I have a what in my where?

It isn’t every day you learn you have a brain tumor. I have to admit, I was more than a little perturbed at this revelation.

The journey into my brain functioning began last year after I had a seizure and I suppose I should consider myself fairly fortunate that my neurologist has been so interested in keeping track of my grey matter.

I had an MRI last week and on Friday, I received a cryptic message to call my neurologist first thing on Monday morning, but to tell you the truth, any message left by a doctor’s office never sounds exciting.

I was working on Monday, but I called to make an appointment. They wanted me in there as soon as I could come. Could I make it today? No. How about tomorrow? No, I would be working then too. Would Wednesday work? Yes, first thing at 9 in the morning.

Even though I attempted to badger the receptionist, there would be nothing divulged over the phone. I knew this, but I thought I’d try anyway.

Then I remembered that I work in the hospital which had administered my MRI and all I had to do was go sign a little paper and they’d give me my results at the radiology desk. I would have to wait if I wanted a copy of the CD, but I wouldn’t know what I was looking at anyway so what would it matter?

One word popped out at me from the impression section of the results: schwannoma. Any word that ends in “oma” means tumor. My anxiety level exploded and I hit up Google for more information.

I learned that this tumor was usually benign, or not cancerous, and can be removed by surgical procedures.

A picture of a man in a mask with a hooked probe jabbing around in my brain flashed through my head, but I immediately blocked it out.

The measurement noted was 6 x 7 mm which is a little bigger than a pencil eraser so it wasn’t like I had some baseball-sized sac pushing out my eyeball. Good to know.

I went through all the stages of emotion: anger, sadness, denial, grief, and acceptance.

The wait was agonizing, but my sister accompanied me to my appointment. She got off work to go.

My neurologist walked in the room: “So, I brought you in today to talk with you about…”

I interrupted, “My schwannoma?”

He asked, “Who told you that?” I said, “I had my report printed from the MRI because I didn’t want to wait so don’t butter up the details, just tell me what this means and what the plan of action is.”

He responded, “You were supposed to come in here and let me tell you in a calming way so you didn’t get upset.”

My sister said, “Well, she didn’t let that happen, did she?”

The plan is to monitor for six months and see if and when we need to cut that sucker out. My friend, Tonya, has high hopes that its removal will change my political affiliation and help me become a better dancer. She is such an optimist.

In the meantime, everyone is being super supportive and I’m trying not to be too upset that I am carrying around a Coco Puff-sized lump that may or may not cause me some issues.

Let’s just say I’ve got my finger hovering over my mental panic button…for now.

Catching up with the pediatrician

My son has decided to participate in basketball which means he needed a dreaded sports physical.

This was his first one and I have been strictly forbidden from discussing the details in my column so I will refrain from doing so at this time.

What I will say is that, when we went to his pediatrician’s office, they did not have his file!

The woman at the desk asked when the last time was that he had visited and I really struggled to remember.

I am incredibly fortunate that my children are healthy overall. I know what a blessing this is and, believe me, I thank God that they rarely get sick and doctor visits usually only involve either a physical or immunizations.

That’s when I remembered his last appointment with this doctor was for immunizations! He received the most recent round of shots at the Health Department for financial reasons because we weren’t on insurance, so he was about 6 years old the last time he saw this pediatrician when they were located in their old office.

The funny thing about that visit was that we were there to get a check-up on his baby sister and she had to get 2 or 3 shots. He asked if he had to get shots and I said, “Not this time.” Then he requested to sit in the waiting room and watch cartoons so he wouldn’t have to hear his little sister cry when the nurse stuck her.

After he left, the nurse walked in and apologized because he was actually due for four shots! I had inadvertently lied to him, but I still felt bad.

His sister received her immunizations and I walked to the waiting room and called him over. I said, “Buddy, I got some good news and some bad news.” He actually asked for the bad news first.

“You need to get shots today.” His eyes immediately filled with tears and he sobbed as he asked how many. “Four,” I said.

“FOUR?” He practically shouted at me. “What’s the good news?”

My brain raced as I tried to think of something, but my mind went blank and what came out of my mouth was, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any good news.”

He cried so comically loud before the shots were given that the nurses and staff were suppressing giggles as they walked by the room. It was so dramatic. His baby sister stared at him like he just fell out of a spaceship from some exotic planet.

In those 6 years, this boy has only been sick a handful of times. Even when all of us came down with the flu last Christmas, he was only down for a day.

