This is Me in Grade Nine, Baby!

I am entering my twenty-first year as an educator, most years in high school, specifically in grade nine. Freshmen are my favorite group to teach. They have the perfect combination of silliness, dedication, and naivety. At the beginning of the year, they are overwhelmed by the size of the school and their classmates. By the end of the year, they have established themselves as hard-working, confident students. I love being a piece of this transformation, knowing that all of the blood, sweat, and tears I pour into these young adults is always worth it.

Michael and I on our first days of ninth grade.

Each year, as I hand out schedules and attempt to quiet nerves, I have always assured my freshmen that “by the end of next week, you will feel like you have been here forever.”

However, I need to offer a full apology and retract those statements. As a ninth-grade English teacher raising her ninth-grade son, I am becoming beyond aware of how hard the transition from middle to high school truly is on students.

I assumed there was no considerable difference between middle and high school. While students were no longer part of a middle school team, they were accustomed to changing classes and keeping track of assignments for various teachers. However, that is far from the case.

My son is well-adjusted and athletic, has great friends, and makes the honor roll. At the end of eighth grade, his teachers nominated him for a “Distinguished Student” award. My husband and I joke about this, wondering how two huge nerds produced effortlessly cool offspring. (I was editor of the school newspaper and performed in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He played Dungeons and Dragons. The fact that the title of this post is a reference to a Barenaked Ladies song is a testament to my nerddome.) I naively assumed Michael would breeze into high school like it was no big deal. He has excellent academic and social skills and a mom who’s taught freshmen for over twenty years!

The night before the first day of school, Michael was fine. A few days prior, we had cleaned and filled his backpack with fresh school supplies. We’d attended the Chromebook swap, so he had a new computer. Most importantly, he had brand-new sneakers. He was ready!

When we arrived home after our first days, he insisted the day had been “fine” but didn’t elaborate. Little by little, tidbits came out: “When we were walking in, there were a lot of upperclassmen hanging around, kind of watching us with a ‘Get a load of these guys’ vibe. I’m lucky I’m tall. They assumed I was just a new kid.” The observations became more profound over the next few hours, revealing Michael’s overwhelming reaction to the first day. “Mom, my first period, I went to art. The teacher sat me next to a grown-ass man. Mom, this kid had a beard. They sat me next to a grown-ass man!” Even though I’d told him he’d have upperclassmen in his electives, it didn’t hit him until he shared a table with a student old enough to participate in the upcoming presidential election.

The observations came out in small bursts:

“I’m so tired, and we haven’t even started doing work yet.”

“I feel like I’m always forgetting something.”

“Now I know why Napoleon Dynamite wanted to go home.”

“I’m just trying not to look like a tourist walking around with my map.”

Over the next few weeks, Michael settled into the high school routine. We are halfway through quarter one. His lowest grade is 89 (in math). He loves his teachers, and they all told us how much they enjoyed having him in class at the open house. He has a routine for setting out clothes and ensuring his materials are ready so we can leave the house on time. He’s doing this while playing baseball three to five times a week.

After spending the last few weeks helping my child get acclimated to high school, I now know that I will be much gentler with my freshmen students, assuring them that the transition is challenging but they will come out just fine. My experiences at home helped me at school. Weeks into the school year, I check in with my freshmen. Many admit to still feeling overwhelmed and ill-prepared. Today, I commented to my students that they seem much more confident about the work than they did a few weeks ago. When I got home from school, Michael told me that he finally felt like he had high school figured out. Never again will I promise that “By the end of next week, you will feel like you’ve been here forever.:

Peroneal Repair Surgery: Week Three

Observations:

This surgery was much easier than my Achilles. It was not nearly as painful. I had one rough day, but that was it.
However, this surgery, like the injury itself, delays the pain from too much movement until after the fact. I joked with my PT that it was like tequila, letting you know you’ve done too many hours later. I pay for it later if I move too much and jostle my foot in my cast.
Michael is a huge help. The surgery was on a Friday. On Tuesday, after helping with laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, Michael commented, “Mom does a lot.” He asks if I need help several times each day. I hate asking for help, but I’m getting better at it.
My kid is the most understanding teenager I’ve ever met. He didn’t complain when we canceled our vacation and gave up tickets to two new MLB stadiums and Green Day tickets. The kid is remarkably kind.
The timing of my last surgery was much easier for Michael. It was performed a week and a half before he went back to school. This time, surgery occurred the day after he got out for the summer. He’s stuck home with me.
Thank goodness I can drive this time.
The location of this surgery is different. The incision is on the outside of my foot. When it gets warm, which it has been, my foot sweats. When sweat hits the incision, it’s excruciating.
Mike has been a fucking rock star. He works an hour away from home. After working all day, he’s been taking Michael to the fields to practice baseball. Today, he got to work before 6:30 to leave early and take Michael to practice.
Getting outside each day is huge for my mental health.
Getting dressed in real clothes is also huge for my mental health.
There’s a lot of screen time, but I’m consciously staying on Apple News as much as possible rather than scrolling social media. I still manage to go days without opening Instagram.
Telling as few people as possible has been better for my mental health. I’m not concerned about who is or isn’t checking in. The people I know are in my closest circle, and they’re checking on me perfectly. I posted a story about my cast foot at the beach and deleted it twenty minutes later. I like being in my recovery bubble.
Kindles and Libby have made it overwhelming to select which book to read next.
We have almost every streaming service, but the TV stays on TBS most of the time. It’s easier than trying to pick out movies we will both want to watch. (While recovering from Achilles surgery, I watched every cheesy Rom-Com on Netflix.)
My backyard is beautiful. I’m so thankful that the previous owner created flowerbeds that we just need to maintain. And I’m sorry for anything we accidentally killed trying to figure out which plants were weeds and which were supposed to be there.
There’s a bone spur on the back of my left foot, almost as big as the one removed from my right (after it dug into and tore my Achilles). I know others have much worse problems, but I don’t want to do this a third time.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve gained five pounds since surgery. Add that to the five I’ve gained since my injury, and I’ve got my work ahead of me when I can start moving. I’m aware that the extra weight puts more stress on my body.
The AeroGarden I found at Savers for $6 last year has given me so much entertainment. I give poor Mike daily updates on my tomato babies. He’s the best and humors me with matched excitement.
I want to live my dog’s life. Banjo has it made and is always happy.
At this point, I’ve become an emotional houseplant; I move into and out of the sun and drink plenty of water.

Random Thoughts as I Prepare for (Another) Tendon Repair Surgery

Am I really postponing surgery for two weeks to take Michael to Fenway in hopes of meeting Bryce Harper? Hell, yeah, I am! And I hope it’s worth it!
Poor Mike will have to take care of everything for an entire summer (again).
Poor Michael will not have the summer we planned, even though we can have a few of our planned adventures.
How the hell did I get back here? I already recovered from this surgery, did all the PT, and worked to get back to normal. (insert pout here)
It’s my ankle. I will have pain for a few months, work through it, and move on with my life. It could be much worse. Remember how lucky I am.
After a few callbacks and biopsies, I’ve had three clear breast scans. Needing surgery on my ankle is the least scary outcome of this week’s doctor’s appointments and tests. I have no right to complain about having to have a tendon surgically repaired.
I’m going to watch so much television!
This time, while I’m recovering, I will read more books.
Even two and a half years post-surgery, my right leg is still skinnier than the left. At least the left will shrink while in a cast for six weeks.
I don’t want to start over again… I already did this work.
I’m almost positive this injury happened during a long run while training for NYC. Five miles into one of my best runs, I felt a pop and had to call Mike to get me. It was sore afterward, cramping if I pushed too far, making me scared to do more than a fast walk or slow jog so I could ensure I made it through the marathon.
My pain is real. Whenever I have such injuries, there is the fear of surgery and complications, but there is also the fear that there is nothing there and that this pain is something I’m exaggerating or imagining.
At least I already have the boot, so I don’t have to pay for another one.
Since I won’t be able to for the rest of the summer, I’m going to the beach as much as I can over the next three weeks.
Should I give up running? Do I want to go through surgery and rehabilitation and start over only to get hurt again?

