Sometimes, Melissa runs her legs. Sometimes, she runs her mouth.

Author: melissa (Page 2 of 40)

Boob grapes or breast cancer

I never intended to chronicle my breast cancer scare online. Due to my age, my doctor had decided it was time for my first mammogram. While there, I noticed that there was some random pink plastic on the mammogram machine. The pink plastic didn’t appear to have any function and seemed purely ornamental.  I took that to mean that the mammogram machine was sponsored by the Susan G. Komen foundation. I found that funny and posted a picture of it on Instagram.

Then I received a letter from the hospital where I received the mammogram stating I needed to come back. It was a long-form letter noting that early detection of breast cancer is important and all the usual legal language that covers the doctor for any liability. Then in pink highlighter, the hospital highlighted “The mammogram demonstrates an area that requires further testing” and proceeded to give me instructions on how to come back for further tests. Well, outlining that I must come back for breast cancer screening in pink was just too cute. I had to note that on Instagram, too. I thought it was funny.

TFW when your hospital highlights your letter that you may or may not have breast cancer in Komen pink. #cheekymonkeys

People I barely knew started commenting and seemed worried.  I was genuinely astonished that people cared.  I was just going back for more tests.

Then I had a second mammogram and ultrasound. Later, I was told to come into my primary care physician who then told me that I needed to go to a specialist. I do that and I get the news that there is a possibility that I might have to have surgery. The mass of cells was oddly shaped and had a fancy name that I don’t remember. I asked what the fancy name meant and my doctor, who was a sassy woman, said that it was like a bunch of grapes. Since it was shaped like a bunch of grapes, it was easier to remove the entire mass than try to biopsy each little “grape.”

Well crap, now I have to tell people because you can’t drive after outpatient surgery. My Dad is one of six kids and those kids had a truckload. of kids themselves.  Let’s just say my family tree is massive and leave it at that. I’ll tell the story of my big crazy family another day. So in the interest of not hurting anyone’s feelings. I told my parents who are not internet savvy at all and announced it on Facebook, like a coward.

Well I guess it’s time to say something. Given that my extended family is wide and spread out, I’m just going to post it here.

About a month ago, I went to my primary care physician about my elbow. He looked at it, asked me how old I was, and scheduled me for a mammogram based on my answer.

Then he had me come back for another mammogram because something was weird. So I got a second mammogram and an ultrasound. Then I got referred to a specialist.

So the specialist didn’t have the pictures from my first mammograms but had the reports. According to the report, there is a mass of cells shaped like a tiny bundle of grapes in my right boob. Doctors are concerned about the boob grapes.

So I go back and they will run more tests and I might be having surgery on the 16th of October to remove those pesky boob grapes.

Grapes are for raisins and wine, not boobs.

Mom is more nervous than I am. She is all “I’m going to be there. I’m going with you. We’ll just take Grandma with us.”

By this point, it had gotten more real. There was a discussion on whom would drive me to and from the hospital.  My mother was hellbent on doing this. It was like she had been a single woman who left me on the stoop of a fire station as a baby, waited 20 years, and was coming back to make up for the lost time. She was going to Mother me, dammit.

Honestly, I was a little glad. I had never had surgery before with the exception of some oral surgery as a child pre-braces. This definitely seemed more looming. I wanted to just have surgery, regress for a little bit, and have my mommy make me a sandwich and serve me ice cream while I healed. It’s been a while. It was also during this time that Justice Kavanaugh was having his confirmation hearings and my PTSD was on full on freak me out mode. [this is a story for another day].

Also, one of my cats died. The other cat got extremely clingy and would wail in the night mourning the loss of his compatriot. He would also make biscuits on the portion of my breasts where those pesky “grapes” were. I laughed and christened them, “the grapes of wrath.” Yeah, the vintage where the grapes of wrath were stored was my right boob. That seems about right. I laughed and laughed and decided right then that I was getting a tattoo of some grapes when this was all over.

The surgery itself was textbook. I went under. I woke up wearing an industrial strength sports bra with a big wad of gauze on my right boob.  There was mild discomfort at best.  I was told that the mass would be sent to the lab. The lab would run some tests and based on those results, I would get to go on about my life or I would have to come back and have more surgery. Then I got to go home or my parents’ home. Or more specifically, I got driven to my parents’ home. My Mom was calm or at least calm on the surface.

