I do know people with firearms.

While grocery shopping the other day, Roommate pulled some Ensure off the shelf. She had a coupon for it, even. Now, dear invisible friend, if you've ever used a coupon, you know that there are often conditions. So you'll forgive us for having taken up space in the supplement aisle at Safeway, making sure we fulfilled the coupon's expectations.

We figured out [yes, all on our own!] that we needed to get three sets of Ensure. I say sets because they come in groupings of four. A four-pack? Yes, yes. A four-pack. Otherwise known as the abdominal goal of the gym rats outside of New Jersey. Say....the south side of Philadelphia. A six-pack might be too lofty of a goal in the city that invented the Cheese Steak.

So three four-packs would satisfy the rules of this coupon. I asked Roommate if she wanted the luscious-looking vanilla shakes, the decadent chocolate or the fresh and fruity strawberry. And Roommate said I should decide.

I should decide?

"Well, that's silly. I don't know what kind you want for your breakfasts," I demurred.

"They're not for me," she replied. "They're for you."

Pardon me?

"Well, they say that you lose muscle over the age of forty, and drinking these will help you keep your muscle," she continued earnestly. "And you are over forty."

She's right. I am over forty. And it was so kind of her to be concerned about my muscle mass and general health. Really, if I focus on that, I'm almost touched. I also think it's time for Roommate to start dating. Now.

Mmmmm, chemicals in an odd little bottle. Building muscles has never been tastier. Or more fun!

Shoot me.

Souper Bowl Thursday

Have we discussed Soup Day, darlingest? Hmm. Well, if I'm repeating myself, you'll forgive me, right? I should hope so! Otherwise...

NO SOUP FOR YOU!

Heeheehee...oh, all right. Sheesh.

My lovely coworker Vicki suggested Soup Day last winter. She felt that, with the dreariness of the winter in the Pacific Northwest, we all needed a little pick-me-up at work. And you know they don't let us drink on the job anymore. No, I don't why. I agree; they're being completely unreasonable. Bastards.

Vicki suggested, since shooting up is bad, that we have Soup Day once a week. One of us would bring in a Crockpot of soup, one of us would bring in bread. If "us" developed a third arm, a sweet could be added. And then all the departments who use our Break Closet could enjoy a lovely lunch and happiness would reign supreme. Birds would sing, chipmunks would cavort, rainbows would dance across the sky--

Pardon? Oh, the Break Closet. Well, it's not large enough to be a room, so it can't be called such. Seriously. More than 2.5 people in there, you need a lubricant. And not in the fun way.

We did Soup Day once a week [more or less, don't get picky] all last winter and it was a rousing success. There was every reason to try it again this year. Again, it's been lovely. Actually, I can tell how well a particular soup went over by the number of e-cards I get in my mailbox. No thank-yous...do not try that soup again.

I usually make a main soup and a back-up soup. If I happen to make a soup with pork in it, I do a smaller batch that's pork free. At least one of my soups per week is vegetarian. I try to keep one option gluten-free. Sometimes, I fail at all of that. This week's soup day theme is Souper Bowl Thursday.

Vicki made chicken chili. Tonya brought French bread. Someone [probably Vicki, God bless her] brought sour cream and onion chips. I made beer-cheese soup [go, Packers!] and a Mexican chocolate loaf cake. That's chocolate with cinnamon and ancho chili added. Mmmm! Several coworkers have peered doubtfully at the beer-cheese soup, but I am not deterred. As I've told some of the whinier soup eaters, "Think of a ball game. You get a pretzel with cheese and a nice, cold beer. Same idea, just in soup form."

Really, it's the next best thing to drinking on the job.

Oy. Oy, vey.

No, I don't practice Judaism nor do I speak Yiddish. But sometimes, one MUST borrow phrases, because nothing else will fit the situation. Like when the Seahawks crush the New Orleans Saints during a playoff game. The only appropriate thing to say is "Holy Mary, Mother of God."

It's the only thing that fits.

In this case, it's "oy, vey."