How Much Lotion Does a Woman Need?

Alternatively: Wear the Damn Lipstick

First of all, I’m hoping people see the play of Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man.

Need?”

I recently discovered the term “de-influencing,” the idea of people encouraging others to live with less. In our materialistic society, this stuck with me. As much as I try not to get bogged down by “stuff,” especially in our tiny house, we are bogged down by stuff. Every few months, I sort through various sections of my house, looking for things we no longer use that I can donate. I love the feeling of dropping off bags of clothes or other various items at our local resale shops and donation centers.

De-influencing struck a chord. I buy things to try them, then refuse to get rid of them because I spent money on them. This is especially true with beauty products. Reels demonstrating the latest eye cream, wrinkle reducer, primer, or hair serum almost always convince me to purchase them eventually, especially if there’s a sale.

Over February break, I looked through the bathroom to inventory my stash. I had six different face lotions and five different eye creams. In the shower, I had four other face scrubs. Why do I need so many? The hoarding didn’t stop in the bathroom. I found a dozen water bottles in the pantry, demonstrating a time capsule of a decade of water bottle trends: Nalgene, Hydroflask, Yeti, and the Stanley Cup. (I am currently using the Owala and cannot oversell it!) We have squeeze-top water bottles that we bring to the gym or practice. We have water bottles designed to fit in the bike holder. I have dresses and skirts that I love but never wear because I’ve grown accustomed to wearing clothing with pockets and don’t want to wear these older pieces and worry all day that I’ve left my phone or my keys in a place where they will be misplaced. I sorted through my giant Caboodle, realizing that pairing down my products allows me to toss my beloved organizer.

While my house looks neat and orderly, we are full of stuff. I noticed this around Lent. So, even though I have not given up anything for Lent in four decades, I decided to give up superfluous spending for forty days just to see if I could. It started challenging- who knew how much your mind could focus on sales? I am a case study in marketing strategies. I unsubscribed from all promotional emails. When I went to CVS for a prescription, I skipped my usual detour up the cosmetics aisle to see if anything was on sale. I do not need to add to it when trying to lessen the abundance of lipsticks and eyeshadows cluttering my bathroom. I also went through my large Caboodle makeup organizer, discarding anything I hadn’t used in a year, even the expensive products I kept saving for a rare night out. I need to realize that, at this stage of life, I have no important events to save a fancy lipstick or perfume for; I just need to wear the four-year-old Urban Decay lipstick I just threw away.

I didn’t realize how much I was a marketer’s dream until I actively tried to reset my brain. One of my favorite old bands rereleased baseball t-shirts from their hit nineties album. I am a sucker for a baseball T-shirt! They were selling the shirts via Amazon, throwing free shipping into the deal! I quickly added a baseball shirt to my cart but caught myself while checking out. Did I need this? How much would I wear it? Was it different from the countless band T-shirts I try to rotate and wear enough to justify keeping?

Much like anything, the more you do it, the more it becomes a habit. I now delete and unsubscribe to marketing emails without opening them. As a result, I’m receiving fewer and fewer emails. On my last trip to Target, I did not spend extra time exploring the endcaps for clearance finds. When relaxing, I played word games on my phone rather than searching Amazon, Target, and other discount sites. It did seem weird not to have packages arrive almost daily, but I quickly adjusted.

This experience taught me that I am not only okay with less “stuff,” but the shift was more than I expected. I consider myself pretty good with money and was shocked by how much mindless spending I was guilty of. I appreciate not digging through my closet or drawers to get the items I love and wear most frequently. I like looking at our living room bookshelf, with fewer books and board games crammed into every space. These few weeks have helped me grow and understand the power “stuff” has over us. I’ve enjoyed the relief from removing items that no longer serve us.