We don’t do anything special with him. He eats like a horse and it isn’t all good stuff. The boy can empty a bag of chips and a bag of apples at approximately the same rate.

As for this visit to the pediatrician, we figured out that they had been using paper records and they entered him in as a new patient with the understanding that his information exists in a box somewhere. He did get a shot for viral meningitis which he watched enter into his arm and barely changed his expression.

I guess he needed to redeem himself from the last time.

Hopefully, he won’t need to return until his next sports physical which he’s already not looking forward to, but you didn’t hear that from me.

Full of compassion and obstinacy

My day began at 3 in the morning. Why so early? I am unfortunate enough to be the recipient of my daughter’s upper respiratory infection, the same one that has kept her out of school for two days and landed us in the emergency room last Friday evening for a breathing treatment.

As much as I tried to push this kid away from me, she insisted on gluing herself to my side and even slept with me two nights. Parents get suckered into these things because we worry too much.

Also, when I was half asleep, she’d come plant a kiss on my lips and whisper “I love you, mommy,” so adorable yet so highly infectious.

Here I was in the predawn hours coughing my fool head off and drinking a dose of Nyquil to make it stop.

I know, Nyquil makes you sleepy and I had my alarm clock set for 5:30 so I could get ready for my 7:15 MRI at the hospital. Bad timing, right?

I turned off my alarm and moved to the couch. This was a problem because now I’d have no way to wake up on time.

Rewind to a couple weeks ago when my husband, Chris, and I received our new phones from Sprint. They are iPhones with touch screens and all the bells and whistles. I became instantly addicted and wondered how I ever existed before this technology except for one pesky issue: the phone alarm.

I asked Chris, “Honey, how the heck do I set my alarm?” He says, “It’s easy. Watch.” He pressed the big, round button and said, “Siri, set the alarm for 6.”

Siri, the iPhone assistant responded, “Do you want to set an alarm for 6 am?” Chris said, “Yes,” and Siri did it.

Well, I’m too stubborn to let some condescending phone maid take care of my personal business. I said, “How can I just set it myself? Why can’t I just do this from the settings or something?”

This sounds much sillier now that I type it out. I am having a standoff over this non-issue of programming my alarm and I paid the price this morning when I woke up late because I refuse to talk to Siri.

To try and redeem myself, there is also a problem with Siri calling me Chris instead of my name. When I tried to have a rational discussion with her about what she should call me, it ended badly. Siri and I are no longer on speaking terms.

Back to today, my daughter woke me up and I realized she is still too sick to go to school. She refused to eat breakfast and fought about taking her medication and everything else that involved interaction.

I left the house and arrived at the hospital in time to get in a long registration line. This made me a tad late for my MRI appointment, but they were being very patient with me.

Once I got everything filled out and paid for, I got to the radiology desk and they asked for my order.

Oh yeah! That thing that was sitting on my counter at home that I forgot to bring because I’m still fuzzy-headed from getting tipsy on Nyquil this morning! Great.

The MRI is now rescheduled and I’m contemplating making up with my phone maid. Maybe we can start over. Chris isn’t such a bad name to be called. I have been called worse.

Go away, no one's home

One day, while talking on the phone with my friend, Amy, she suddenly got real quiet. I asked what was going on and she whispered, “Someone is knocking on the door.”

I was a little worried about who might be at her door waiting to assault her, but when I inquired about the reason for her stealth, after she tucked herself safely into her closet so she could speak at a normal level, she replied, “It’s probably the church people. They come by all the time and I can never get rid of them once they’re here.” I asked where her daughter was and she said, “She knows to hide too.”

After chastising her for not politely, but firmly telling them she’s not interested, she said “Damara, you know I’m way too nice to ask someone to just leave!”

Though I laughed heartily at her predicament, I do understand. I am also polite to strangers and often answer my door even though every fiber in my being screams at me not to open it because, more often than not, it’s one of three people.

The first unsolicited door knockers are actually church people who are usually members of a certain religious following I am not inclined to become affiliated with at any point in my life.

I’m a firm believer in freedom of religion and it is one of the reasons I love the United States of America. I have my own church in town that I adore which means I’m really not looking to convert and no amount bullet-pointed handouts is going to change that.

I’d never think to be rude to anyone passionate about their beliefs, but I have been friends with someone from this religion and when I found out that he couldn’t celebrate his birthday or Christmas, well that sealed the deal for me. Sorry, but no thanks.

