color pink. So, if you are going to visualize me wrapped in a blanket of love, I prefer it to be green. More specifically, tealish green, or slightly darker. I mean brighter.
OK - so wrap me in a sort-of-teal-but-a-little-bit-brighter blanket of love.

Except the whole "love" thing makes me a little uncomfortable. A little too touchy feely for me.
So how about a sort-of-teal-but-a-little-bit-brighter blanket of healing?

Good. And make it snug, please. But  not too snug; just comfortably snug. Please do not suffocate me.

So where are we? You are going to wrap me in a snug, sort-of-teal-but-brighter (think hue of early mold if that helps) blanket of healing -

Now I'm visualizing one of those pig in blanket appetizers I used to eat  as a child.

To simplify this, let's just say that at noon tomorrow (Tuesday) when I am about to go under the knife, you will visualize me as a slightly moldy pig-in-a-blanket of healing.

Perfect.

Thanks in advance. xo

How to Tell the Kids

First, make sure you drag it out as a long as possible. Decide you can't tell them today, because the surgery is too far away. Or you can't tell them next week, because it's Christmas. In January, definitely don't tell them before E's seventh birthday. Then, when you've just about mustered up the courage to have the conversation, make sure to take your mother-in-law's advice to wait longer so that they won't get too stressed out too soon. Sounds good to you, yes? Because this is a conversation that is not going to be fun. Especially because your older son tends to get anxious. And he knows that your mom died of ovarian cancer. And they both know that George Harrison died of brain cancer because your husband felt it was a good idea to share this with them about two years ago, when they were five and three. 

So, to avoid the dreaded "C" word, tell them it's a boo boo, which the folks at Mass General will tell you is a bad idea because your children will think their future boo boos mean surgery and hospitalization. So change your plan to include the " C" word. Then make sure to pick an evening when they are really worked up. Because that's always ideal for a serious conversation. 

Make everyone sit at the table and say "I have something important to tell you." 

Look them in the eyes and say, "Remember when I had that boo boo on my booby a little while ago (post-biopsy)? Well, turns out that was breast cancer. But it's going to be OK because it was caught really really early. And it's not like my mother's cancer, which was down here (point to area) and caught very late. So the doctors can fix it."

Wait. Look for signs of tears. Or anxiety. Ask "Do you have any questions?"

Respond to the silence that follows by adding what is likely too much information by saying, "So what they are going to do is remove this boob, and replace it with a new boob."

Make sure your husband, or significant other, then says, "A bionic boob!"

Watch your children cry from laughing so hard.

Tolerate the onslaught of questions that follows for approximately the next ten minutes:

"Mommy, will your bionic boob grow a butt?"

"Will it grow a little arm that can pick up legos?"

"Will it poop on your other boob?"

"Will it be able to do karate?"

"Will it grow a penis?"

And so on. 

For a moment, feel a wee bit of sadness over this unexpected reaction. You are their mother, for Christ's sake. The little shits should be feeling much worse. 

But let the negativity pass. 

Truth is, you could not have hoped for a better response. Tell them that if they talk about your bionic boob at school, they will lose any video game privileges for a week. Then let 'em laugh.

My Happy Place

A major part of preparing for surgery for me has been perfecting my happy place. I have a significant fear of anesthesia, stemming from dental work I had done in the seventh grade. Apparently I had too many baby teeth in my mouth, so several had to be pulled, and one stubborn tooth had to be pulled down from the gum in which it was hiding. Enter the anesthesia, which in the seventies when this took place, was probably not the best. All I know is I awoke screaming for my mother, convinced the dentists were talking about how they couldn't wake me up; that I had died. Scary, huh?

Fortunately I have a wonderful therapist and weeks ago she began working with me on finding my happy place. She calls it trance, which I find a bit frightening. Trance makes me think of losing control- of Fred's hypnotized state in one Flintstones episode where he walks around repeating, "Yabba Dabba Doo." (Or maybe those were alien or robot Freds or something. I tried to find the clip on YouTube to no avail - yet I stumbled upon this fascinating clip of Fred and Barney smoking instead).



Still, despite my fears about trance, I wanted to surrender, to give up control, since that's what I would need to do for surgery . So, I settled into the couch, closed my eyes, and placed my hand on my therapist's dog's tummy for life support.

Now imagine your belly as a balloon, she said. Any color balloon you like. Now fill that balloon up with air, breathe in, and out. Think Strong on the in breath, Calm on the out breath.