How Our Favorite Musician Convinced Our Son to Aspire to Play Professional Baseball

A few weeks ago, we went to see Stephen Kellogg’s “Stand Up and Sit Down” show, in which he combines stand-up and musical performances. You are missing out if you have never attended a Stephen Kellogg show; his lyrics are profound, and he seems genuinely lovely. Michael put it best when he said, “He seems like someone you would invite to sit around the fire and drink White Claws with you and Dad.” (We are now White Claw people because our middle-aged stomachs no longer tolerate good craft beers.)
That night was our fifth Stephen Kellogg show. We made a night of it, visiting a local brewery for beer and BBQ before the show. When we arrived, we were overjoyed to see chairs; we would not need to stand all night! At the show’s beginning, SK assured us, “I’ll have you back on your couches, watching Netflix and scrolling your phones before you know it.” His shows begin with a montage of clips, one from a TED Talk he delivered years ago describing his desire to pursue music. During the talk, he quoted The Office: “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than at the top of a ladder you don’t.” I could see Michael, who referred to SK as the “lovesick guy with a guitar,” sitting up a little straighter and paying attention.

As always, the show was terrific. Mike and I noted that he played a few of our favorite songs, including “Thanksgiving,” harder than usual. On the ride home, we talked to Michael about the show. Michael, who had made fun of SK’s lyrics about love, is coming around. A few things have changed his mind, including an observation a few weeks earlier:
While driving home from Thanksgiving weekend in Maine, we stopped for gas. Two cars were clearly doing the split custody child hand-off in the corner of the parking lot. Michael has friends whose parents are divorced and is familiar with “at my dad’s” or “at my mom’s,” but this was the first time he witnessed the switch in real life. He sat, speechless. “Are you glad you have parents who still go to Smoochville?” I asked, referring to Michael’s teasing when Mike and I kissed. Michael was affected by witnessing this interaction, mentioning it a few times over the next few days.
This brings us back to the latest show we attended. SK talked about success and family at length. I could see Michael absorbing his words. SK’s words about success and following dreams struck a chord with Michael.
We’ve talked to Michael about high school for the past few months. His district offers several career paths. While Michael’s top dream is to replace Bryce Harper on the Phillies, he is also realistically interested in business. He’s currently taking a business elective and is enjoying every aspect of it. He talks about starting his own business or working in marketing or promotion for a company, preferably in a sports-related field.
I am a teacher. In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to spend my days surrounded by words. I (usually) love my job and cannot imagine doing anything else. I am also aware that if I did not marry an engineer, I would not have enough money to pay for the equipment and lessons that allow Michael to follow his aspirations. After twenty years of teaching, I know I make less money than an engineer fresh out of college.
Mike is an engineer. When he was unsure what he wanted to study, he spoke to a family friend, a bachelor who had all sorts of free time and “toys” (a plane, sports car, etc.). Mike decided on a major based on the projected earnings. He doesn’t dislike his job, but he is not always passionate about it.
While we chose our selected careers for different reasons, both offer stability and safety. We know what our days look like, when we will be working, what our days will look like, how much we will earn, etc. We have spreadsheets mapping out our retirement goals. We plan vacations based on visiting new baseball stadiums each summer. We selected fulfilling but safe pathways and are forever in awe of people who, like Stephen Kellogg, pursued his passions.
So here lies the dilemma as a parent: how much do we support an unrealistic dream? Yes, Michael is a talented player. He’s passionate, hardworking, and blessed with a build that supports hitting dingers. He studies stats and players, genuinely appreciating the art of playing baseball. He joined cross country to get faster, hoping he could progress from leading his team in doubles to leading his team in triples and home runs. At thirteen, he is hitting with the exit velocity of a sixteen-year-old. Do we encourage Michael to take the safe route and focus on business? Or do we encourage him to pursue his dream of being a homerun hitter for the Phillies, knowing the odds are not in his favor?
On the ride home from the show and throughout the rest of the evening, Michael continued to digest the words of the “lovesick guy with a guitar.”
“Did you hear what he said about the ladder?”
“Do you think I can play for a D1 school?”
“Do you think I could play for a collegiate team, even for a summer?”