The next mysterious knocker is the meat-in-a-truck guy. He’s always got one or two extra slabs of steak that are leftovers from his stock and I am fortunate that he happened to be driving by to offer me this bargain.

I always buy our family’s meat supply from some type of stationary store. Years ago, a friend of ours worked for Schwan’s and we bought a few things once or twice, but I didn’t feel like we got an incredible deal. It seemed like an odd version of an ice cream truck, minus the loud, obnoxious music and not everything edible was sweet.

In any case, we never buy anything from the meat truck guy. I don’t trust it. Where is the meat from? How long has he been driving around with all that meat? Why don’t they have vegetable trucks?

The last group of unwanted solicitors is kids selling “fill-in-the-blank” of whatever item you currently do not need: gift wrap, candy bars, cookies, candles, magazines, etc. These children need to sell you this junk so that they can win a bicycle or some other prize from their school.

The worst ones are the teenagers who are attempting to finance a trip to Washington D.C. to meet the President or they are just five pot holders away from a summer field trip to Paris. This is their dream and I’m heartlessly crushing it to pieces.

Until Amy and I get security fences with video cameras monitoring the gates, if you come knocking, we’ll be hiding. Be so kind as to quietly leave us in peace.

He knows not what he does

Last weekend my kids and I were able to attend the Respress family reunion in Frostproof. These people encompass my mother’s side of the family and there were about 150 members of our extensive relations present.

The best part of our family gatherings, besides seeing how big the children are getting, is the food. I supplied Maryland Fried Chicken which is just about the best chicken you can get without making it yourself.

I also brought pink stuff; a concoction made of cottage cheese, cool whip, pineapple, pecans, and Jello mix. It usually tastes pretty good, but I made it wrong so I had a whole bunch of pink goo to take home and dump in the trash. It didn’t smell good after a couple days in the garbage.

I had to tell my son that all the girls at the reunion were related to him. I asked if he understood what that meant. He said yes, but I was skeptical.

Though the boy is only twelve, he has been getting himself into some situations lately that I’m not particularly happy about.

For instance, it seems like every other week since he started middle school, he has been calling a different girl his “girlfriend.” I use that term loosely because I had assumed this was fairly innocent being that the “relationship” was confined between the weekday hours of 8am until 3pm.

I mean, what harm could come from having a platonic relationship at school?

Then I caught him kissing a girl in the neighborhood.

Now things have completely changed.

I guess, as a parent, I viewed my son as this little boy who would be a bit shy about actually taking that next step with a girl. I was 14 when I first kissed a boy. I figured I’d have at least 2 more years before my son decided to try and contract oral herpes.

Suddenly, the freedoms he used to have with skateboarding and riding his bike to his buddy’s house have switched to “Call me when you get there” followed by me driving by to get a visual confirmation of his whereabouts like an undercover police officer on a stakeout.

If he doesn’t answer his phone, I go ballistic.

Tonight, he wants to go to a football game so he can sit with the new love of his life for this week. I’m sure he thinks I’m going to leave him there unattended, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m prepared to torture my tailbone on the bleachers and listen to his little sister point and stare at her big brother for two hours; all for the sake of saving him from himself.

Visual contact will be maintained at all times and there will be no bathroom breaks.

Respress boys are adorable and they grow up to be good-looking men. So do those Hutchins men.

When I look at my son and think of the entire DNA that went into making him such a tall, handsome boy, I wonder if there isn’t such a thing as an ugly stick that I could lovingly tap him with for a few years; strictly for his own good, of course.

Until then, girls, be warned. You are officially being put on alert, so don’t mess with my son. He’s still my baby and you can’t have him until we sign papers agreeing on his release conditions.

I’ll thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.

Good people do great things

About a month ago I had lunch with Hollie, a friend of mine who attended my alma mater, Avon Park High School. She was a year ahead of me, but we knew a lot of the same people.

I brought my yearbooks so we could reminisce about the good old days when girls teased their hair using lethal amounts of Aqua Net to hold it in place all day and guys still wore boat shoes.

I graduated in 1991 so we were at the tail-end of the 80s era and the grunge scene had yet to establish itself. I had memorized the movies “Sixteen Candles” and “The Breakfast Club” word-for-word and the “Hair Bands” that screeched and screamed their hard rock noise was my favorite music to annoy my mother and sister with.

