Cancer and Baby Eyes

Over the course of the last two months, it seems like God is testing me. It started off innocently enough. At Timothy's four-month checkup, the doctor noticed that Tim's eyes were still drifting, and his eyelids were still drooping. We (meaning my husband and I) almost expected it. There is a long line of drooped eyelids and lazy eyes on his side of the family, starting with my husband and ending with his grandmother, with at least seven people in between. The pediatrician, who we call Dr. Chad, referred us to a REAL eye doctor. My husband had surgery at age 3 1/2 to fix his drooped eyelids, so we expected that too.

Two weeks later, we're at the eye specialist, and the doctor (who we'll call Dr. G) came in. Timmy looked at him with big blue eyes, and Dr. G almost told us there was nothing wrong with him. In the time it took him to turn, write something in the chart, and turn back, Tim's right eyelid was now drooped. This didn't surprise the doctor, and he said that was perfectly normal in cases of drooped eyelid. Again, in the time it took him to turn, write, and turn back, now his right eyelid was fine and his left eye was drooped. Dr. G about dropped his pencil. He said he had never seen this kind of drooped eyelid before, and referred us to the hospital to have bloodwork done. For any parent who has had their baby get blood drawn from their arm, you know the pain your heart projects into your soul, knowing that you, the one who was supposed to protect, is now the one putting your screaming, crying child through the process of getting blood sucked from their arm. But both Tim and mommy made it through okay, although we were both puffy, red-eyed, teared up individuals when we left.

After six weeks of impatient waiting, we got the results. Everything was normal. It was almost anticlimatic after all the waiting, but then they dropped the bombshell...they were referring us to Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis. They could have ripped my heart out of my chest, and suddenly I was reminded of all the pain and heartache and joy my parents went through in that hospital. That hospital saved their daughter, but it was also the same hospital where my mother held my 1 1/2 year old brother as he took his last breath, dying of something even the doctors had never heard of. I know now how my parents must have felt, knowing they were helpless. Although my son has something common and simple, I don't want my baby going through pain.

In the midst of all the waiting, it was now time for Timmy's six month checkup. Dr. Chad had asked me how I was feeling, and I told him the truth: I was exhausted to the extent of falling asleep fifteen minutes after sitting, no matter what time of day it was; I was having continuous headaches, and having severe pain in my abdomen. He sent me for blood work to test my thyroid, and an ultrasound on my abdomen. It was there they found three masses on my uterus and one on my ovary. The feeling in the pit of my stomach was equivilent to getting punched in the stomach. In an instant I saw my life, my future, slipping away. Although I realize that particular reaction was a little premature, but in our family history a lot of family members were diagnosed with cancer, and only one so far has survived. I was sent for a CT scan.

For some reason, God is smiling on me. Friday I got the results, and it was determined that the masses found were just scar tissue. So my life, though shortened quite a bit through worrying, will hopefully be a long one. I look forward to seeing the future I imagined: seeing my boys grow up, go to school, graduate, getting married, having babies, and my husband and I growing old together. Now that I think about it, any future is a great one.

I Might Have Cancer

As if my life hasn't taken enough twists and turns, now I'm taking another sucker punch from life. At my son Timothy's six month checkup last Friday, I mentioned to my doctor that I've been feeling lethargic, to the point where if I'm sitting for longer than ten minutes, chances are good I'll be asleep. I've also been feeling lower abdominal pain. Before I knew it, I was on the exam table, and he's pressing on my belly. He pressed on my sore spot, and tears started flowing due to the pain. He sent me to the hospital to get an ultrasound performed.

The ultrasound technician was nice enough, and as she started taking pictures of my abdomen, I noticed she was taking an awful lot of pictures. All she could tell me was that she "found something". Turns out the "something" was three masses on my uterus.

Yesterday I'm at the Anticoagulation Therapy Unit getting my coumadin levels checked when I receive a phone call from the doctors office. Two of the masses could be explained away, but they said the one was consistent with one found on my uterus six months prior during my last pregnancy ultrasound, so they want to get it checked. They also found a hidden mass on my uterus, and a mass on my right ovary. So that brings the grand total to one on my ovary and two on my uterus. They ordered a CT scan and if necessary, a biopsy.