He’s a talented player in a sea of gifted players. And right now, he’s a talented player who will give his all for the chance to make it to the show… while working on a degree in management or marketing. And, yes, Stephen Kellogg does appear to be someone we’d love to invite over to sit around the fire and drink White Claws; he’s also the person who convinced my son not to play it safe. He convinced Michael to pursue his dreams and climb the ladder he wants to climb. While we try to be realistic, we also entertain his conversations regarding selecting a walk-up song. He is completely confident about this, too. (His choice? Butter, by A Tribe Called Quest, a decision that also brings much pride.)

Kerri Runs a Marathon- Part Two

Every year, I register for the lottery to run the New York City Marathon. Even though 50,000 runners run through the boroughs on the first Sunday in November, only 2% of lottery applicants are accepted. So the odds are not in your favor that signing up for the lottery affords you acceptance. Each year, I look at my chances like fate; if I am meant to run another formal marathon, I will be selected. And each year, I check my credit card throughout the day, relieved and disappointed that the coveted charge from NYRR never appears. (NYRR tells people to do this as the confirmation emails are sent at the end of the day.)

This year, announcement day fell on a day I was home with Covid. This time, Covid hit me hard- fever, chills, low oxygen, the works. I had forgotten it was lottery day until someone posted about it. I checked my credit card statement. Nothing. I checked a few hours later. Nothing. I had begun to think I had again missed selection when I checked my card one more time. There was the pending charge, just two transactions above my $35 purchase at Crumbl Cookies.

Over the past few years, I have not been anything close to what I would consider a “real runner.” Will I ever really feel like one? Covid and injuries took their toll on my running mojo. However, I’ve had the running bug. My foot has healed completely; I need to find my motivation and run. I’ve had the itch to work towards another marathon and considered signing up for a virtual one. It’s not that I was against an in-person event. I was nervous about completing it alone, taking too long, and being swept.

Every year, when I sign up for the NYC Marathon lottery, I explain that fate tells me when to run a marathon. This is my year! My only goal for this year is to finish – preferably before the busses running the sweep come to offer me a ride to the finish line.

I am also aware that I am alone while training for this marathon. When I signed up for Philly, I signed up with a friend and promised we would tackle a lot of training together. No promises exist this time. I know that the mental portion of this round of training will be challenging, especially as I create a training schedule around Michael’s AAU baseball schedule.

The solo round will be different, But as I over plan for the weekend, book my hotel, and debate the important decision about getting to Staten Island via the very early bus or the ferry, I am nervously excited to embark on another round of marathon training!

I Dunno. Looks Like She May Have Just Had A Baby

Four days before learning I was pregnant. 164

Besides the loneliness, no byproduct of Covid has been as common as the extra pounds gained during quarantine, the “Covid 19,” as my husband jokingly calls his. I have struggled to find a healthy balance with food and exercise throughout most of my adult life. I’m either counting every calorie and morsel of food or eating like I have just been voted off of the Survivor Island. Through the years, I have kept three benchmarks of weight: my wedding weight (which came from eating no more than 1400 calories daily and taking two fitness classes daily), my pre-pregnancy weight, and, currently, my marathon weight (which came from running twenty-five miles weekly).
In any picture of me in my adult life, I can tell you what I weighed when the picture was taken. I can tell you whether I was in a healthy, unhealthy, or between phase. Why is it that a person who is usually so sensible wastes brain storage on such useless knowledge?

