grrlTravels

terminology

It is 8:30 am. K. and I are rushing around getting ready for the day.

"Me have one ear."

Oh crap. I so don't have time for this right now. But here it is.

"Yes, Sweetie, you have one big ear and one little ear."

One big ear and one little ear? Is that the best I can do? I am so freaking unprepared! Why aren't I more prepared? K. and I should have talked about the terminology before this.

"Me have one ear, Mommy."

Ok. Calmly try again.

"Yes, honey, everyone has things that are special about them and you have one big ear and one little ear. That is special about you. Lots of things are special about you."

Have. Not. Thought. This. Through. Enough. How do I tell him it's ok to be different, that it's what's inside that really counts, that junior high and high school will probably suck but after that things will get better, that the good people of the world will love him for who he is, in 3-year-old words?

"Me no want one ear."

Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap. Don't cry.

"R., you were born with one ear. You are a sweet boy. Baba and I love you very much. It's ok to have one ear."

In. Over. My. Head. Of course you don't want one ear. Of course. But it's going to be ok.

"Me no want one ear."

"R., are you ok?"

"no." heartrending, end-of-the-world sobbing.

"Oh sweetie, it's ok to be sad. It's ok..." Ad infinitum, whispered into his hair.

[If you, my wise internet pals, happen to know of a book, article, or other resource which discusses self worth in the face of physical deformity or anything along those lines, kindly point me in the right direction. I think "little ear, big ear" needs to be examined for a start.]

tock

Things got bad enough a few weeks ago that I was forced to take desperate measures. I decided with great reluctance to write down every single thing I did all day long to figure out where the time was going.

Ten days was all I could take. Here's what I found out: I cook, do dishes, pick up, shuffle the children, do laundry, fold clothes, work, and exercise. My life seems terribly dull. There's nothing on the list I can remove. The fact that the list even exists lends a terrible fatigue.

It was a pathetic end to a pathetic idea. There were no extra hours lurking behind the trips to school or the grocery store, the piles of sweet smelling clothes or magazines waiting to be read. The elusive hour did not reveal itself. I longed for a pair of x-ray glasses.

I know there are other people out there struggling alongside me. I know my therapist believes that one must nurture oneself. I know that to get one must give. I know going to bed at 9:30 doesn't help anything including the alarm at 6:10. I know all of this. And yet my sewing machine has fluff on the needle and don't even mention books to me or I shall laugh directly in your eye.

There is the faint hope of summer and a need to be patient. That is all.

cry

"Mama, you feel better?"
"Yes, Z., I feel better."
Two minutes go by.
"Mama, you feel better?"
"Yes, Z., I'm fine. Mama's fine."
2 minutes go by.
"Mama, you feel better?"
"Z., Mama is fine. I went to the doctor today for a check up. Mama wasn't sick. I just went to make sure everything was ok, and everything was ok. The doctor told Mama that I'm fine."
2 minutes go by.
"Mama, you feel better?"
"Z., did you go to the doctor today?'
"Yes."
"Were you sick?"
"No."
"Right. You weren't sick. You just went to the doctor for a check up. The doctor said that you are fine, that everything's good. Me too. I'm not sick. The doctor said that Mama's fine."
"Me go to doctor today."
"Yes."
"Me good girl. Me no cry."
"You were a very good girl, Z. No crying today. Great job! You were so brave!"
"Me no cry today."
"Right."
"You cry."
K. and I both start laughing.
"You're right Z. You were a brave girl and you didn't cry. Mama did cry."
"Me no cry. You cry."

I don't feel it consciously, but the mammograms freak me out on some deeper level. We were busy today, taking Z. to the GI Guy and then having a lovely lunch and shuffling the kids to the Academy of Natural Sciences Museum so I had no time to fret about my appointment. I ran through the rain, jumped in the car, fought my way to the parking lot, ran through the rain, and got to my appointment. Checked in, got undressed, waited, had the mammograms, was deposited in the second waiting room. Fidgeted around, read old magazines, fidgeted, wrote a zillion FB updates, fidgeted, listened to the loud conversation that the one sad woman wanted everyone to hear.

For a while I went to the People With Issues Mammography Clinic (PWIMC) and one day I showed up and they sent me to the regular clinic across the street. I wasn't happy. They didn't read the films right away at the regular clinic. They just squashed your boobs and sent you home to wait. But eventually I got used to the regular clinic, which is why I was disconcerted the last time when they sent me back to the PWIMC. The PWIMC is way more stressful because everyone there has issues, and there are always a few women there who actively have breast cancer or are waiting for more information after having an irregular mammogram. There was a woman today (with a friend along for comfort) who looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment. And the loud woman who had possible tumors in 3 or 4 different body parts.

Today for some reason this all freaked me out. I tried desperately not to listen, tried to immerse myself in a People magazine from last summer, tried to FB, Peggle, txt K., ANYTHING not to think about it all. And so when I got into the car with K. and the kids and E. started whining that we didn't have time to have the promised ice cream sundaes I started crying, hard, and K. said, "But everything was ok, right? They didn't find anything, right?"

Z. didn't cry. Mama did. It was a long day. I'm glad it's over.