This I could do. This was good. We practiced this for a while and then she asked me to think of a place, a place where I felt calm, a place in nature. Like the forest, she suggested. Uh, no way. Wild animals. Crazy conspiracy theorists living in log cabins. Or by the water, on a beach. Yes, a beach. Good, OK.  I pictured myself on a beach. In a hammock.
"You can hear the waves, crashing on the shore," she said. "The birds...everything is peaceful."
Crap, I realized, this wasn't going to work. I'm covered in freckles, making me a perfect candidate for skin cancer. I already had one basal carcinoma removed from my nose. Long gone were those high school days when I idiotically covered myself in baby oil and held one of those reflectors up to my face. How could I relax here?
How are you doing? she asked.
"I'm scared of getting skin cancer," I said in a trancy voice.
Imagine there's a bottle of suntan lotion on your hammock, she said. SPF 30.
A bottle of Coppertone magically appeared, but it wasn't enough. So I put a hat on my head. And an umbrella next to my hammock. Still, I couldn't shake this feeling that someone was watching me; a woman alone on the beach.
Maybe you want to go for a walk? Or a swim?
Was she f'ing kidding me?
"I think I'm going to go inside now," I said.

That was weeks ago. I'm happy to report that since then, I have perfected my happy place, which includes books, a fireplace, a black lab, and occasional visits from both Will Ferrel and Brad Pitt. I'm hoping to spend as much time there as possible in the coming weeks.

Frequently Asked Questions

What happened? Did you find a lump?

No lump. I went for my annual mammogram in early November, the day before my birthday. On the morning of my birthday, I got a call from a nurse asking if I could come back for a second mammogram (Cue Frosty the Snowman clip, but insert F word between happy and birthday). Now fast forward two days: back in for 2^nd mammogram, then invited into closet-sized consultation room, which is never good, and told my suspicious calcifications required a biopsy. I had a hunch, then, that this was a completely different experience from the time, twenty years earlier, I found a lump under my armpit and went to the  emergency room only to have  a medical student with a dire, confused look on his face find a doctor who, after inspection, deemed my lump, “a large vein.” At least this time I'm legit.

Your blog is called “I had a boob once.” Does this mean you are losing your boob?

Although the cancer was caught early, the cells have taken up enough mammary real estate that the best course of action is a mastectomy. So I’m losing the right boob and gaining an implant on February 12^th. The follow up to this question is usually, “How do you feel about losing a boob?”  I've been thinking about this one for a while. After reading Nora Ephron’s essay "A Few Words about Breasts" recently, I realized my relationship to my breasts has been the complete opposite of Ms. Ephron's...meaning almost non-existent. Maybe back in the 6^th grade, when the female twins around the corner from me sprouted prematurely and attracted all the boys’ attention, I felt slightly inadequate on the boob front. But that was it, really. At 44, I still struggle to operate a bra correctly—the straps are always falling down due to some sort of engineering defect or law of physics I can’t figure out. Anyway,  do I really need my breasts anymore? The only time they truly served me was when I nursed my two boys. Back then, my dainty b-cups transformed into powerful weapons of mass construction, capable of providing gallons of life-sustaining milk to not just my two sons, but probably the whole Octomom family if called upon. Now, they are back to mere accouterments  I guess I'd much rather lose a breast than the following: a foot, an eye, my hands, my mind,  my I-phone.

So, will you be increasing the size of your boobs?

Uh, no. My boobs, I've been told for the first time ever, are perfect just the size they are. Seriously. That’s the one thing two plastic surgeons agreed upon. That my breasts are ideal for implants: “Perky and not droopy. “ I feel like a proud mama.

What caused your cancer?

I'm still wondering this myself. I tested negative for the breast cancer gene, and none of the professionals I've spoken with could really offer an explanation. I have a hunch, however, that all those elementary school glue- sniffing parties I went to had something to do with it.

Yes, that really is me apparently sniffing glue in the back. I have no explanation.

Did you read this article in the Atlantic magazine about waking up under anesthesia in the operating room but not being able to tell anyone you are awake and then being traumatized for life?

Why, yes. Yes I did. Thank you very much Atlantic editors for including this article as one of your cover stories last month. You timed that beautifully. Upon receiving your magazine in the mail I said to myself “Don’t read this before your surgery. DEFINITELY DO NOT READ THIS.”
Two seconds later, of course, I read it and have been working on perfecting my happy place ever since.

Do you think cancer is funny? I mean really, should you be joking about this?

Yes, I think cancer is kinda funny. Not other people’s cancer of course, but my own. Most days at least, yes. 

Is it Worth the Schlep?

This column is running in the Jewish Advocate this week, thanks to Judy Bolton-Fasman who invited me to be a guest columnist! Thanks Judy!


