My First Mammogram

Posted by Yoga Bynum

I’m a firm believer in the old saying that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. It’s why I started using anti-aging cream when I was 19. It’s why I floss daily. Well, it’s why I floss more often than not. It’s also why I spend so many weekday mornings at annual checkups during the beginning of every year that invariably, a coworker will pull me aside and ask if I’m secretly interviewing for a new job.

So I shouldn’t have hesitated when my OB said it was time for my first mammogram, but I did. Dr. R., a short, slender woman with curly brown hair and the coolest collection of eyeglasses I’ve ever seen, answered one of my questions before I could ask it.

“You’re not 40 yet, but it would be good to get a baseline,” she said while peeping over rectangular purple frames. I wanted to inquire about where she buys her glasses, but that didn’t seem like the right time. Before I left, a nurse handed me a form to take to the imaging center of my choice. I folded it over twice and stuck it into my bag. Then I forgot all about it.

A rambling toddler and a pledge to stop procrastinating made me pick up the phone and make an appointment, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. The 1988 made-for-TV biopic “The Ann Jillian Story” and snatches of conversations I’ve heard over the years were the foundation of my pitiful knowledge of mammograms:

They are scary, and they hurt.

I had no reason to be afraid. The mammogram was a routine diagnostic in my case. There are many women, Ann Jillian included, who have had mammograms to investigate lumps or check for the return of cancer. That’s scary.

As far as pain goes, how bad could it be? I had all four of my impacted wisdom teeth pulled at once, and the anesthesia wore off halfway through the procedure. I’ve had two kids for goodness sake. A mammogram couldn’t be as bad as all that.

Turns out, it wasn’t. I arrived at the imaging center 15 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I filled out a three-page questionnaire and waited until my named was called. When it was my turn, the technician took me to a small dressing room and handed me a cape that opened in the front. I changed and met her in front of the mammography machine. It was smaller than I expected.

The most uncomfortable part of the whole thing was the awkward dance the tech and I had to do to position my breasts on the machine. At one point, my cheek pressed against the front while my arm hugged the side. I don’t enjoy snuggling with x-ray equipment, but it was a far cry from painful.

I waited another five minutes or so for the tech to check the pictures to make sure they imaged clearly. After that, I was on my way. The whole experience took less than 45 minutes.

“I’ll see you next year,” the technician grinned as she escorted me to the door.

In the end, I’m glad I went. I do want to talk more with my doctor about the need for an annual mammography, but for now I’m thankful I didn’t let fear get in the way.

Two Weeks On, Two Weeks Off

Posted by Yoga Bynum

Hubby is going into his third year of life on the road. His job on an oil rig takes him out of state for six months out of the year. Thankfully (I think), the time in split into two-week rotations, which we refer to as “two weeks on, two weeks off,” or “Two and Two.”‘

Life on the road is hard. I’m not the one who lives it, so that adjective is
born solely from my observation, and likely, it’s not enough to truly explain Hubby’s experience. I’ve seen a few videos of the type of work he does. There’s a lot of lifting, carrying, and swearing while wearing an gigantic protective suit. Rest time is spent in a tiny trailer with a subpar mattress. Meals often include the term “ramen.”

My Two and Two is much less taxing physically. Comparatively, one could even say it’s a walk in the park. I go to work, return to a nice home with a warm bed, and I don’t eat anything that’s preserved in a year’s supply of sodium.

But it’s not easy.

For two weeks, I am The End All, Be All. Employee. Cook. Cleaner. Homework Helper. Conflict Negotiator. Tailor. Chauffeur. Story Reader. Washer Woman. Boo Boo Healer. Home Repair Expert. Pocket Reference. I might not be lifting a 100-pound piece of equipment, but I’m working my tail off.

When Hubs is home, however, it feels like there’s even more to do. I cook more. Dishes and laundry pile up faster. The girls resist going to bed because they want to spend time with Daddy. I easily hit my daily pedometer goal because I’m walking in circles clearing clutter.

Hubby senses my frustration, and he’s offered to help. The to-do lists I’ve provided, however, go largely uncompleted. This does little to reduce my angst.

While working on a new list for Hubby’s return, I thought about how we each view his time at home. He sees it as his “two weeks off,” and I see it as MY “two weeks off.” This conflicting perspective, I realize, is the source of my annoyance. We’re both tired, and we both need a break, but the world stops for neither one of us. Figuring out how we both get a little relief will be the first topic of discussion when he gets home this week.

Farewell to Private Potty Time

Posted by Yoga Bynum

Mini Me was in the dining room doing homework. Lil Ma was in the family room with me watching Barney. The dishes were done. The phone wasn’t ringing. Everything was just fine.

