For My Mom

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" she asks, pulling back the covers and patting the mattress beside her. I am five and I have arrived at her bedside in search of safety from the shadows on my walls that look like ghouls, from the various creeks around the house that sound like intruders, or from any other imaginary thing that threatens my well-being. She welcomes me with open arms, and the minute I curl up next to her, every little fear dissipates. And just like that, I am safe. 

Fast forward 35 years. I am standing next to the bed in my guest room as I watch her sleep. She has retired early after a long day of activities. She and my sister have come down to Texas for a visit. She stirs to the sounds of my sniffles. 

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" She pulls back the covers, and I crawl in next to her. But this time, I am careful not to put too much weight against her; she is frail and I do not want to hurt her. I snuggle in next to her, my head resting against her shoulder. She has her arm wrapped around me and she is stroking my brow with her thumb. 

"Huh? What's wrong, darling?" 

It is a loaded question, and my sobs make it difficult for me to say all the things I want to say. How do I tell her about everything that scares the shit out me without addressing the elephant in the room—that pancreatic cancer, no matter how much treatment or positive thinking, is the Grim Reaper of all cancers. 

- I'm scared that you will never know how much I love you... how when I was young, I hated being away from you... how the affection you gave to us kids set the bar so high that I know I will never feel that kind of love again unless I have children of my own.

-I'm scared that if I ever do have children, they will never have the privilege of knowing you. It will feel so empty without you. 

-I'm scared that I can never convey to you how sorry I am for all the times, especially as a teenager, I tested your spirit and patience. If I could take back all the crap I put you through, I would. 

-I'm scared of how lost I will feel when I want to call you for advice, but you will no longer be there. 

-I'm scared that in the end you will be in pain.

-I'm scared that I am not strong enough to handle "the end." 

-I'm scared that when the end comes, we will not be strong enough to let you go, and you will hold on longer than necessary just to ease our pain.

-I'm scared that this so-called "afterlife" we all hope for is just a facade, and this is the last time we will truly be together. 

-Selfishly, I am scared about my own demise, and how I will never be able to face it with the courage and graciousness with which you have faced yours. 

-But most of all, Mom, I am scared of the day when my fears can not be allayed by your embrace. I am scared of carrying on the rest of my life as me without you...

 as a daughter without her mother.

Medical Terms for Your Privates.

Sorry guys, I had issues with my blog loading very slowly. I think it's fixed. Sorry for the repost;)

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Remember that episode on Seinfeld where Elaine gets all upset over being labeled a 'difficult patient'? Well, turns out, it could have been a lot worse for Elaine. Like, much worse!

Imagine how she would have felt seeing "redundant vagina" scribbled in her chart. Just a hunch here, but I'm pretty sure it would have sent her over the edge.

What's a redundant vagina, you ask? THANK YOU! I didn't know what it was either, which is rather surprising considering I've made a lifelong career out of working around vajay-jay. I mean, I know what it is, but I didn't know there was a medical term for it.

That's the thing about medicine; there has to be a formal term for everything. For instance, it's not enough to document that someone is really, really overweight. That's just unprofessional. So, instead, you must document that the patient is morbidly obese, which basically implies that the person is so fucking fat that he is going to DIE!! Like, right there and then. Maybe.

Honestly, I think these terms are just sugarcoating the obvious truth, but at times, some of these terms can be just as, if not more, offensive as stating the obvious.

For instance, let's go back to "redundant vagina," a phrase I learned from a couple of doctors who worked with us last weekend. Let me break this term down for you:

redundant: exceeding what is necessary or normal: superfluous.

+

vagina: a canal in the female mammal that leads from the uterus to the external orifice of the genital canal. (And you thought I was going to post a picture of your ex-wife, didn't you?)

=

Alotta Fagina

(except this isn't some Austin Powers movie; it's real life, people!)

Upon learning what this meant, I'm pretty sure I thought the exact same thing that every other nurse around me was thinking. Which was: God, I hope this term isn't used anywhere in my chart (mental note to self: get my medical records from Sally). Except I didn't just think it; I said it. Out loud. Because I lack a filter like that.

I was rest assured, however, when these doctors explained to me that it is unlikely I suffer from this because I have never given birth to "a lot" of babies. (Thank God they elaborated on this, because I was a couple of minutes away from straddling my compact mirror in the staff bathroom.) Anyway, yay me! *high-fives self* One point scored for women who have never given birth! Zero points for women who are contributing to this redundant population problem we have! But who's keeping track, right? Certainly not this bitter, childless singleton.

All joking aside, allow me to speak on behalf of all the women out there who may have this problem: This term is absolutely HORRIBLE. I'd even take a superfluous vagina over a redundant one. I mean, at least superfluous suggests a vagina that is, well... super. But redundant? Couldn't they have used roomy or spacious? Our society likes roomy and spacious. Don't believe me? Watch HGTV.

This term is probably just as insulting to women as the term microphallus is to men. When you break down this word, you get a penis that can't been seen without the aid of a microscope. Now, that's just plain cruel! Itty, bitty penis sounds a micro bit better than microphallus, don't cha think?

I know, I know... you're probably wondering why I'm wasting your time by making you read about disgusting medical terms. But, hey, it could be worse; I could have written an entire post dedicated to anal fistulas...

But, seriously, who in their right mind would want to read a boring post about lawyers?