Tits

I had a mammogram at the beginning of June, and a week later I got a phone call telling me I needed another one. Just a precaution, she said. When I asked for details she told me I needed to ask my doctor. Fuck.

The doctor’s office called me before I even had a chance to call them (which was nice) but they couldn’t give me any details either. There was just an area that looked different than my previous mammogram. Better to be safe and have a closer look.

I had to wait a week for the second mammogram, which I had today. I had a spot compression mammogram, which focuses on the area of the breast in question, not the entire breast. It hurts like a bugger, too!

The radiologist looked at it immediately after it was taken, and reported that it was a non-issue. The mammography technician explained that my breast tissue is dense and just needed a little extra compression to get a clear picture. Once a clear picture was available, the radiologist confirmed that it was normal, healthy breast tissue. Good news.

Then why am I so pissed off?!

I’m pissed off because I wonder if the first mammogram was done incorrectly. How would I even go about questioning the imaging center about the experience level of the first mammography technician I encountered?

I’m pissed off because I think there should be different standard for routine annual mammograms when the woman has dense breast tissue. There should be a way to avoid the need for a second mammogram and a way to avoid the waiting period. Not knowing if your body is trying to kill you is hellacious!

If the first technician had the ability to do spot compressions during the same appointment, I wouldn’t have spent a week trying not to freak out. I wouldn’t have spent a week wondering if I should warn my family that there was a potentially life-threatening health issue looming in my immediate future. I wouldn’t have spent a week wondering if my next appointment would end with me having to decide whether to have my breasts removed!

There has to be a better way.

Control

I recently returned home from a two week visit with my mother. My father passed away in April 2009, and I have spent as much time as possible with my mother since then. I have been supportive in every way possible and I now feel like all that love and support has just been flushed down the toilet.

I suppose I have myself to blame for this recent turn of events. My mother is a very controlling, manipulative, selfish and jealous person. As a child, my every move was scrutinized, insulted and controlled. The fact that I moved thousands of miles away from home is no accident. The only way it was possible for me to become my own person was to move away from the influences and scrutiny of my parents. My husband and I have made a nice life for ourselves and have even managed to find a level of contentment after the death of our son.

After my father’s death, I felt that my mother needed my love and support, so I began spending more time with her both on the phone and in person than I have since leaving PA 16 years ago. I called her almost every week for the past year; I spent two weeks at her house in April 2009 after my father’s funeral; she spent Christmas 2009 in AZ with me and my husband; and I just returned home from another two week visit. This last visit was very different than the previous visits.

The worst example of her behavior is this:

Two days before I left, we went to visit my grandfather. Mom doesn’t like other people driving her car, so I knew she would be driving that day. Before we left the house, I told her I wanted to stop at a store and buy some flowers for grandpop’s birthday. My grandfather will be 90 in June, and since I wouldn’t be around for his party I thought it would be nice to wish him a happy birthday before I left. I told her I wasn’t picky about the type of store; a grocery store or a flower shop would certainly have something appropriate. She made a face and said it was a nice thought, but Grandpop wouldn’t appreciate it. I said, “Well, it’s something I would like to do anyway.” There are two grocery stores and a flower shop within three or four miles of Mom’s house. We got in the car, and we did not head in the direction of those stores. While mom drove she pointed out the location of a flower shop that had been closed for many years, and several small corner grocery stores that, according to her “certainly wouldn’t sell flowers”. I hoped there was a shop along the way that did actually sell flowers. (I moved away 16 years ago and am unfamiliar with the city my grandfather moved to recently.) When we pulled into the parking lot, Mom parked and removed her seat belt. I said, “I am very disappointed that we didn’t stop anywhere to buy flowers.” She sniped, “Grandpop wouldn’t appreciate the gesture anyway.” I calmly replied, “That wasn’t your decision to make. I wanted to give my grandfather flowers for his 90th birthday.” My tone was firm and although I was angry I didn’t yell. She yelled, “Well, there was nothing on the way!” She then slammed the car door and stomped toward the building.

When we returned home from the visit, I asked for the car keys. Mom demanded, “Where are you going?” I said I was going to the mall to buy a gift for my niece. “But you already gave her a present!” I replied that since I don’t get to see her very often I was going to get something for her from her favorite local store. Mom glared at me but surrendered the keys. Free at last! After a quick stop at the store, I drove to the cemetery and sat at my son’s grave. It was the only peace and quiet I had the entire visit.

My main purpose for returning home was to help my mother clean out the attic. The house I grew up in has a three room attic and it was stuffed to the ceiling with junk. My father never threw anything away; he hoarded junk like it was treasure. Last spring I hired a hauling company to clean out the back yard and tool shed. They filled three pick up trucks and a dump truck full of junk: broken air conditioners, broken tools, broken lawn mowers, buckets filled with rusty nails, piles of wood, etc. It was like the television shows on hoarding. It broke my heart.

This spring, I labored for 10 days carrying boxes and bags of trash down two flights of stairs and out to the alley behind the house. I hauled away broken window fans, lawn furniture that needed to be repaired in the 1970’s, empty shirt boxes from stores that closed decades ago, more rusty tools, and boxes filled with magazine article clippings. Dad wasn’t the only person filling the attic. My mother saved every Christmas decoration she ever purchased or received as a gift. As she opened the boxes, she told story after story about the items. “I got this from your Grandmother the first year we were married.” Other items made her exclaim, “I wondered what happened to this!” We sorted items into three piles: keep, yard sale, and trash. Luckily the keep pile was only about a third of what was in the attic originally. She admitted that it was time to get rid of some of the things she has been holding on to, yet seemed to resent my ability to throw things away so easily. (I am not a hoarder.) We filled several boxes with gifts she had received over the years from co-workers; things she didn’t want but also didn’t throw away. I was surprised by the amount of stuff in the attic that was hers; I knew my father hoarded, but I didn’t think mom did, too.

Day after day we discussed whether to keep, throw or sell items in the attic; and day after day she grew angrier and more resentful. I encouraged her to keep items that were of sentimental value, but to let go of the stuff that meant nothing to her. She yelled at me one afternoon; “This is my life!” Gently, I said “This is just stuff. Your life is in your memories and in the people who love you.” That seemed to make her even more angry, which I find baffling.

On our final day of attic cleaning I was sitting on a folding chair tossing items towards the garbage bag at the top of the stairs; mom was sitting on another chair sorting the items I tossed. Suddenly, she started crying and yelled at me, “Don’t be mad at me for all this junk. Be mad at your father!” I calmly replied that I wasn’t mad and that we were almost done. After days of back-breaking work in temperatures that ranged from 50 to 90 degrees we were almost finished! And now she decides to have a fit.

After that, I couldn’t do anything right. She didn’t like the way I mixed powdered tea; she got upset over the amount of beverages I drank in a day; she disapproved of me changing clothes after I did yoga; when I asked to use the car she demanded to know where I was going; she complained about the amount of trash I placed in the bathroom trash can; she complained that I let my alarm clock ring too long in the morning. The complaints were endless!

I know she is still grieving the death of my father. I know she faces an uncertain future as a widow. I know she was upset about throwing away the items from the attic and was taking her frustrations out on me. What I don’t know is if I am willing to put myself in this position again. I don’t want to be her verbal punching bag—I had enough of that as a child. I wouldn’t put up with that type of behavior from anyone else, so why should I have to put up with my mother treating me that way?!

Maybe I should take a cue from my brother and only call mom a few times a year instead of nearly every week. Maybe I should only email her sporadically and not offer to help her with major projects. Maybe I should distance myself from her again.

My own mental health may require it.