Then I had to use the bathroom.

Parents of little ramblers understand this dilemma. A mere five seconds of unsupervised time can lead to something going missing or being ripped to shreds. But when nature calls, you can only ignore it for so long. I usually just take her with me, but I thought it would be nice to potty by myself.

Lil Ma was still enchanted with Barney when I tiptoed out of the room. I closed the bathroom door, lifted the toilet lid, and took a seat.

Then I heard a male voice: “Si necesita ayuda, pulse el número uno o marque nueve uno uno.” I raced out of the bathroom, while still tugging at my pants, to find my youngest on the phone with emergency services. She had climbed on the sofa to reach the phone.

Looks like I’ll have company in the bathroom for a while.

Taking My Foot out of the Grave: I’m a Parent, Not Dead

Posted by Yoga Bynum

Hubby turned The Big Four-O a few weeks ago.

He’d just come home from a particularly stressful business trip, and he was greeted with a collapsed sewer line and an expensive car repair. Then a stomach bug came through our home like a case of the Motaba virus, and Hubby’s mood quickly shifted from worn-out to ornery.

Nevertheless, I believe a birthday is reason to celebrate. I took him out for sushi with plans to see a movie. By 8:15, he was ready to go home.

“Honey, we’re a middle-aged married couple with two rambunctious girls,” he said. “This is it. We’re old.”

Not one to be defeated, I drove to a local mall. “We can at least walk off our dinner,” I reasoned. Hubby grumbled. We were home by 9:45 and asleep by 10:30.

A few days later, I met friends for our monthly book club meeting. I lamented to the girls that I wished Hubby and I got out more. The book club is my only consistent social engagement, and Hubby doesn’t even have that. I attempted to pair him with a friend’s husband for golf.

“We’ve got three kids,” my friend said. “Joe doesn’t play golf anymore.”

Hubby’s voice rang in my ear. This is it. We’re old.

Bull. I refuse to allow parenthood to become an 18-year sentence of sweat pants and exhaustion. After Mini Me was born, I knew that I needed adjust, or completely change, parts of my life in order to fulfill my responsibility to my daughter.

But I also have a responsibility to myself. There’s more to who I am than the title of mother. There’s the wife. The daughter. The sister. The friend. The writer. The a person underneath all of the titles. The one who cannot get lost.

Taking care of that person keeps me at my best, and I haven’t been doing a good job lately. I’ve fallen victim to the slippery slope of laundry and daycare dashes, and solo trips to Target are welcomed like a spa vacation. When I’m out of sync, physical and mental exhaustion peak. Patience and my sense of humor tank. The latter two are quite critical to parenting, and quite honestly, to life in general.

So I’m not waiting until the kids go off to college for my life to begin. Thursday yoga is back on the docket. (There’s a studio by the office and one by the house so there’s no excuse to miss a class.) The girls and I are visiting the museum for a special exhibit this weekend. A friend and I have a concert date lined up next month. Hubby doesn’t know it yet, but there are better date nights in our future that will last longer than 90 minutes.

We’re a long way from Shady Pines.

Quality Time

Posted by Yoga Bynum

My timelines are filled with posts and comments about slowing down. Challenges about how we spend our time. Chastisements for rushing our children. Reminders of the miracles we miss in the everyday.

Yeah, yeah. I got it.

But world keeps moving. My job expects me to show up on time and work while I’m there. The girls have school. In the weekday hours that don’t belong to my nine-to-five, Hubby and I focus on the basics — food, clean clothing and shelter. My girls very well can’t go out into the world dirty and unfed. Oh, and somewhere in those same hours of the day, I need to squeeze in a workout or two so I can combat these hypertensive, heart-unhealthy genes I inherited.

I don’t want my life to be a rote execution of schedules, but I find the thought of carving out time for quality time to be exhausting. It feels like one more thing for a to-do list that is already too long.

Perhaps I’m over thinking it.

This weekend, I spent 15 minutes holding a collapsable laundry basket while my daughters threw tennis balls into it. The TV was off because we had just come in from a marathon errand run. I forgot my bag in the car, so my mobile phone wasn’t a distraction. Actually, I didn’t miss my phone until it was time to set an alarm for the next morning.

It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time, but I’ve been reliving my girls’ reactions. Lil Ma clapped, stomped her feet and laughed so hard she lost her breath. Mini Me cheered on her sister and gleefully retrieved balls that missed the basket. The thought of their smiles have kept me smiling most of today.

Putting a permanent end to my mad dashes would be wonderful, but it’s not realistic right now. What I can do is better enjoy the little moments that come in between.