When news came that we would be returning to in-person learning, my first concern was my coworkers seeing me ten pounds heavier than I left them. When I made a move to a new school, one I had taught at years earlier, before I became pregnant, I was terrified of returning to the building twenty-five pounds heavier than I left it. My fears regarding returning to the real world after quarantine and injuries are based on people noticing my weight gain.
I am currently up thirteen pounds from my marathon weight.
I nursed a knee back to health.
Two spots on the bone of my right foot were reshaped.
My Achilles tendon was patched and reconnected.
I spent six weeks on the couch with my foot in a cast, allowing healing to take place.
I survived the physical healing and the mental stress that comes from pain, isolation, and feeling useless.
Yet I return to work worried about seeing coworkers who remembered me a thin(ner).

Presenting to teachers and Facebook executives 172

After six weeks of recovery, I returned to school to meet my students, eager to Get to know them and settle into routines after two school years of upheaval. Very few students asked me about my injury. I overheard two students inquiring about me.
“Why was she out of school?” one asked.
“I dunno. Looks like she might have just had a baby,” pondered the other.
Maybe they’ve just come to assume that every woman out of work for an extended period is on maternity leave. Perhaps they believed that my soft tummy was indicative of someone who had recently given birth instead of someone who had been nursing an injury. Regardless of the assumption, my heart stopped. Joke’s on them; I’m too old to have a baby, but they didn’t know that.

Last weekend- same amount as I weighed at eight months pregnant

Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why do we attach so much of our self-worth to the size of our pants?
Why do I include any current weights in my memories? How does that make memory better or worse?
How do I end the cycle and realize I am so much more than my weight or my pace?

Jingles and Signs

I admitted that these past few weeks have been challenging in terms of emotional well-being. Six weeks sitting on my butt is not helpful to someone who stays busy to keep mind and body from getting bored.

If you’re not following Awesomely Luuvie on social media, you need to stop everything and do so right now. She frequently discusses mental health. Her quote about keeping busy as an avoidance technique resonates with me. She understands why I feel like I cannot just sit, which is what I’ve done for the past six weeks.

I have been trying to keep my mind as occupied as possible, reading books and watching so much television. This week, I had the meltdown that has been brewing. While I’ve been watching mindless movies, The Starling came through after a rom-com finished. I got sucked in, resulting in sobs. Between these sobs, I realized that I had not yet received the sign from my mom I usually get whenever I’m having a rough time. This made me feel even more alone.

When Michael came home from school, he was doing something he never does. He was singing commercial jingles. All afternoon, he sang the jingles to Nestle Crunch and a few other products. When Mike asked him why he was doing it, Michael explained that he “just felt like it.” It hit me that my mom used to do this all the time. She’d often do so in public, which embarrassed me to no end. I called my sister, who agreed, “I can hear her saying ‘you wanted a sign. Here’s your sign, asshole.'”

I went to bed assuming that I had my small, passive-aggressive sign that my mom was not going to make me sit on the couch recovering for eight weeks by myself. The following morning, while scrolling Facebook, I noticed something in the background of a post by a local consignment shop. It was a ceramic Christmas tree like the one my mom had when I was growing up. I’ve looked for one for years, able to find one similar, but not exactly like the one of my youth. I immediately called the story, gushing about how much finding this means to me. The owner listened, explaining that she enjoyed this part of the job, and she would put the tree aside until my husband could pick it up that evening. When I called Mike to tell him, he offered to pick it up at lunch.

Eleven years after losing my mom, it does not get easier. I wonder what her relationship with Michael would be like. When I was pregnant, I called her every afternoon to update what he had been doing in my tummy during the day. When he was an infant, she would be perfectly content staying on the phone listening to Michael drink his bottles. Eleven years later, wondering remains between reminders that she will look out for me when I need her.

Week Five Reflections

If I can be honest, I am fully aware of my need to only post positively on social media. I have never mentioned the death of a loved one, accidents, or illnesses. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in delivering such news person to person. That being said, I am always thankful when others post about the passing of people close to them so I can attend arrangements and pay my respects. So this is a weird double standard I’ve created for myself.