Yesterday, I dropped a quick email to my ex's parents. I'd spoken to his mother a few weeks before about a shoulder surgery needed by her husband, my ex's stepfather. [The ex's birth father died over a decade ago. Cancer. It was awful.] Anyway, she and her husband were planning on spending a few months on Vancouver Island before visiting family in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, and returning for an extending visit to Germany. I did feel that kind of happy jealousy one feels for the good fortune of others. She'd finally retired and now it was time to enjoy! Yay!!!

So my email was along those lines. How did the surgery go? Were they enjoying Vancouver Island and all its beauties? No big whoop. And last evening, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number [nor did my phone] but I thought the area code looked familiar. It was the ex. [I didn't even recognize his voice.] He said that his mom asked him to call, that she just didn't want to tell the story again.

Yes, my heart clutched, too.

Pancreatic cancer.

She's opted not to have chemo or radiation. She is taking a medication that has been shown to shrink tumors. She's also going to have a liver biopsy, because you know how those internal organs like to stick together on things like cancer. But...it's not the best diagnosis in the world. According to Wikipedia [and take that with all the salt you want] fewer than 5% of all patients diagnosed with pancreatic are still living five years after diagnosis.

Median survival from diagnosis is around 3 to 6 months; 5-year survival is less than 5%. With 37,170 cases diagnosed in the United States in 2007, and 33,700 deaths, pancreatic cancer has one of the highest fatality rates of all cancers, and is the fourth-highest cancer killer in the United States among both men and women.
-Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pancreatic_cancer

But there's hope, right? There's always hope. In this case, I have very specific hopes.

I hope my ex's mom lives every remaining minute of her life, whether that's two days, two weeks or two decades.
I hope she spends time with her children and her grandchildren, her siblings, her cousins and most of all her husband, who first wife also passed away in heartbreaking circumstances.
I hope the spouses of her children are able to show her love and support their partners through all of this.
I hope my ex's wife keeps him from succumbing to his addiction again.
I hope my ex's mom loves and is loved to the utmost of her capacity and is surrounded by that love whenever she leaves this world.

Oy, vey.

Or....shit.

MELTDOWN

I have been called a technophobe in the past. Granted, it was by extreme geeks, so I didn't have to lend that opinion too much credence unless I choose to do so. And I am resistant to so aspects of technology, but I really do have good reason.

I don't have a Bluetooth. All right, I have one, but I didn't buy it and I don't actually use it. It would just be one more thing I'd have to charge and it's hard enough to charge my netbook and my cell phone.

I don't have Internet capabilities on my phone. I know I could, but it would be just one more thing I'd have to pay for and my Verizon bill is already larger than the Gross National Product of a few small countries.

I am not on MySpace or FaceBook. Or Twitter. Or Reddit. Or anything else similar, and I can tell you why. I'm horribly afraid, not of the technology, but of the addictive nature of such things. I'm afraid I would never do anything else. Then I would have to have a smart phone with Internet capabilities and the Bluetooth that would allow me to yap endlessly on the phone while updating my FB status....

We see where this is going.

So I'm not really a technophobe. And given that I work in health care, I'm all too often the most technosavvy person in the room. I---

Okay. Stop laughing. Seriously. Health care people are usually more comfortable with human beings that with computers. You're still laughing. Stop it.

Anyway.

I can handle some very basic fixes when my work computers or printers start acting up. I mean, come on. How hard is it to reboot? And I can figure out a few things with the wretched programs selected by the powers that be in most of my jobs, programs undoubtedly selected from the discount bin of computer programs. I'm not a complete bucket of rocks. That being said, imagine my chagrin and dismay when the label printer for my lab became possessed by Satan.

It all started last night, you see. Devil Printer decided it was out of labels, when it actually still had a few left. It decided this when [naturally] I had a) stat labs ordered on a patient with chest pain and b) someone on his way to pick up the samples and transport them to the main testing area. Conveniently, this occurred after 5 PM, when my coworker leaves for the day and I stay until the clinic is closed and all patients have been treated. Then, in the midst of trying to reload labels into a reluctant and resistant printer, more patients showed up. Itty bitty patients. Itty bitty, screaming, fighting patients. After a sufficiently long struggle, and a great deal of cursing, I got the labels reloaded...but the printing was all catawampus.

Yes, that is too a real word.

