I’ve got this, rambling

I recently saw Dr. Priti again during my presurgical procedures. She is the kind, pretty doctor who gave me my diagnosis a month ago. Even though I only met her that day for a less than 20 minutes, I got the feeling that she genuinely cared. And she again demonstrated that when I recently saw her. She had a cold on this recent visit and wore a surgical mask. Still, I pray that she wasn’t contagious as I really don’t want a cold, or anything else that will make me sick.

Dr. Priti and I had a good rapport as she worked with a nurse to get my left breast imaged again and ‘ultrasounded’ so she could insert a magnet of sorts that would quickly guide the surgeons to the correct area during surgery. This process (whose name I’ve forgotten) involved another long needle, like during my biopsy over a month ago. But surprisingly, it didn’t sting as much and wasn’t as physically awkward.

Somehow, the conversation during the entire 15-minute procedure involved my children — what they are like, my relationship with them, etc. I was happy that Dr. Priti was okay with the fact that I didn’t want to tell them quite yet about this diagnosis. “You can tell them much later,” she said, “nothing wrong with that.”

My son and I recently attended his basketball team’s first meeting.

My oldest, a high school freshman, recently made the school basketball team. He sailed through tryouts, working hard, eating right and just being excited. My news would have derailed this happy boy and i wasn’t having none of that.

I also attended his team’s first meeting with the coach and parents outlining expectations, rules (we don’t want parents behaving badly kinda rules), team mother selection, etc.

After the meeting, my kid jokingly wondered why I didn’t speak up and offer my services when two women were jockeying for the team mother position. He know that would probably never happen.

Not only am I an introvert who abhors hanging out with other parents or hosting events, I feel like all other parents are either like Christina Applegate’s character in “Bad Moms” and the parents who let the character push them around.

One of the two women who really wanted to be team mom.

The conversation during the ride back to our apartment after the team meeting touched on why I don’t usually volunteer to chaperone my kids’ school field trips or allow them sleepovers. The simple answer is that people make me nervous and I don’t gel with the topics they love to talk about. I’ve attended exactly one class party for each of my children since they’ve been in school from age 5 and I’ve chaperoned exactly one field trip each as well. That’s a grand total of 6 events over the last 9 nine years and I assure you that’s more than I’ve wanted to handle or more than I’ve desired.

I’ve always been content just buying and dropping off what is needed for the trips and events… chips, soda, juices, bottled water, cookies and such.

I did promise my son that once we move to our new house (I’ve decided to get a house once I am better so we can leave our one-year leased apartment), I’ll host a dinner for the team. This means that my son will have to tryout for the team during his sophomore year because the apartment lease doesn’t end until next fall, then we’ll have to get settle in, furnish the home and make it our own.

Lofty plans, I tell you, but it’s something to look forward to as I face treatment and the still-to-be fleshed out plan seemed to make my son happy. “You really would do that mom?” he asked when I made the suggestion. “Of course, babe,” I replied, already wondering what easy thing (I don’t enjoy cooking) to cook would be on the menu. Spaghetti is pretty easy, with meatballs and veggies and garlic bread.

This is a ramble post for sure, I still have to tackle surgery. Here’s to prayers that I am cancer free after that. Hoping that none of these bad cells had the audacity to travel to any other part of my body.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s