Balance

coffee2

If we were having coffee this morning, I’d have to start by apologizing for the mess. I’ve got laundry everywhere and dirty dishes piled up so high that we may have to drink our coffee out of wine glasses. Or take turns slurping directly from the pot. Your choice.

It’s been one of those weeks again. Obviously. I can’t figure out exactly what it is that keeps me so busy, but lately I feel like I live in a whirlwind of constant activity and obligation. Got to be there, do that, pick up this, drop off that.

I just learned that a friend of mine has written a book called Balance for the Hurried Woman. Well, I really wish that woman would hurry up and publish it already! I need this book. I need balance in my life.

hurried

 

I should know by now that every time my life gets overwhelming like this, something happens that gives me a harsh dose of perspective.

This is a small community. Everyone knows everyone else. For example, there’s a woman I know who has a daughter one grade ahead of my son, and we pass each other every day at pick-up time. Our paths have crossed several times over the years, and while we’re both friendly to each other, I wouldn’t really say that we are friends.

One day this this week, I noticed that she was wearing a pretty green scarf wrapped around her head. Nothing unusual, really; she’s got a knack for accessorizing, so I assumed it was a fashion choice.

A few minutes of casual chit chat while we waited for our kids, and I realized that it had nothing to do with fashion.

I hate cancer.

I don’t understand how she can just go on with life as though nothing is wrong. Well, I do understand, in a way. That’s the way life goes; got to be here, do that, pick up this, drop off that. The world doesn’t stop just because one person is terrified or overwhelmed.

Still, I don’t know if I would be able to go through the motions if I were the one facing chemotherapy. I think I’d be in a helpless heap of fear on the kitchen floor.

After I talked to her that day, I went home and tried to tune out the sound of my son’s voice begging me to play a game with him. “I have to finish the dishes first,” I told him. “And there’s laundry to do and the place is a mess.”

And then I thought about the woman with the pretty green scarf.

I sat down and lost two games of backgammon but won a round of Yahtzee by three points. I also learned that I will never beat that child at Hide & Seek in this apartment because the only place I can hide my big ol’ self is in the bathtub behind the shower curtain, and he’s smart enough to always look there first.

Look, I know the dishes and laundry still have to be done, and I understand that there are people out there who have figured out how to balance their responsibilities while still having fun with their kids. I’m just not one of those people, I guess.

Funny thing, balance. I loved gymnastics as a kid, and my favorite part of every class was the balance beam. Some people were afraid of falling off the beam, but I wasn’t. I knew it was exactly four inches wide and sturdy and perfectly straight, and I would be fine as long I didn’t look down, as long as I kept my head up and my eyes focused on a point ahead of me.

I knew I’d be okay as long as I had faith in what was beneath my feet.

I’ll get back there, eventually. I’ll find my balance in life, as long as I keep my head up and eyes focused on a point ahead of me.

In the meantime, I’ve still got to be here, do that, pick up this, drop off that. But those things are all just going to have to wait if my son wants to play backgammon or if I see a scarf-wearing neighbor in need of a friend.

***

This post is part of Weekend Coffee Share, hosted by Eclectic Alli. Please check out some of the other posts on this theme!

Advertisements

Like a Phoenix

Time to get serious for a minute.

Self-publishing has sort of a bad reputation. It’s often seen as “vanity publishing,” and there is sometimes an assumption that our books aren’t good enough for traditional publication. We spend an awful lot of time trying to prove that we are “real authors” despite the route we’ve chosen to take to publication.

But I’m not going to bore you with yet another dull comparison of all the pros and cons of self-publishing as compared to traditional publishing. It is what it is.

I want to talk about the Indie community. The circle of independent, self-published authors who are, for the most part, some of the most incredible and supportive people I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know. Oh, sure, there are more than a few loopy-loos and whackadoodles out there, but they are hugely outnumbered by the Good Guys.

One of those Good Guys is Mark Dawson. He’s a fabulous writer and a terrific role model who offers training, workshops and support to help his fellow indie authors learn to navigate the confusing world of publishing and marketing.

As if that weren’t enough, I recently learned that Mark has taken his kindness to the next level. I’m going to quote him here from his post on KBoards: 

 

“Emma Johns is the wife of my son’s godfather and has been battling with breast cancer for five years. In the middle of her grueling treatment she found out that she was pregnant (the chemotherapy was supposed to make her infertile but, to her surprise, it didn’t).

And then, in December, she gave birth to her own little miracle: baby Phoenix.

(You really couldn’t make that up. It’s the nearest thing to a miracle I think I’ve ever seen).

Emma’s condition is worsening but there is some hope: a trial immunotherapy drug called Pembrolizumab has shown amazing results for women with incurable triple negative breast cancer (like her). But, due to her pregnancy, Emma missed out on being eligible for the only trial available for this drug. Her best option now is to pay for it privately for the eye-watering sum of 40,000 pounds.

I’ve written a short story in my John Milton and Beatrix Rose universe – called PHOENIX – and I will be giving all of the proceeds to her and her family.

The book is available for preorder right now at $2.99. Every sale makes a difference.”

 

This one hits home, folks. My mom died of breast cancer on Mother’s Day 1987. It’s been thirty years next week. Breast cancer is a real bastard who has taken too many mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives.