We walked in the door.
my Dad asks “how did she do?”
Mom: “fine”
Dad: “Did people clap?”
Mom: “What?”
Dad: “her performance.”
Mom: “She had surgery today.”
Dad: “SURGERY!”
Mom: “Yeah. I told you

I used to play piano (that’s a story for another day). I hadn’t performed in public in over twenty years. My Dad had apparently thought I had gone somewhere to give a concert and came back wearing sweatpants. He also asked if we had picked up candy for the trick or treaters. Halloween was over two weeks away. My heart sank. I know my Dad is seventy-something and his Dad had issues with Alzheimer’s but my still under anesthesia brain was not prepared to handle the enormity of these statements. I went to bed and watched Netflix movies. Actually, I watched comedy specials and thought about what everything meant.

I waited. I took some time off. Two days after surgery, I had a court hearing scheduled and I knew based on a doctor’s report that I hadn’t received yet that it would merely be a motion for a continuance. My Mom had agreed to drive me to this remote country courthouse in a county over two hundred miles from her house. We chatted like we were kids. She marveled that I was taking her into the country to kill her. We drove through the mountains and looked at the picturesque barns on hills alongside the road. We finally get to the courthouse and my client never showed. oops. Well, that was interesting. I also realized the hard way that healing a nickel-sized hole in your boob is exhausting. It only feels not exhausting when you are lying down watching TV.

You do a lot of thinking when you’re lying in bed sleepily healing waiting for some test results that tell you whether or not you are going to potentially die sooner rather than later. You think of all the fools you fucked before and wonder what they are doing now. You cyberstalk their butts and find them on Facebook, looking at their little families and their little lives that aren’t you. You’ll see something that reminds you of why you fell in love with them in the first place. You’ll see something else that reminds you why you dumped their ass and aren’t even Facebook friends with them now. You start to think about your own little life and your own little family and wonder what the fuck are you even doing? You wonder about the things you used to love before life got in the way. You wonder about those dreams deferred and realize that you might not get those dreams. Do you even want those dreams anymore? The time of your life becomes finite and you can feel each second propelling you towards death.

The time wasn’t completely negative. I did think of the cool stuff: the cool jobs, the trips, the schools, the excitement involved with fucking all those fools. Let’s be real. Fucking is fun, even if it is with a fool. It’s been a ride but I wasn’t ready for it to end. I especially wasn’t ready for it to end in this way.

I got my test results back and posted the following on Facebook.

The lab has spoken. The grapes are not rancid. They are fruity goodness
Seriously, I will not be dying from breast cancer. I will be dying by getting shot by an angry, crazy family member as is my destiny. (My family is something out of a Faulkner novel). I have a one-inch horizontal incision near the top of my right boob. Post surgery has been more exhausting than I thought it would be. Thank you so much to everyone who has called, texted, and checked in. I appreciate and love you more than you can imagine.

And now I’m working on doing some of the things I want to do while I still have time to do them.

Death, George Bush, and people

George H.W. Bush died two days ago and his death brings up a very profound and unique phenomenon in life: the way we treat our dead. I have seen the obituaries and I have seen the criticism that we, as an American society, are only focusing on the good side of George Bush. Well, he did just die, but to be fair, when a police officer shoots an African American, the dead African American’s drug use and other criminal activity gets noted in the press when he dies.

It seems that since the development of the internet and our ability to get a wider breadth of information, we have become incapable of exploring the depth of information. Everyone and everything gets oversimplified. Our brains, even before the internet, in an effort to be more efficient catalogs information in schemas and instinctually notes information that confirms stereotypes while ignoring information that contradicts those stereotypes. It’s hard to deal with information that does not fit a linear or cohesive function.

So that is what is happening with George H.W. Bush right now. He died at 94 and that’s a good age for dying. If by 94, you didn’t do everything you wanted to do, then that’s on you. You definitely had enough time. He became President after Ronald Regan after being his vice president for eight years. Ronald Regan was quite the charismatic guy and George Bush came across as his smarter much more boring accountant. But he did fight in World War 2 and worked in the CIA so he seemed to have some experience. He also had his share of controversy including Iran Contra.

So who is right. Everyone. People are messy. People are imperfect. Of course, he was charming. Charm is a part of politics. It was also a simpler time when there was less tribalism in politics and there was more discourse. Some of his policies through people under the bus and his policies regarding AIDS were bordering on cruel. I’m sure there are people out there who hate his guts. No one living gets through life without pissing someone off. It’s the imperfection of humanity. We fuck up. We get angry and say cruel things. We get wrapped up in our own lives and neglect other people and things. It’s the human condition. We strive to be better and sometimes we fail.

