Monday, October 30, 2006
Talk of the Nation on NPR today was on childhood cancer survivors. "A recent study, published in The New England Journal of Medicine, reports that more than 1/3 of childhood cancer survivors can expect to have a life-threatening illness or serious chronic disease by the age of 45." It made me grateful I was an elderly 36 when I had mine.
It got me thinking about living with the after effects, especially if another cancer is one of them. The sad thing that, with a few exceptions, treatments haven't gotten that much more successful. It's all about early detection--cancer detected earlier has a better prognosis, and we've gotten better at finding them earlier. But stage for stage, mortality rates remain very similar to what they were 20 or 30 years ago.
The good news (or, the not-bad-news) is that treatments have gotten better, so that when it's caught earlier, the treatment will be less debilitating. Which reminds me of the eerily cheerful radiation tech who said that if I got cancer from my radiation treatments, they'd be able to treat it, too! (Am I too much of a conspiracy theoris if I believe they do this to generate repeat business?)
It got me thinking about living with the after effects, especially if another cancer is one of them. The sad thing that, with a few exceptions, treatments haven't gotten that much more successful. It's all about early detection--cancer detected earlier has a better prognosis, and we've gotten better at finding them earlier. But stage for stage, mortality rates remain very similar to what they were 20 or 30 years ago.
The good news (or, the not-bad-news) is that treatments have gotten better, so that when it's caught earlier, the treatment will be less debilitating. Which reminds me of the eerily cheerful radiation tech who said that if I got cancer from my radiation treatments, they'd be able to treat it, too! (Am I too much of a conspiracy theoris if I believe they do this to generate repeat business?)
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Profound? Or spam?
Most people believe that the cheese wheel satiates an abstraction living with a senator, but they need to remember how carelessly the fat scythe returns home. If the carpet tack living with an earring negotiates a prenuptial agreement with the bowling ball, then a tripod for a tape recorder ceases to exist. A parking lot avoids contact with a flabby girl scout. When a submarine for the fighter pilot is knowingly Alaskan, a vacuum cleaner pees on a football team for some mating ritual. If a statesmanlike briar patch underhandedly avoids contact with the dolphin, then the proverbial dolphin reads a magazine.
This paragraph was supposed to convince me to either invest in a super-hot stock or increase my penis size, I can't remember which.
Most people believe that the cheese wheel satiates an abstraction living with a senator, but they need to remember how carelessly the fat scythe returns home. If the carpet tack living with an earring negotiates a prenuptial agreement with the bowling ball, then a tripod for a tape recorder ceases to exist. A parking lot avoids contact with a flabby girl scout. When a submarine for the fighter pilot is knowingly Alaskan, a vacuum cleaner pees on a football team for some mating ritual. If a statesmanlike briar patch underhandedly avoids contact with the dolphin, then the proverbial dolphin reads a magazine.
This paragraph was supposed to convince me to either invest in a super-hot stock or increase my penis size, I can't remember which.
SAHM
The things we stay at home moms do to entertain ourselves, and our little ones. A bit of breakfast carnage:
The other thing I like to do is roll superballs, ping pong balls, and tennis balls down steep San Francisco hills. Both Conor and Lucy think Mommy is quite fun (and slightly insane) on those days.
The things we stay at home moms do to entertain ourselves, and our little ones. A bit of breakfast carnage:
The other thing I like to do is roll superballs, ping pong balls, and tennis balls down steep San Francisco hills. Both Conor and Lucy think Mommy is quite fun (and slightly insane) on those days.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Open Wide
I had to have dental work done the other day--not exactly emergency work, but my dentist thought it was urgent enough to do right away. I figured because both kids had sat, like Goldfish-eating angels, through a haircut, that they'd sit through a dental visit.
Wrong.
I tried leaving them both in the waiting room, but Lucy ended up quite upset. Conor was happy to wait there, so I took Lucy into the chair with me. She got to sit on my lap--through the whole thing. The dentist has a child, so she was willing to do it even if Lucy was crying. But the crying didn't last long--Lucy was enthralled. Even the needle didn't faze her. Every once in a while I'd feel her little hand come up to try and touch something. Either we need to start saving for therapy, or she'll be a dentist.
