Family

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An Almost Empty Nest

It started with the gradual emptying of the pantry. Gone were the pastas, cereal bars, and cookies, of every kind. Next, the mac and cheese, chips and cheesy crackers. Then, the shelf of gluten-free snacks for the one with celiac. Our pantry which had once been described as “happy” would now be more accurately deemed “mildly content.” Such is life as my children slowly leave home. The house is quieter, the dinner table less exuberant. Less laundry, grocery shopping, picking up after people. When I come out of my bedroom in the morning the hallway is bathed in sunlight from so many open doors. I had four children in seven years so the household has always been busy. I embrace the emptying of my nest, the trickling down of activity. When I see a young mom in the grocery store with a tantrum-ing child, I think to myself, “Been there, done that.” But the house isn’t quite empty…

There are cases of formula in the pantry for my second child who gets most of his nutrition through a feeding tube. There are still the daily reminders and coordinating our schedules. I have to drive him to his activities or arrange rides, though he is twenty-four years old. He is pleasant company and enjoys the full attention of his parents. Me? I yearn for an empty nest.

My youngest left for college in the fall. “Excited for an empty nest?” people asked me. Then they remembered that I have a son with special needs who lives at home. So no, I do not have an empty nest. At least not yet. “I am determined to have one, before I die,” I halfheartedly joke. I am 59 years-old and my mother died when she was 74 so I feel the clock ticking, whether that’s rational or not. I have raised four kids for the last twenty-five years. It has been a joy, a grind, and a struggle – like all parents will attest if they’re honest. I have few regrets and am lucky to have four young adults who are nice people whose company I enjoy. But I am ready to become the “consultant” parent rather than the “supervisor” even if I have a more difficult road to get to that point with the last chick in my nest.

My second son has a genetic disease called Familial Dysautonomia. He is medically fragile, has a feeding tube, limited stamina, and occasional episodes that require medication. I have tried to make him as independent as possible. He can do his own tube feedings, prepare his own medications, assemble simple foods, bathe, dress himself and of late even do his own laundry. I am certain he is capable of learning to do more but I have hit the wall with patience. I am tired. I am not sure what kind of living situation would be best but I am certain that someone else can each him to grocery shop, arrange his own transportation, and do more housekeeping.

He does not want to move out of our house. Why would he? It’s comfortable and no one bothers him. If I mention moving out, he crosses his arms and looks down with a forlorn look. I say, “Your brothers have moved out and live in apartments, your sister is away at college, it is a natural part of life. You don’t want to be so dependent on your mom now that you’re an adult.” He begrudgingly concedes this point, though I don’t think he really believes it.

My son can’t envision an adult life separate from us so the onus is on me to create that vision, with his input, and help him “see” it. It’s difficult, particularly because I am not a helicopter mom by nature. I give my other kids the space and freedom to live their lives while I cheer them on from the sideline. I took him to see an accessible apartment building. I needed him to actually set eyes on an apartment so he can visualize what it would be like. Once I said, “I can see a TV here where you can play video games…” he seemed a little excited.

I feel a little selfish striving to move my son out when he does not particularly want to go. But as I push 60, I think I’ve earned time to myself and with my husband while we’re relatively young and able. Selfishness aside, I believe this is in the best interest of our whole family, scary as it is because my son is so vulnerable. If life progresses in the proper order, my husband and I will predecease my disabled son. If he is not set up in a good living situation, my other children will have to start from scratch. They are loving, empathetic siblings who I can count on to look after their brother but I want to be mindful of their independent lives.

What do I imagine his future to look like? A place of his own where he is safe and happy, a part-time job, and a social life. Just a slight modification of my hopes for my other children. And this next chapter of my life? Like a good book, I hope for an interesting story arc where the protagonist gets to live her best life, her children are happy and healthy, and she has adventures with great friends and her love interest (of 27 years!) She is close with her kids, but not in the same house.

Hopefully one day soon, this will become truth, not fiction.

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Here’s Looking at You, Kid

I have spent the past ten months dealing with a torn/detached retina. The four, yes, four surgeries were uncomfortable but uneventful – outpatient, a few hours in and out. Yes, they use anesthesia, but only to “prepare the eye.” Then they want you awake so you don’t move. What? Nobody told me about that before the first surgery, which completely freaked me out. I got savvier as I went along, pleading with the anesthesiologist to give me a cocktail so I wouldn’t remember anything and was even “lucky” to be put under general once. The surgery is called a vitrectomy (not to be confused with vasectomy.)

The recovery from the procedure is the kicker. It’s like nothing I have previously experienced (more like endured) over my lifetime. For the first week post-surgery I had to be face down most of the time. This is so gravity can help the “gas bubble” that was placed during surgery push the retina where it’s supposed to be. That meant being prone whenever I wanted to be horizontal and keeping my chin to my chest when sitting. Trust me, this was not a vacation. Laying around may sound relaxing but not when your orbital area hurts, as well as your neck, shoulders and back. It throws off your whole mojo. I was allowed very limited screen time, which was hard for this avid reader and binge-watcher. I begrudgingly adapted to books on tape. My iPad became my watching device of choice as I could sit with it in my lap, chin to chest, while watching a coveted show or two. Each week my screen time was increased incrementally but I was not allowed to lift anything heavy and couldn’t bend over. I walked around with my chin to my chest for weeks which made me look like a very sad, demoralized person, which I kind of was. I had to sleep on my stomach (not my position of choice) for a long time. The nitrous (or gas) bubble slowly goes away and there is a risk that the retina will detach again, so I was very careful and a little worried, with good reason as it turned out. I developed a large cataract, a common side effect of retina surgery, which had to be taken care of.