The plan was this: We would take our first vacation.
My husband and I would take our boys, 21/2-year-old Ethan and 13-month-old Jonas, to Mystic, Conn., a 90-minute drive from our home outside of Boston. We would stay at the Hilton, near the Mystic Aquarium, and we would have breakfast with Ollie the Octopus. We would go swimming in the indoor pool. I would buy some floaties for the boys who were not yet able swimmers, and we would all have a good time and come back well rested and full of wonderful stories to share.
This was the plan. And although I was looking forward to it, for some reason, a part of me felt like throwing up.
OK, so I am not a world traveler. In college, when friends took off for spring break, I worked. When they spent semesters abroad or hiked overseas after graduation, I wondered, “Aren’t they afraid of getting kidnapped?” But one needn’t look far to find the roots of my apprehension. Growing up, my parents were not big on travel. The word “schlep” was thrown around a lot, as in “Oy, what a schlep that would be.” For my mother, depending on the day, even a trip to the supermarket might fall into the schlep category. Gradually, I must have absorbed this association: leaving the house = schlepping. We did, however, take two trips together as a family. On the first, a trip to Disney World, I became intimate with the little white barf bag on the airplane. Five years later, we went to Florida again, and my mother got seasick on our day cruise to the Bahamas.
So perhaps it should have come as little surprise when Jonas threw up all over me the day before we were supposed to leave for Mystic.
“It’s a family tradition,” I told my husband.
I schlepped Jonas to the pediatrician and paid my $20 to hear the standard answer: “It’s a virus.” When I asked if we should cancel our trip, the doctor was just as ambiguous, his only advice: “See how he’s feeling the night before.”
Although I had mixed emotions about going on vacation, the moment I thought we might be staying home, I became desperate to leave. “Please…I need this vacation,” I begged quietly to no one in particular. It was the way my 21/2- year-old phrased everything these days, replacing want with something much more dramatic: “I need that truck mommy.” Or “I need(insert here whatever is in his brother’s hands at this very moment).”
Fortunately, my prayer was answered.
The illness passed, and we packed up the family Subaru and headed south.
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, a vacation is defined as “a period of rest from work.” What my husband and I experienced in Mystic was definitely not a vacation. What we experienced was basically the work we do every day, but in another location and with other interesting characters inserted, such as Ollie the Octopus, who we met the first morning at breakfast.
“I want to knock him over mommy,” Ethan announced, and then hit him.
This was not the endearing moment I had imagined.
Nor was our outing to the hotel pool, when I tried to insert Ethan into one of the floatie toys I had purchased. He screamed as though I was inserting his legs into a tub of hot wax. “But it’s fun!” I demanded. He screamed again.
In the hotel room, my boys behaved like two rock stars, trashing the place with Cheerios and Cheez-Its. They did laps in the hallway, stopping outside the elevator and waiting for it to open so Ethan could shout “Hello people!”
I figured fish would be a soothing distraction, so on our second day, I bought tickets for the aquarium. I carefully planned our agenda for the afternoon, culminating with the sea lion show at 3 p.m. After barely 20 minutes at the park, Ethan insisted on swimming in the tank with the Beluga whales.
“You can’t swim with the whales, honey,” I said.
He sat on the concrete and bawled.
“How about some ice cream?”
“Noooooo … SWIM … WITH …WHALES!”
My husband scooped Ethan up, and without a word, we headed back toward the hotel. Both Ethan and Jonas cried while I stewed about the sea lion show I would miss, and the money wasted. Not that this was the first time. When I took the boys to the farm close to our house, all they cared about were the rocks. At the zoo, they preferred the sewer covers. Why did I bother?
We kept walking, and no one said a word until, just outside the hotel entrance, my husband knelt down to look at a butterfly.
“Poor little guy,” he said, “He can’t fly.”
Ethan lifted his head for a moment, his face red and puffy from crying. He looked at the struggling insect and – as though channeling some other, saner child – said gently, “We’re sorry butterfly.”
Three little words that made it worth the schlep.


Amy Yelin is a communications professional and freelance writer whose work has appeared inThe Boston Globe, and the anthology “Mamas and Papas.” Her Web site is wwww.yelinwords.wordpress.com.

The Master of Cool

These days my kids, Ethan in particular, are all about "cool." Either something (or someone) is "cool," or it's not. And if it's not, look out. At 4, Ethan has deemed Curious George, Mickey Mouse and Calliou (see previous post), all programs he used to love, totally Uncool. Jonas's excitement when we find a Mickey Mouse episode is quickly squelched by Ethan's protests of "But I want to watch something cool!"

"Well what's cool?" I'll ask. "Is Berenstain Bears cool?"

"NO!"