Due to my family history with cancer, I'm scared out of my freaking skull. I don't want to fight and lose. I don't want to leave my boys or my husband, and my parents have suffered enough losing two children due to illness. I don't want them to have to grieve for another child. I know that chances are good that it's nothing, but I don't want to take chances. If it means having a hysterectomy at 26, then that's what will happen. I refuse to back down, refuse to give up, and refuse to let this be a bookmark on my life and how it's seen. My cousin survived cervical cancer, and she often remarks that this is how others view her. She's not just a cancer survivor. She's a mother to three beautiful girls, a wonderful daughter, and a woman willing to sacrifice for her family. "Cancer" is a blip in the grand scheme of her life, and she hates knowing that it will be like a lone highlighted sentence in a book.

I have overcome so much. I have three blood clotting disorders that should have prevented me from having children, and yet I have two beautiful boys that are the light of my life. It also should have caused strokes or embolisms, and yet it was as if God himself touched me and prevented any further harm to me. I survived a suicide attempt in the seventh grade, lost six friends in four years during high school due to accidents (even seeing one of them t-boned by a cement truck right outside the high school parking lot), and have fought to make my marriage a good one (if not a little unorthodox :) ). So I see this as a learning and growing experience, a way to make another notch in the post of bad situations in my life that I've overcome.

In the meantime, I guess all I can do is cross my fingers, pray to god, and hope for a good outcome to this. Let's hope all I lose is a few days due to stress. :)

My Little Boy is Growing Up (and getting on my last nerve)

Well, the day finally came that our older son Christopher moved to a big boy bed. It didn't come without a fight; I didn't think he would be okay with it. But he was apparently more than ready. Not that he had a choice, anyway. The night before he had jumped so high in his crib that the springs broke and he couldn't sleep in it anymore.

So we went to a second-hand children's store and lo and behold, there it was: a fire truck bed. Christopher ran to it and threw his self on top of it, as if he were marking his territory. It was a moot point; there was only one other person in the store, and she looked old enough to be my mom.

He begged and pleaded, which was pointless because we were going to get it for him anyway. It was only $80 and in really good shape.

I ended up calling my dad to come with me later that day and help pick up the bed. It was able to disassemble into pieces, but the pieces were still too big for my car. So he went with me, and after picking it up, I went to pick up the boys to go home. As soon as Christopher knew his bed was in the back of Paw Paw's van, he wanted to go with Paw Paw, but we had to take the seats out to make room for the bed.

I called my husband to meet us in town after he got off of work to transfer the bed to the back of his truck. As soon as Christopher knew his bed was in the back of the truck, he wanted to go with Daddy. He didn't want his bed getting lost, and being out of sight of it, if only for fifteen minutes, would have broken the (already broken) chain of custody. He screamed all the way home.

The first night he only got out of bed three times, the second night, once. Last night, however, he was doing all he could to stay awake, and kept jumping up and out of bed. The last time he got out of bed was as he was attempting to climb on the "roof" of the truck and fell off, hitting his head on the carpeted floor. He was fine, but he was mad at his bed for "throwing him off".

However, that hasn't stopped him from practically living on it since it came home. It's his bed, his truck, and when he drapes his VeggieTales quilt over it, it becomes his secret fort, where he can look out the windshield and watch people go by. I watch him play and I'm glad he has the imagination to play for hours with a molded piece of plastic that is his bed. He giggles as people walk by his secret fort and he touches their legs, his little arm a flash as he pulls it back into his fort. As he grows, I hope he still has a little mischief in his blood, because even as an adult, I yearn for the days when I could build my fort and just ignore the world.

Things that Take on a Different Meaning Once You Have Kids

I was thinking about how much my life has changed since having kids. Even conversations and phrases have taken on different meanings since becoming "mommy". For instance..

Wet T-Shirt Contest
Before children: Usually beautiful, scantily clad women being hosed down as people cheer
As a mommy: the wet spots your boobs make when you've skipped a feeding, or after a feeding when the baby spits up on you.