But I think in these times, it is necessary to take a step back and remember the purpose of an obituary. Who keeps an obituary? The close members of the family and people who were close enough to the deceased to go to the funeral. (An obituary is also used by genealogists. It tells you the surviving family members and the predeceased but that’s another topic) It’s part of the ceremony we use to comfort those who are left behind. Family and friends want to know that the person whose death has so broken their hearts was remembered fondly by others. They want a story about how the person who just died made a difference in their own lives. They want validation that their pain is real. So the family cuts out the obituary and puts it in a book somewhere and it sits there. An obituary isn’t intended to be an exhaustive history of the person. It’s meant to be a memento.

So maybe out of respect for the people who saw George H.W. Bush as a father, a cousin, a friend, and a colleague that we step back and focus on those positive moments that made him a great person. Yes, we remember something fond of him, too. I’m sorry for your loss. Even public figures have families. We can analyze his broader legacy in the coming weeks.

Hello. Is this thing on?

Hello. Is this thing on? It’s me, Melissa. I know it’s been a while. I’ve been busy but life got in the way. Then a health issue reminded me that life was fleeting and that I liked writing. I want to spend more time doing it. So here I am.

We’ll talk about the health issues later. I have 30 days to fill.

Also, during this time, I realized that my Dad’s memory is fading. His Dad died of Alzheimer’s. His Dad’s Dad’s Mom died of Alzheimer’s. Crap. It’s only a matter of time before I start forgetting shit. I need to write this down.

So these 30 days will be the stories I need to write down because I don’t want to forget them and other random things. These will be the stories that are near and dear to my heart. The stories that might be helpful for others to hear. Some will just be plain silly. It will be a mixture— not unlike life itself. I hope you enjoy it.


Little Rock Marathon 5k

It’s been a while. Life got in the way of running and posting on this blog. I lost my way and I am making my way back. I intend to do more running and more writing about the running in 2017. Stay tuned.

I signed up for the 5K that is part of the Little Rock marathon on New Year’s Eve last year. I had received an email notice that the price was going up January 1st and realized that I hadn’t run any races in 2016. I was feeling rather sad about that and took the joie de livre spirit of the new year to sign up. The Little Rock half marathon was my first half marathon. It is a friendly race with lots of assistance along the race route. Also, it has enthusiastic crowd support along the route. I decided to start small with the shortest race offered. I figured I could finish this barring dismemberment.

My hunch proved to be prophetic. Not long after New Year’s Day 2017, I managed to get some sort of lung infection that sent me to the doctor on three separation occasions. I spent the next two months pretty much tired and wheezing. I was sick and tired and sick and tired of being sick and tired. I was the embodiment of that cliche. So was half the population in Arkansas in the beginning of 2017. I was working the minimum necessary to keep the office open while I rested and tried to heal. Finally, the third office visit to the doctor proved to be the charm and I was able to breathe deep breaths. It felt like forever since I had been able to do that.

On the day of the race, I took a big breath, took my last z-pac pill, and decided that if I could breathe, I could walk. I had no intention of running even one step. I picked up the packet the day before and got a very lovely lime green tech shirt. I was pleasantly surprised that the 5k offered a tech shirt and will be using it during future runs. I don’t think I have purchased a tech shirt from a store in years. I just use old race shirts. The expo seemed smaller than previous years but the beloved local running stores and Sparkle Skirts made an appearance so all was well.

The route itself was a scenic little jaunt from downtown Little Rock to Heifer International to the Arkansas Arts Center and then circled back around to a street downtown near the expo entrance. Heifer had their own fundraising drive for this race. As such, they had a large crowd cheering on the runners and had painted some inspirational messages on the street in front of their headquarters.

I arrived in Little Rock ten minutes until the race was to start so even though I didn’t intend to run, I think I ran a few steps in the attempt to make it to the starting line before the race began. I got there during the national anthem. It was a lovely sunny day with a temperature in the 50s (I think). It was perfect race weather. There was also a simultaneous 10k going on the same time and there were several thousand people out there. (according to race literature). Still, compared to the marathon, it is a small race and felt like a cozy gathering at the beginning.

BOOM!