Now, you and I both know that it's way too late to make a long story short. But to shave off some of the excess, let me say that the IT tech who had the grave misfortune to be sent to repair the Beast was smart enough to lay hands on the printer and entreat the departure of demonic spirits.

We're keeping my offer of throwing the printer through a window on reserve.

Know this, my darling invisible friend. If I ever win the lottery, I will buy this printer from my place of employment, I will take it out into a field and I will beat it with a sledgehammer until it is dust.

Dust.

Post-op

I'm not really sure why I feel compelled to share stories of my bosom and the myriad insults and indignities it has endured. Perhaps this topic choice has to do with a date I went on recently. Hmm. Something to ponder.


Anyway.


Oh, stop it. We've all had a date who reminded us of a mammography machine. I'll tell you about it later.


No, later.


Moving on.


After the Rob-ectomy was performed [and sadly, no breast lift was done at the same time] I went about my business. It wasn't terribly exciting, just the usual blah blah blah of life and work; I just wasn't encouraged to play tennis for a bit. Not that I play tennis. I'm just saying. Everything was fine until a few days after the procedure. There was redness. And a bit of heat. And, well.... There was a bit of swelling. No, not the fun kind. Just on the one side. Yes, I was listing to starboard.


I'm sure you know, dearest invisibility, that this is a classic billboard for post-operative infection. I wasn't worried about it. Of course, I also wasn't too worried when Robbie could have been malignant, so maybe we shouldn't place to much weight on my level of concern. But I knew such a situation was relatively commonplace and in this day and age, an easy fix. I called the surgeon's office and learned that I could be seen by a surgical PA [physician's assistant] who just happened to be in my building's walk-in clinic for the day.


Now, I'm sure you also know that when a woman is...listing, the medical provider must examine...the whole darn prow. It's not enough to peek at one boob to determine if swelling has commenced. You gotta check out the whole rack. For propriety's sake, the PA, whose name is John, had with him a medical assistant, whose name is Rochelle. Rochelle is also a dear friend of mine. We had the exam. Antibiotics were prescribed. I was given privacy to redress myself. All very ho-hum stuff. Then I left the exam room and stopped to chat with Rochelle, and this is where it got entertaining.

Rochelle told me that she didn't think I had caught it, but after leaving the exam room with the PA, she'd said to him, in what I can only assume was a gentle and loving fashion, "John. When you're performing an exam on a woman and she's naked to the waist, don't start the conversation with, 'Well, I'm not impressed.'"

My dear friend was correct, I hadn't caught it. And even through my shrieks of laughter, I knew what John meant. Plus, I work in the same health care system, so we weren't too worried about my feelings being hurt. After regaining enough control to share this delicious kernel of silliness with four other coworkers and another physician, PA John came out of the office area to face the roars of laughter. He was a wee bit pink in the cheeks, but was a good sport about it.

A few days later, I had the follow-up exam with the surgeon. Unable to resist sharing, I told her what John had said. Let us remember, this is the surgeon who, when I brought her chocolate cupcakes, laughed delightedly upon hearing, "You're about to cut into my breast. I want you to like me." After the punchline, I can only imagine what people in the hallway outside my exam room thought. When she walked me down the hall, we ran into John, who had just finished up with another patient. My surgeon grinned and said, "Yeah, I looked at her, too, John. I wasn't impressed, either."

You have to love a good sport. On my birthday card, PA John signed his name beneath the words:

Happy Birthday, Lisa Marie. And I'm still not impressed.

Now, when I say obvious....

Yesterday, while working in another lab, I noticed that there were two urinalyses ordered on the same patient.

"Why are there two UAs ordered on Jane Doe?" I asked indignantly, almost as if it were a personal affront.

"Uh..." James the float answered. "Are they both from today?"

"I think so. One's a stat order." I snorted derisively. "As if they're going to get the results that much faster."

"Well." James paused, thinking hard. He may have scratched his head; I was looking the other direction. "It's probably a duplicate order."

....

....

....

Ungh. Sigh.

"Yes, dear. I think I figured that one out on my own."

I know, I know...

I'm a terrible blogger. Disappearing for weeks at a time. Yes, of course. Get the stick. I accept the beating as well-deserved.