Power Struggle
Before Children: Sometimes made in business while attempting to take over the competitor
As a mommy: the fights while trying to get your toddler to sleep, eat, or use the big boy potty in a vain attempt to prevent accidents.

Accidents
Before children: it usually involves a motor vehicle
As a mommy: a puddle of pee on the floor or even better, poop in the bed of a potty training two and a half year old.

Foreplay
Before children:the prelude to lovemaking.
As a mommy: four family members playing Chutes and Ladders.

Pain
Before children: a paper cut
As a mommy: labor and delivery after the epidural wore off

Love
Before children: used to describe everything from your husband the cup of coffee you just had
As a mommy: the word used exclusively to describe everything about your children (and only your children)

As Far as Moms Go, Mine is Pretty Cool

For as long as I can remember, my mom was always the "Cool Mom". She was the one person in the room who could walk among strangers and walk out with friends.

I yearned to be like her, to be confident in myself no matter what. I didn't succeed in high school, where I longed to stay blended into the walls to avoid detection. I never saw my mom without her self-assurance.

Not to say we didn't have our arguments or fights. My teenage years with her were mostly locking horns and trying to pin each other down to be the dominant one, but after I got married, she and I became more like friends. She told me she had always wanted our relationship to be that of friends, but growing up I needed a parent more than I needed a friend. So once she was sure she had done her job of raising me, she became my friend. She gave me marriage advice, friend advice, work advice. We can joke around together, like in the above picture. (The one in the purple is my sister Kelie, and the one holding the toy guitar is my mom...I'm the one in the glasses.)

But even in high school, between the fights and screaming matches, I realized she WAS pretty cool. She never tried to be cool, like most parents did. She was just her usual, chatty, friendly self. She knew the latest dirty jokes, had stories from her bowling trips, and we just enjoyed hanging out, whether at home or at the mall. I was never ashamed she was my mom. I didn't care who knew it. She was the greatest. She overcame so much, and turned into a strong, wonderful woman.

Even now, I know I can always turn to her for parenting advice, and she's always done really well with not overstepping my rules or boundries. She's turned into the world's greatest grandma, but I'll be honest...I'm always worried I won't be as good a mother as she was and is.

But beware....what happens at grandma's...stays at grandma's. :)

Spring is Here, and my Son is in the Mud....At least I hope it's Mud

Christopher has always been a "boy's boy". He loves what his daddy loves, which would be touching if it didn't make him smarter than me. He loves tractors and trucks, and when compelled, can tell you the difference between a combine and a tractor, or the difference between a cow and a steer. Most children his age don't know the difference of either of those scenarios, but he's got farming blood running through his veins.

From the time he was born, my husband was "grooming" him for the farming life, and a part of me died. I've loved music all my life: I sang with a professional choir for nine years and with it, traveled to eight different countries. I have the radio on more than the TV, and we entertain ourselves by dancing around the kitchen as I cook or clean. I had precious moments with him as an infant, dancing with him in the living room and humming in his ear because it was the only thing to settle the middle-of-the-night crying. And yet, as he grows older, he's leaning more toward dad's side.

When he has a choice now, he would prefer to leave my side and go with daddy to the barn. That's where the trouble starts, and that's where I come in to clean him up. He's usually covered in mud. At least, I hope it's mud. As much mischief as he gets into, I wouldn't be surprised if he came in covered in cow poo. Or, if his dad has things to work on, he'll strap on his toy tool belt and follow daddy down to the shop to "help" work on machinery or a random car or two.

In a way, I mourn. I had always hoped my son would excel in the arts, but alas, I doubt it will ever be. But I hope that my son knows he's loved every second of every day by both of us, regardless of what he does or says. I know there will come a time when he will decide what is best for him, and I encourage him no matter what his choices are. But deep down, I know that more than likely, he'll live and die on daddy's farm, just like daddy, and in the meantime, he'll play in the (what I hope is) mud.

When in Doubt, Assume the Worst: A Mommy's Guide to Neuroses

I've always been neurotic. But having kids just made my neuroses worse, and added new ones to the list. I just figured I'd share them with you, and determine one of two things will happen: you'll either relate or laugh your butt off.