The race begins. It felt hard. My muscle memory remembered going faster. My barely well lungs and not running for a whole year muscles were not having going faster. Even though I didn’t run, it felt like I was working harder than I thought a walk was going to be. It wasn’t unpleasant but it was harder than I thought it was going to be and that was emotionally taxing for me. It was the friends I saw along the route that made it for me. My friend Peggy, a fellow criminal defense lawyer, briskly walked by me first. She is raising money for MS and has been making great strides in that endeavor. I saw my friend Darlene from the Hot Legs. That’s my running club. I saw my friend Rebecca and her four-year-old son Alex. I had my turtle friend.

Alex’s and my experience with this race were surprisingly similar. We started out strong. We got tired in the middle and wanted to quit. Then we looped back to meet the 10k runners and were happy to be near the finish. Then we were happy as clams to get a shiny, sparkly medal.

Mini facial review (Rodan and Fields)

I am a fool for free samples. The tiny packaging. The ability to try new things. THE FREE! It’s so fun.

When my friend Jennifer started selling Rodan and Fields, she offered some “mini-facials” to people who filled out this skincare quiz on the website. I jumped on at the chance. FREE! Facial!

What I got in the mail a couple of days later was a little packet of Microdermabrasion paste, a capsule of Redefine Night Renewing serum, and a capsule of lip renewing serum.

I washed my face with micellular water and went to town.

The Microdermabrasion paste is a thick gritty scrub that you rub all over your face. The particles were thick. It like rubbing sand on your face. I can imagine if you have sensitive skin that this might be a little too rough. I did like the feeling that I was rubbing off all the dead skin on my face.

Then I opened the blue capsule of Night Renewing serum, dabbed it on my face, and then rubbed it in. I then put the lip renewing serum on my lips. It was around bedtime and so I went to bed. I could still feel a dampness on my face as I went to bed.

I woke up and my face still felt the same way. It was odd. It was obvious there was something still on my face. My face felt smooth but it felt dirty. It kept feeling like there wasn’t something on my face and that it wasn’t able to breathe. It was a feeling that didn’t go away until I washed my face. It bugged me.

My lips felt fabulous.

[Note: This was actually sitting in my drafts for about six months but I still stand by it.]

Thank you Lin-Manuel Miranda

Dear Mr. Miranda

I feel compelled to write you and congratulate you on your successful first run performing Hamilton on Broadway. (note I said first.) Strangely, I first became a fan of you for being the guy who coordinated the best wedding toast ever. I’ve kept that video on my YouTube favorites as a pick-me-up for when I have a bad day. It took a ridiculously long time for me to make the connection that you were the Hamilton guy. I’m not going to confess how long except to say that it could be used as evidence that Superman could indeed only put on glasses to go unnoticed in Metropolis.

I did get around to listening to Hamilton and was impressed with the breadth of differing musical styles as well as the fusion of those styles within one song in this one musical. I could write a thesis geeking out over the music theory/composition styles of it all but I’m sure at some point a music major will do that. Besides technical brilliance, Hamilton is catchy as hell. Thank you for writing it.

I feel compelled to thank you for so many other things.

In a time when politicians are wanting to channel education budgets to focus on STEM, you showed the value in studying history and the arts. Thank you.

In a time when the media and the general public demand perfection from our politicians, you showed that our politicians have always been flawed humans and are still capable of greatness. Thank you.

In a time of toxic masculinity, you have been a man unashamed to laugh, to cry, to gush, and to love. You have publicly admitted seeing a therapist. You weren’t afraid to love a woman who is smarter than you and had the potential to make more money than you. Thank you.

In a time of anti-intellectualism, you showed the value in thinking and exploring nuance. You also showed the value in being an avid reader who chooses an 800-page biography for vacation reading. You also showed kids that you can love reading dense prose and devouring pop culture like Saved by the Bell at the same time. THANK YOU.

Even though you wrote the entire book of Hamilton, you have acknowledged the value in seeking help and advice from others. You have shown gratitude for every single person in the Hamilton company right down to the ushers in the theater. This kindness is rare. Thank you.

Thank you for being you. Enjoy these moments and have a great vacation filled with a bunch of naps. You have to be exhausted.

Melissa

Orlando

It’s happened again. A guy got an assault rifle, drove a bunch of miles, and killed a bunch of people This time it was over 50 people in a gay bar in Orlando. Another 50 or so people were injured.

I’m sorry for the victims. I can’t even imagine. I can’t imagine a bunch of gay people in their safe space, dancing and chilling out having their brief utopia ruined by the actions of an angry man. I can’t imagine having to tip toe through bodies to try to find your friend, only to discover that friend is now a bloody body on the floor. I really can’t imagine.