Having started my high school journey at a larger school in Palm Bay where people were meaner and less forgiving of status, I came to Avon Park in my 10^th grade year with a chip on my shoulder ready for a battle. I was shocked when I didn’t receive it.

People were nice. Too nice. They invited me places and seemed to accept me even though I wore black T-shirts and acted sullen and disinterested.

I always thought they were welcoming to me because of my best friend, Damon. He grew up in Avon Park and everyone seemed to love him.

Well, most people loved him. There were a couple guys who bullied him and I still remember who they are. I’m sure they have moved on, but I won’t forget.

So despite my most earnest efforts, I made friends in Avon Park. I went there set on maintaining a wall of protection from caring about people and for some reason they just crept right into my heart when I wasn’t paying attention.

Years later, here I was flipping through my yearbook with Hollie feeling a little ashamed about some of the things that were written next to a few pictures of people I barely knew and some I knew well.

One friend wrote a comment next to a girl’s photo that still makes me mad. I didn’t write it, but I can’t believe he wrote it in my yearbook. I certainly never felt that way about her.

Another picture was a guy who was really sweet and I wrote one word that makes me feel bad to this day. He never did anything to me. I wish I could kick my 15-year old self for thinking it.

I blacked out the pic of my ex-boyfriend in the 11^th grade; forever erasing him from my records. He kind of deserved it. I don’t really regret that.

I say all of this to display how shallow and disrespectful and short-sighted teenagers can be. I know I was. This is why I am so incredibly proud of what Sebring High School did last week when they elected Samantha Alamo as their homecoming queen.

I was even more excited when I found out that Dalton Helvey escorted her. Dalton happens to be my niece’s half-brother and an all-around great kid. I couldn’t be more impressed.

I recently wrote an article about wishing things in the news didn’t happen in Florida. I want to gladly announce that I am overjoyed that this not only happened in Florida, but it happened right here in Highlands County; Sebring to be exact.

Please, tell everyone about it and don’t spare any details.

Manatee wrangler

Whenever I hear a strange or disturbing story in the news, I think to myself “Please don’t let this be something that happened in Florida.”

I make this plea to the powers that be because it seems that all the craziest, most off-the-wall news occurs right here in the Sunshine State and I really don’t like to believe that people from my home state can possibly be so deranged.

I once had a theory that the sun was actually to blame for higher levels of insanity because the closer you get to the equator in any given population around the world, there seems to be more violence, less clothing, and increased acts of psychotic behavior.

That doesn’t mean that some lone nut like a Ted Bundy can’t be spawned out of the Pacific Northwest, but he did make his way to Florida before he was captured.

This all leads up to the most recent in Florida’s shaming news: the manatee wrangler. This woman decided it would be okay to hop on top of one of these endangered mammal’s backs for a little ride.

When I read the headline, I knew it happened at one of our beaches because where else do they have manatees? The photo revealed that she was wearing a bikini top mismatched with a pair of swim shorts which screamed “FLORIDA!” without even having to confirm whether or not she was sporting a pair of flip flops, the footwear of choice for just about anyone calling our state home.

I will shamefully admit that I laughed aloud when I saw the pictures and I won’t even try to defend this reaction. Sometimes things are just funny, even when an adorable animal on the verge of extinction is being harassed.

For one thing, the woman did not look flattering in any way. One of my biggest fears is that someone will snap a photo of me in my bathing suit when I don’t know they are doing it. Heck, even if I do know, I wouldn’t like it. No view is a good view as far as I’m concerned because I’m not 22 years old anymore.

Anyway, she wasn’t exactly posing for the camera and she didn’t look to have very good control over the situation which is understandable considering the fact that she most likely forgot to bring her manatee riding gear to the beach that day.

The other reason the photo was humorous is that I have never in my wildest dreams thought to ride a sea cow! They seem to glide through the water at their own slow pace chewing on aquatic plants and basically don’t bother anyone.

Manatees remind me of myself on land; lumbering around unable to avoid running into anything that moves with any type of accelerated motion. Perhaps manatees are a bit more graceful in their underwater habitat than I am in my own, but they aren’t constantly trying to avoid my son’s skateboard carelessly discarded by the side door. Then again, I’m not always looking over my shoulder for oncoming propellers or women who think I’m some kind of entertainment recently escaped from a Sea World side show.

The manatee wrangler turned herself in to the authorities with the excuse that she is new to town and didn’t know any better.

I’m guessing the law will have to be changed because of this woman’s actions. I’m looking forward to seeing what those new signs will look like.