Anyway, I’ve been trying to be positive and keep things in perspective, but it is hard. I’ve spent five weeks sitting on my butt, watching documentaries, mind-numbing movies, rewatching my favorite TV series, and reading books. I’ve cleaned the photos from my phone and spent an embarrassing amount of time on my phone. I’ve attempted upper body exercises while watching reruns.

Here are my biggest takeaways:

I need to get dressed each day, which was challenging initially, but I feel better when I do so.
I need to make myself go outside, which is also challenging, but my mental health benefits from sitting outside rather than on the couch in the living room. I ordered an outdoor swing, which Mike put together last weekend, and make myself get out there, even when I think I’m content on the couch watching Friends reruns (again).
People who check in on me are excellent. I fall into a funk, but people reach out, which makes my day.
When I fall into my funks, I genuinely fear that I have forgotten how to be social. I also fear that people have completely forgotten about me. When much of your social interactions involve physical activity, getting injured just as we returned to normal after Covid fosters more loneliness. While I fear that I will never return to the level of activity from which I was once capable, my mind also creates a fear that I will never return to the social interactions that were crucial to achieving milestones pre-injury. (Does that make any sense? TLDR: I’m afraid that my running and NP friends have forgotten me or will not at all care when I can resume activities.)
As the weeks go by, I need to let go of things that used to seem important. Mike and Liam have been amazing. But since everything falls on them, not everything gets done. And that is okay, even if the entertainment stand is covered in dust.
Progress is progress. In the past five weeks, I’ve gone through two casts and a boot. Progress is happening, and it is mine to observe. Seemingly simple tasks, such as taking a shower or going upstairs, are now victories. I need to recognize and celebrate them.
Diet is so important to health. I’d been eating as healthily as I can but miscalculated how many calories sedentary me required by 200 a day, resulting in even more weight gain. I’m up twenty-five pounds from my marathon weight and look forward to being active again and getting rid of the extra weight, which will further aid recovery.

In the past five weeks, I’ve seen a lot of progress, even if it comes in the form of moving my foot side to side. There will be a lot more progress in the next few weeks and months!

Like the Two Week Wait, but Bad

** I apologize in advance for this being one of the most long-winded stories to date**

When Mike and I were trying to conceive, I found the two-week wait- the time between when you ovulated and when you wait for your menstrual cycle to be an excruciating time. You analyze every out-of-the-ordinary feeling. We are very fortunate that it did not take us long to conceive, and my heart breaks for anyone who has to go through this process for an extended time. Recent experiences brought forth those memories.

I recently decided to follow up with genetic testing offered through my doctor and called the local Breast Health Center at the hospital. If I am honest, I had been keeping up with mammograms but have been sitting on this referral for two years. It was only my cousin’s diagnosis that made me take the time to call. The specialist explained that I am eligible for MRI screening, which I agreed to do, even though they often lead to suspicious findings.

I was able to schedule the MRI and a dentist appointment to get fitted for a crown on the same day and took the day off from work. I wasn’t nervous going into the appointment, and I felt like a champ for going face-first into the MRI machine and remaining there for the duration of the test. I left feeling fine and a little bad-ass.

That night, I registered for my first ultra-marathon, committing myself to get back into running and excited joining a friend on her goal to run fifty kilometers during the year she turns fifty. The following day, I went to school to prepare for my classroom to return to in-person learning. After a year of distance learning, I was excited to see my kids and wanted to be as ready as possible. That night, I joined our neighbors for pizza and a fire. We played kickball with the kids, kids versus adults. As they’re getting older, we actually have to try to win these days. I managed to run past Liam and get home, jumping on the plate. I felt something snap but didn’t think much of it. I’m in my mid-forties; things are always popping and snapping. The next morning, I could not put any weight on my foot. Once I realized something was wrong, I made an appointment at the local urgent care, where I realized I had no range of motion in my foot. An X-Ray confirmed I had chipped the heel and needed to follow up with my orthopedic Monday. Ortho confirmed the urgent care findings and told me no driving and minimum walking for two weeks. The best news was that it would heal without surgery.