I don’t know Emma Johns or baby Phoenix. I’ve never met Mark Dawson face-to-face. But Phoenix shouldn’t have to grow up without his mommy, so I’ve already bought my copy of this book. I am reaching out to all of you who follow my blog, and I’m asking you to spend a measly $2.99 to help out; I’m asking you to share this post and get the word out there.

To pre-order your copy of Phoenix by Mark Dawson, follow this link to his Amazon page.

Thank you for helping out.

 

Everybody Needs ’em

There was a boy in my sister’s grade in school who wrote a song that we all affectionately referred to as “The Boob Song.”  It had several memorable verses and a rousing chorus that went something like “Everybody wants ‘em, everybody needs ‘em, they’re boobs BOOBS!”

I have long since forgotten the young composer’s name, along with some of the finer points of the song, but that chorus is forever burned into the deepest recesses of my memory and will not go away.  Boobs.  Titties.  Chi-chis.  Hooters.  Ta-tas.  Big ones, little ones, perky or saggy.  We dress to hide them, make them look bigger, cover them up or reveal them.  We spend a fortune on bras to push them up, minimize them, support them or simply strap them down.  I have a friend whose bra doubles as a purse, storing everything from loose change to Driver’s License and possibly even a change of clothes.

And now that I’ve made you all incredibly uncomfortable or at least made you start to question my orientation, let me throw a few statistics at you.  According to the American Cancer Society, here are some estimates for breast cancer in the United States in 2014:

  • About 232,670 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in women.
  • About 62,570 new cases of carcinoma in situ (CIS) will be diagnosed (CIS is non-invasive and is the earliest form of breast cancer).
  • About 40,000 women will die from breast cancer

To put that into perspective, the number of new cases in 2014 will be equal to roughly double the size of the population of Lansing, Michigan.  The number of breast cancer deaths is almost exactly equal to the population of the town I grew up in.

But there’s more.

  • 1 in 8 women in the United States will develop invasive breast cancer during their lifetime
  • Breast cancer is the second most common cancer among American women, second only to skin cancers.
  • Breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in women, exceeded only by lung cancer.
  • The chance that breast cancer will be responsible for a woman’s death is about 1 in 36 (about 3%).

It’s October.  National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. We all put pretty pink ribbons on everything from ink pens to coffee mugs.  We wear pink t-shirts with catchy slogans, and our sons wear bright pink socks with their football uniforms to increase awareness.  We play silly games on Facebook and go braless for a day, or we spread funny memes about saving “Second Base” or whatever. We participate in 5K runs and bake sales and every possible kind of fundraiser there is.

All of that is great.

But there’s more.

Ladies, we need to talk. Put away the embarrassment and social niceties and pleasant little euphemisms and really talk.

All of the fundraisers and awareness campaigns won’t help if we don’t take a little bit of responsibility for our own health, our own bodies. We need to get our mammograms or breast ultrasounds.  We need to go to the doctor for our annual visits and get that incredibly awkward and uncomfortable breast exam.

I know.  Their hands are always cold.  The person performing the mammogram invariably has bad breath or b/o, and they get so far inside your personal space that you feel like they owe you dinner and a movie afterward.  They lift and squeeze and manhandle until you feel violated. And the basic exam in the doctor’s office isn’t much better; lying there exposed while a virtual stranger touches, presses and kneads one of the most personal and intimate parts of your body and you can’t do anything but count the ceiling tiles.

But there’s still more.

Ladies, these are your breasts, boobs, titties, or whatever.  You should know them.  You should be performing your own breast self-exam every single month.  Again, I know; it’s awkward and uncomfortable.  Do it anyway.  Get your boyfriend or husband or girlfriend to help, if that makes it more pleasant. Whatever it takes.  Just do it.

All the awareness campaigns and fundraisers in the world can’t do a bit of good if breast cancer goes undiagnosed.

My mom was 38 years old when she found the lump on her breast.  It was the late 1970’s, and her doctor laughed at her for being worried.  He told her that she was too young for breast cancer, and that lumps in that particular spot on the breast are never malignant.

He was wrong.

She underwent a modified radical mastectomy when I was in middle school.  She went through chemotherapy and radiation and she beat the odds for a while because she was a pushy broad who refused to let a doctor dismiss her concerns.  She lived long enough to see us all graduate, long enough to meet two of her future sons-in-law, long enough to hold her first grandchild.

She was 45 years old when it came back, 46 when she died seven months later.

She was not a statistic.  She was Kay.

A few weeks ago, I learned that another one of my friends has been diagnosed with breast cancer.  She is young and strong and otherwise healthy, and has a support network of friends and family that most of us could only dream of having.  She is a kind soul, a beautiful person inside and out, with a wicked sense of humor and a terrific laugh. This world cannot afford to lose her.

She is not a statistic.  She is Melissa.

It’s easy to get caught up in our day-to-day lives.  Take care of the kids, manage the house, go to work, complain about the ex.  It’s easy to worry about everyone else and put our own needs on the back burner.  “I’ll do it next month,” we tell ourselves.  “I’ll get my mammogram next year,” we say.

Knock it off.

Take care of yourselves, ladies.  As embarrassing, awkward, scary and uncomfortable as it may be, you are the only one who can make this decision whether to take care of yourself or not.  Early detection saves lives.  Period.

And isn’t your life worth a few minutes of discomfort?