I ended up in the same situation for my yearly gynecological exam. It's supposed to be a quick in-and-out, right? (HAH!) But there's a sort-of emergency, and Conor doesn't want to keep waiting in the waiting room, and Lucy wakes up in the stroller next to me. And I've been in my paper gown for 45 minutes. The nurse asks if I want to reschedule. NO! Isn't there anyone who can do this? A nurse, a student, ANYONE? Seriously, at this point, I don't care--just get the giant swab and let's go. So ten minutes later I get a pelvic exam with both kids wandering around the exam room. Ugh.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that these are shameful things, or I think that no one else is capable of watching my kids. But how do you get childcare when you need it sporadically? And I'm used to doing these things BY MYSELF. It's much easier that way--you can stare at the ceiling and do breathing exercises rather than worry that your son is going to play in the bucket o' speculums. And I can sit in the dentist's chair and do some Kegel's instead of wondering if shards of my broken filling will shoot out into my daughter's eye. I can deal with not getting to go to the bathroom by myself, but there are times I'd like to be on my own.
I had to have dental work done the other day--not exactly emergency work, but my dentist thought it was urgent enough to do right away. I figured because both kids had sat, like Goldfish-eating angels, through a haircut, that they'd sit through a dental visit.
Wrong.
I tried leaving them both in the waiting room, but Lucy ended up quite upset. Conor was happy to wait there, so I took Lucy into the chair with me. She got to sit on my lap--through the whole thing. The dentist has a child, so she was willing to do it even if Lucy was crying. But the crying didn't last long--Lucy was enthralled. Even the needle didn't faze her. Every once in a while I'd feel her little hand come up to try and touch something. Either we need to start saving for therapy, or she'll be a dentist.
I ended up in the same situation for my yearly gynecological exam. It's supposed to be a quick in-and-out, right? (HAH!) But there's a sort-of emergency, and Conor doesn't want to keep waiting in the waiting room, and Lucy wakes up in the stroller next to me. And I've been in my paper gown for 45 minutes. The nurse asks if I want to reschedule. NO! Isn't there anyone who can do this? A nurse, a student, ANYONE? Seriously, at this point, I don't care--just get the giant swab and let's go. So ten minutes later I get a pelvic exam with both kids wandering around the exam room. Ugh.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that these are shameful things, or I think that no one else is capable of watching my kids. But how do you get childcare when you need it sporadically? And I'm used to doing these things BY MYSELF. It's much easier that way--you can stare at the ceiling and do breathing exercises rather than worry that your son is going to play in the bucket o' speculums. And I can sit in the dentist's chair and do some Kegel's instead of wondering if shards of my broken filling will shoot out into my daughter's eye. I can deal with not getting to go to the bathroom by myself, but there are times I'd like to be on my own.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Close Encounters
At the library the other day, I found The Pixies in the Children's section. Despite the name, and the "Explicit Content – Parental Advisory" sticker on the front, someone thought this was for kids. Or they put it there on purpose. Either way, it cracks me up.
And the next day, at a museum, I ran into a woman who had a baby about six months younger than Lucy, and we got to talking. She had three other kids with her, and she said that she also had four others at home. I thought I'd mis-heard her, because she said it like you'd say you had four other fleece jackets or pairs of shoes at home. Eight kids? Who is she, an Osmond?
At the library the other day, I found The Pixies in the Children's section. Despite the name, and the "Explicit Content – Parental Advisory" sticker on the front, someone thought this was for kids. Or they put it there on purpose. Either way, it cracks me up.
And the next day, at a museum, I ran into a woman who had a baby about six months younger than Lucy, and we got to talking. She had three other kids with her, and she said that she also had four others at home. I thought I'd mis-heard her, because she said it like you'd say you had four other fleece jackets or pairs of shoes at home. Eight kids? Who is she, an Osmond?