The following Friday, while working from home, I received a letter informing me that my MRI findings required further viewings. I’d been through this before and honestly didn’t worry at all. I’d make an appointment for additional views and be on my way. Me, the one who always worries, was not worried. During my prep, I left a message with the breast health center and went back to teaching. During lunch, the doctor called me back, letting me know that the MRI had found a lump, and she wanted me to schedule a biopsy. “Do not worry about this right now,” she assured me. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.” When I asked if the results could have been affected by my first Covid vaccine, which I had received four days prior, she assured me that only the second vaccine was affecting results and they were affecting readings in the lymph nodes, mine of which were clear- more good news for me.

See what happened?! As an extreme worrier, the one time I didn’t worry about something, it was something I needed to worry about. This is part of my worrying ritual- convincing myself that things will be okay simply because I put in the effort to worry. (Am I the only person who does this?)

Since I could not drive, Mike took me to my hair appointment. While my roots were cooking, I went to work searching through Dr. Google

First searches:

“MRI false positive”

“MRI lump”

“MRI biopsy”

I wrote down some notes and, for what might be the first time in history, Dr. Google actually made me feel better. According to my searches, while MRIs provide a false positive 10% of the time, my lump, if malignant, was small enough that it would be easily treated. An appointment a few days later with my OB confirmed that even my worst-case scenario was not a worst-case scenario.

I dedicated a little bit of time each day, learning that I did not know a lot about breast cancer and hoping that I wouldn’t have to. I did learn that my lump was very small, too small to feel. I looked at the beads on the bracelet I wear daily. A quick search of the Tiffany website revealed them to be 10mm beads- a little less than half the size of my lump.

My lump was smaller than the beads of my bracelet.

A Google search suggested I add “forum” after the searched terms, which lead me to lots of people sharing their own experiences and asking for advice. This catapulted my Googling to an entirely new level.

Through all of this worry, I kept waiting for a sign from my mom. Whenever there is trauma happening in my life, I usually get some sort of sign from my mom that things will be okay. My next-door neighbors, who are family to us, sent Liam home with a bag of my mom’s favorite Brach’s jellybeans. There was my sign!

Keeping my mind busy has been excruciating. Worrying about everything what the “what ifs” to how much it will hurt laying face-down in the MRI tube while nursing a fractured foot.

Mike and my sister both offered to drive me to the biopsy. Since they cannot come and would have to wait in the parking lot, I’ve declined the offer. I planned to ask where the lump is, partially because it never crossed my mind to ask but also so I know exactly where and how deep the biopsy will dig.

When the date came, I tried my best to hold it together. I went through motions similar to my first MRI. Because I’d been told that the test would take between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half, I didn’t drink any water due to fear of needing to pee during the test. Because I didn’t drink water, it took four attempts to get the IV. The nurses felt terrible and offered me a pillow so that laying face down while sporting a fractured heel would be less excruciating. I accepted headphones, partly to drown the noise but mostly so I could count songs that passed and have some sense of time.

After five songs, the nurses stopped the machine and let me out of the tube.

“You’re all set. The lump didn’t show enhancement this time, which happens occasionally but not very often.”

I worried for two weeks that I might have breast cancer. While I tried my hardest not to go down the rabbit hole of “what ifs” and remind myself that my worst-case scenario offered a 99% ten-year survival rate, it was still an emotional stretch of time.

As I wandered through life with this constantly on my mind, I was reminded that other people are going through similar situations. It was one more reminder of the importance of sympathy and kindness.

We are all, to some extent, always in constant battle. We are all facing obstacles and worries. These concerns are not always front and center for everyone to see.