Street fairs: I like the elephant ears. That's about it. The rides I refuse to let my boys ride on, with the theory that it makes me nervous these machines can be put together in three hours or less, but still considered safe enough. The live bands are okay, as long as you sit back far enough, otherwise I freak out that my boys could go deaf.

TV: as long as it's on PBS Kids, life is good. I also like the lineup on CBS on Monday nights. You can never go wrong with the Big Bang Theory. But I'm also drawn to shows like Dateline NBC and 20/20 like a passer-by is drawn to a car wreck, often causing a three-car pileup fifteen feet away from the original crash scene. How the world is able to function and people are able to survive, I'll never know. Viruses, child predator, feces in our drinking water...I'm still waiting for the medication commercial that lists "Could turn into a lemur" as one of its side effects. I swear every week I'll never watch those shows again, but it's like an addiction.

Clowns: Saw Stephen King's IT when I was four....'nough said.

Beaches: Not so much scared of sharks...surprising, huh? Actually, I've never swam in anything other than a pool or lake, and not by choice. I've never been in a state next to an ocean. :) But I'm a mommy of two. I wear my stretch marks like badges of honor, but they don't look good with a "mummy tummy" in a bathing suit. I wonder if the bathing suits that really look like suits will come back into style?

Super Moms: the moms that make me look or feel bad by implying I'm a bad mother because (shock) I choose to work to keep food in my and my children's stomach and a roof over their head. I'm one of many who swallowed their pride and got a job for the well-being of my family. I also believe it's not child abuse to give my child pre-processed foods, or by swinging through the drive-thru when it's been a long day and I know my son will be asleep by the time we get home. I believe they think they have to treat their children like a giant sign to advertise what wonderful moms they are.

As neurotic as I am, I'm not overly concerned with me or my children constantly washing their hands. Don't get me wrong. It's a mandatory when it should be, like after using the bathroom or before eating, but my family's motto has always been "A little dirt don't hurt." But it became painfully obvious the rest of the world doesn't agree with our mantra, because after toddler time at the library, my son gave a little girl in the group a goodbye hug, which was recipricated with joy. But no sooner had they disengaged from each other, her mother practically bathed her in Germ-X. I was dumbfounded. My son wasn't dirty. He has a bath every night, and his clothes were clean. So why does she automatically assume the worst? She must watch Dateline and 20/20 like I do.

And just the other day, I felt the icy stab of irony. Two of my cousins had babies in their teens. I never thought it would happen in my family, and though they were and still are two of the best moms I know, I swore I would never do the same.

Yet, as I stood in line in the grocery store checkout line, thumbing through the newest copy of Cosmo, I felt that weird overwhelming sense that I was being watched. I looked up to find a mother and her daughter who looked about fifteen. The mother was looking at Christopher, who was sound asleep in the basket of the cart, and Timothy, dozing in his car seat, a lazy smile grazing his lips every so often.

"How old?" she asked.

"Almost three and almost three months," not realizing that she was most likely asking my age, because she turned to her daughter and I heard her tell her daughter if she got pregnant like I did at my age, she would disown her.

Woah. It was like a sucker punch, as I had been married to Ben for almost two years when I had Christopher at 23, and still married to Ben when I had Timothy at 25. I look young, but I thought it was a stretch to assume I was a teenager. So I fought fire with fire.

"Excuse me."

She turned to me with a smile, oblivious that I had heard her. "Yes?"

"How old do you think I am?"

She froze like a deer in the headlights of my car, and stammered, finally muttering "Too young."

"As a matter of fact, I'm 26, and I've been married almost five years."

She blushed, finally realizing that I heard her. "I was just telling my daughter..."

"Get your facts before you judge." I was furious, though I had really no reason, but I felt compelled to stick up for my cousins, who probably felt judging eyes on them at all times. One of my cousins had her daughter at 16. She's worked hard to succeed as a woman and as a mom. She'd do anything for her daughters, and I doubt an "older mom" could make her look inferior. Though she's admitted the timing wasn't right, it was right because it saved her from her own self-destruction, and I strive to be the same loving mother she is.

As long as you love your child, nothing else matters. Except clowns....clowns are scary. :)