No, I will not wear the little outfit! Sheesh!!

Anyway.

I'm toying with the idea of doing what my dear friend Karina did, and that's a 30-day blog challenge. A blog a day for thirty days. I could do that, right? Right?

Oh, shut up.

If I did do such a thing, despite lack of support and encouragement from certain unnamed people, it would coincide nicely with another writing goal I have for my current work-in-progress. Wouldn't that be marvelous?

The downside that has planted itself firmly in front of me, and is glaring at me with its arms folded across its skinny chest, is that some of the blogs that will get published might be a bit...unfiltered, shall we say. I cannot tell you the number of times I have typed up a blog, saved it, walked away from it and discovered upon my return that some maniac was obviously typing away. Yes, some of these trains of thought have slipped through the filters and crashed into all of our computers with such a vengeance that tiny little disaster teams in itty-bitty hazmat suits were called in. At this point, however, there's really nothing to be done about this tragedy of a trainwreck except call the local news station.

Oh, what the heck. What are they going to do if this sucks, take away my birthday? Pfft! And we won't call it a blog challenge. We'll call it...a nice chat. Yes, we will. Yes, we will! Because I said so.

All right, then. Let's chat about...mammograms!

As I have mentioned before, my very first mammogram didn't have the results I might have expected. I expected my usual round of boring information, "Everything's fine, nothing unusual, see you next year." This did not occur.

I had my very first mammogram after doing the 3-Day Walk for breast cancer. I mean, jeeze, who wouldn't, after that? Plus, I was 41. It was time. So I went in and experienced my first boob squish. Ooo, such fun! Hard plastic plates squeezing my grumpy boobs into pancakes. Yay!!!

What's that? Oh, the grumpy comment. I always feel my girls look depressed. I do. I say to them, "Would you perk up, already? People are talking to you!" But there they stay, stubbornly and morosely staring at the ground.

What to do?

Anyway, after that initial squish, I got the call from the breast center at the local hospital. Everything was fine, they said. There was no reason to worry. But, gosh, they just wanted me to come in again and be resquished to be absolutely positive that everything was fine and there was no reason to worry. My thought upon hearing this?

"Oh, my God. If I have breast cancer, I'm going to have to do that f__ing 3-Day Walk again!!!"

Yes, this was my primary concern.

So I had another squish. And I had an ultrasound immediately afterward, with an ultrasound tech who had evidently been trained never, never, NEVER to use the word "mass" to a patient. Bless her heart.

US tech: [remarkably cheerful tone] Okay, let's just take a quick look at this doohickey!
Me: [struggling not to snicker] All right.
US tech: [after a period of quiet, but still, REMARKABLY cheerful] And now we're going to Dr Whatshisface take a look at the doohickey!
Me: [remembering to respect this woman's adherence to training] Uh huh.

So the radiologist came in, a man who did not include the word "doohickey" in his conversation. He was mildly disappointed that my mass was not a cyst and would in fact require a needle biopsy. I think he was also a bit surprised that I said those words, "needle biopsy," before he could.

Before we go further, let me say, I am delighted, nay, thrilled that numbing medication was injected before the needle biopsy occurred. I would hated to have that procedure performed without it. But....YOWZA. Ow ow ow ow OW!

Now, as we all know, my mass [yes, I can call it that] was not cancer, was in fact a myofibroblastoma. I called it Slacker Tumor, because unlike cancer, it had no real goals. In the cancer family, this is the adult child who won't get off the couch, get a job and move out. My coworker named it Robbie after her worthless ex-son-in-law.

I did have to have a complete Rob-ectomy, which was super fun. After the surgeon felt me up and couldn't locate Robbie by touch, she instructed me to go back to the breast center before the surgery, have the folks there jam a wire into Robbie, then drive to the surgery center and yank him out.

All technical terms. Feel free to write them down.

So today, when I was bopping around the radiology department and happened to mention to Liz, the WonderTech, that I needed to see her for my four-months-later yearly squish, I felt a little flutter. After all, in my mind, mammogram = several squishes + ouchy bits + Rob-ectomy.

I have a skewed frame of reference.

Strange. You don't look surprised.