As much as I would like everybody to love each other, I know that is a big ask. But I think it isn’t too much to ask for each person to realize that no matter how much you hate somebody, you are not justified in killing them. Other people aren’t put on this earth to make you comfortable. They are put here to live their own lives. Their lives, for the most part, are really none of your business. You can choose to be friends or choose not.

I’m not sure what the answer is really. Right now, people on the terror watch list can buy guns. RIght now, certain research on gun violence is banned. This research might have the ability to answer some of these questions that keep getting asked every time something like this happens.

But I don’t know. I am just one person looking from a distance. People are messy. Society is messy. This is just a big mess and I’m sorry.

Long live the purple reign

Be so good they can’t ignore you– Steve Martin

I grew up on Prince. Purple Rain came out in 1984. I was 11. You can do the math. Prince’s music was always with me. It will always be with me but the maker of this music is gone.

Prince was a myriad of contradictions. He was profoundly religious and extremely sexual. He was intensely private yet wrote some of the most soul baring songs ever to air. He had his own distinctive voice and never let anyone tell him who to be yet was one of the most popular artists of all time. He sang falsetto yet had a deep baritone speaking voice. He wore lace and high heels. He was black and white. His music was R and B, and blues but his guitar solos made a metalhead weep. His sexuality was diametrically opposed to the age of AIDS where sexuality was demonized. His lyrics shared the crap out of Tipper Gore. His songs were timeless and yet they will always be associated with the 80s.

Many people have died this year but this one is the one that reminds me that I am no longer young. This was my childhood icon and he is gone. My musical Santa Claus has been exposed and the magic is over. But what a gloriously fun magical time it was.

So Long Sweet Love

When you’re Kelli Marks, you close your bakery by having a party. I’m in this picture. (can you see me?) It was a lot of fun Kelli. Thanks for the sweet memories.

Jessica Jones

I binged watched Jessica Jones, a series that is being shown on Netflix.

IT is based on a comic book called Alias and is part of the Marvel universe of characters. I have not read the books before and had little information about the story before watching. I was drawn to it because the idea of a female private eye dealing with trauma from the past sounds very reminiscent of Veronica Mars. Veronica Mars is my spirit animal. So I was down with all of it.

This show took you to a very dark place and didn’t really let up. It is a place where if you look into the abyss, the abyss looks into you and even those who win will still carry the scars of battle. Krysten Ritter plays the traumatized and barely coping private sleuth. She is an orphan whose parents died in a car accident when she was young. She was adopted by a stage Mom whose daughter was the star of a popular children’s show. Somehow she got magical abilities and is super strong. She gets caught up with a mind controlling man named Killgrave who is obsessed with her. HE used his mind control to keep her captive and have her do his bidding. She is scarred by the things she did and the things she saw. The overall arch is Jessica coming to terms and getting justice for what Killgrave did to her with Killgrave making efforts to get her back.

The show does a great job at recreating the atmosphere of noir that permeated old timey crime dramas. No one is innocent and everyone gets burned a little. Krysten Ritter does a great job playing someone with baggage. For me, it was quite a departure from the Gia Goodman character that she played on Veronica Mars.

There are quite a few overlaps with Veronica Mars. A woman is raped and is coming to terms with it but this is a Veronica without a Keith. There is no father figure and Jessica is much more alone in the world. Her support system appears to be her adopted sister Trish. Jessica drinks and is surly. She knows it is not her fault but she is much more haunted by the events than Veronica. Then again, Veronica is haunted because she doesn’t remember what happened to her while Jessica can’t seem to forget any single second. Jessica manages to drink a shitload of whiskey.

Killgrave is an interesting character in the sense that he has this mind control that is definitely a super villan quality that exists only in fiction. He does, however, seem to be an exaggeration of the emotionally abusive narcissist who manipulates people to get what he wants and who is more interested in possession and control rather than love. That is the creepy. He is so close to someone real that he makes you stop and think. He is well dressed and charming but a complete psychopath. He forces a kid to sit in the closet and pee there because the kid was making too much noise. IN his own mind, he is a victim— just like every husband who has beaten his wife. I’ve heard it before.

The overall arch is about Jessica empowering herself and getting out from underneath from Killgrave’s thumb. She manages to do that. She also manages to prevent him from hurting anybody else but there are casualties in the war. It wouldn’t be noir without it. It’s a show that sits with you in the back of your head while you think about it. It forces you to think about the world you live in as well as the world of the show. For all its dark fantasy, it reminds you of the darkness in your own world. And that is the power behind the show.

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