I'll fly through the channels. He'll stop me only for one of three shows: SpongeBob Squarepants, Phineas and Ferb (which he insists is Fern no matter how many times I try to correct him because I'm the one who can read and spell), or Dora. That's right. My son thinks Dora the Explorer is cool.

Why would a four year old care about what is cool, anyway? I sometimes wonder if I had something to do with it. I mean, I do catch myself saying "Wow, that's really cool," to Ethan alot. But it doesn't mean anything. It's more like saying "That's interesting," when you don't really know what else to say.

I suspect, however, that more than mommy here, his friends are the cause of his obsession with cool. I know he thinks this kid Lyle is cool. Lyle is in Ethan's class at school. Lyle, I'm convinced, is a bad kid. I decided this after watching Lyle try to steal a popsicle from the freezer in his classroom the other day, a crime he would have committed had it not been for his father.

"It's not yours Lyle," his dad said. "Put it back."

I could see the admiration in Ethan's eyes at the time, as though he too would steal a popsicle right in front of his mom if only Lyle had gotten away with it.

A couple of mornings later, when dropping Ethan off at class, Lyle greeted us with, "Hey Ethan, you're sweeper today. Only bad kids are sweepers."

This confirmed it for me. Lyle was evil. On my way out of the classroom, I vaguely threatened the boy. "You be nice," I whispered in his ear. "I'm watching you."

I was halfway down the hall near the exit when I heard Lyle's voie. "You're not watching me now." I turned around. He was by the door to his classroom.

"I'm watching you now," I said, creeped out by this five-year-old's, how shall I put it...balls?

I turned around and kept walking.

"You're not watching me now," he said louder this time.

OK. He had a point. I didn't have eyes in the back of my head. I turned to look at him again. He was smirking. Then, to my relief, the teacher called him back into the room.

A few days later, when I came to pick up Ethan and asked how his day was, his teacher added something to her standard answer of "Great."

"Oh, he had a great day...but well, he did hurt his friend Joey, hit him in the tummy...I think they were playing and Joey got hurt but it was an accident. And Ethan hugged him and said sorry right after."

I thought this was odd, but no big deal. Joey is a nice kid, and Ethan's best friend (according to Ethan). I was sure it must have been an accident. I asked Ethan about it and he didn't say much. At least, not at first. Then, a couple of hours later, while giving him a bath, Ethan said, "You know why I hit Joey, mommy?"

"It was an accident, right?"

"No, because Lyle told me to."

Ethan was smirking. I immediately launched into a lecture about what a great kid Joey is and how he shouldn't follow kids like Lyle because Lyle might be a bad kid and it's not cool to be a follower.

When Ethan continued smiling, I wondered if maybe he was lying. Because I forgot to mention this, but lying is WAY COOL these days.

That very same afternoon of the hitting incident Ethan's teacher had asked me if Ethan had really gone to Africa when he was three to see the Pyramids. I shook my head. "He's never even been on an airplane," I said.

"Oh well, he's got quite an imagination then," she said.

Whether Ethan was lying about the Joey incident or not, I suddenly understood how my mother must have felt when at age 11, I broke off from my innocent childhood friends to join an evil suburban Jewish girl gang led by Kelly, who just happened to be an Irish Catholic chick who was really cool. My mother thought she was a bad influence, and tried to talk to me about it then too, the way I tried to talk to Ethan about Lyle. But whatever she said had no effect because right around that time, I had deemed my mother no longer cool. At least with Ethan at age 4, maybe I still had a chance to make a difference. Maybe I still had a chance to open his mind, and teach him not to judge. To teach him that everyone was cool, in his or her own way.

Yet, like so many things we try to teach our kids, change comes slowly. For now, the cool factor continues to weigh heavy in our world. The other morning, Ethan told Jonas that his Batman pajamas shirt wasn't cool. It was a crushing blow to his little bro.

"Yes it is Ethan...Take it back. Say sorry!" Jonas lashed back.

"But it's not cool," Ethan said again.

"Mommy, daddy," Jonas said nearly in tears, "Ethan said my batman shirt isn't cool."

"Of course it's cool," I said. "Don't listen to him." I looked at Ethan and shook my head. "Ethan's not the master of cool, anyway. Daddy is. And daddy wears that Batman shirt we got him for Father's Day!"

This made Jonas smile.

"Ethan you are not the master of cool...,"Jonas repeated. "And I smelled your breath and it's stinky!"

I stifled a laugh and the little cheer I wanted to do for Jonas while thinking: now that is one cool kid.

Making a Case for the C-Word

How do you feel about Calliou? Read my piece on ErrantParent.com: Making a Case for the C-Word