The torn retina wasn’t a complete surprise to me as a year earlier I had had floaters and flashes and rushed to the eye doctor. I was handed a brochure called “Floaters and Flashes,” so I obviously wasn’t unique. “So I just wait until my retina detaches?” I asked the doctor. My 80+ year old father had recently had a detached retina. I was told it may never happen to me and there was nothing to do at the time. So when I had increased floaters and noticed a veil over the top of my vision, I knew something was wrong. I did not have any eye trauma and I am not diabetic, two common causes of retinal problems. It’s just another indignity of aging for me.

Unfortunately I am in a small subset of people whose retina does not want to stay attached, with scarring being an issue. I’ve had a second opinion which affirmed I was on the right treatment track. A physician friend told me it’s like getting wet tissue paper to stick together. Never having worn glasses (except for reading as I age) or contact lenses, all things related to eyes gross me out. But I am soldiering along and try not to think too much about the nitty gritty. I’m a little unhappy with the right side of my body which continues to fail me – breast cancer, carpal tunnel surgery, arthritis resulting in a triple fusion of my foot – all on my right side, and now my stupid right eye. What’s next – hip, knee, shoulder?

I had the cataract surgery after the second retina surgery, could see more clearly and hoped the ordeal was behind me. I felt a little bit like a bionic woman with my shiny new lens. I got a real lift in my spirits at the follow up visit when the ophthalmology tech told me I was a young cataract patient. Really? At 58, I rarely get called young. “Didn’t you notice you were the youngest person at the ambulatory care place?”

I felt giddy. Having had three of my four kids after the age of 35, I remember bristling when my pregnancies were called “geriatric” or that I was of “advanced maternal age.” When I needed foot surgery and asked one doctor why I had this particular orthopedic problem, he casually said it happened to “middle-aged, overweight women.” Ouch (and no – I didn’t use him.) As I march along through middle age, I am older than many of my 17-year-old daughter’s friends’ moms which doesn’t really bother me. I feel youthful, even with graying hair, sags, bags and wrinkles.

I wear the “young cataract patient” badge proudly. I have a spring in my step and look forward to putting this latest physical problem behind me. I thought the retina specialist would discharge me to the ophthalmologist when this is over but when I asked him when that happens, he basically said, “Never, how’s never? Does that work for you?” Apparently once you’ve had a detached retina you are statistically at risk to have another one.

I am getting used to my new “normal” of marginal vision and am hoping that with some tweaks, it may get a little better. I am fortunate that my good eye is 20/20. When some friends recently inquired about my eye I said, “There’s nothing I can’t do.” My husband had to clarify that I wasn’t proclaiming a Pollyanna view of life but rather I can drive, read, watch tv, cook and do my new pandemic hobby – knitting. I never thought of knitting as a geriatric hobby, because my grandmother taught me when I was a teenager . My daughter recently took up crocheting as some influencer she follows makes cool hats and bags. The woman at the yarn store told me it’s “trending” now, although my daughter reports she’s getting mocked by her friends.

Although this has been a trying period during an already-in-progress trying period, the up side is that every family member will have a freshly knitted hat whether they want one or not. Sure, some days I feel ancient, some days spry and sprightly. Who is to say what’s hip, or old, or young? It’s all in the eye of the beholder.

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Notes From the Pandemic

So, how’s your pandemic going? Here’s what’s been happening with mine.

1) No, I have not been making sourdough bread.

2) I think I had “Rita Wilson” Covid. Early on, when the world was sorting out what this virus was all about, it suddenly became all too real when Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson contracted the virus. When hearing about Rita’s days’ long malaise, fever, and body aches, all I thought was, “check, check, and check.” It was early days and I wasn’t important enough or sick enough to be tested, but I’m pretty sure there was some corona in my virus.

3) I was checking my email while hanging out with my teenagers one afternoon when I got a disturbing message. It caught my eye because the subject was a password that I frequently use. It said that this person had access to all my contacts and a pornographic video that I had made as well as knowledge of kinky porn websites that I had visited. Starting to panic because this person knew my password, I paused for just a nano-second and asked myself several questions:

“Had I made any porn videos?”

“Visited any porn sites?”

“I would have remembered that right?”

Confident I was in the clear, I showed my kids the email as my husband was on a call and unavailable for tech support.

“Mommmmm,” my 16-year-old daughter said.

To which I replied, “If I had done any of those things, do you think I would show you this email?”

I called my sister. I got two seconds into the story before she cut me off and said, “Porn? They have one of your old passwords? Yeah, I got it yesterday. I googled it and it’s a scam.”

It did make for amusing banter with my kids. Maybe there are some secrets about their parents they don’t know?? Or maybe I am just a doddering, middle-age, gullible woman.

4) I’m so happy that I don’t have little kids at home. Parents of younger children try to limit their screen time. I, on the other hand, have given up trying to monitor digital consumption. Instead I feigned interest and enthusiasm when my daughter told me she had finished all seven seasons of “Orange is the New Black” in an impressively short time. “Good for you,” I told her, “What an achievement. Aren’t the meth heads adorable?” Where do I collect my “Mother of the Year” award?

5) While we don’t see many people, it feels strange to see the handshake become a thing of the past. I’ve spent years teaching my kids how to give a proper handshake. Firm, don’t offer a wet fish. Handshakes are laden with meaning. My maternal grandmother was a strong, classy lady. After the funeral of a family member many years ago, we asked our grandmother if she had spoken with an estranged family member who showed up. She said, “I did not extend my hand.” Ouch, the ultimate dismissal.

6) While routine or “well” doctor visits were discouraged during the strict stay-at-home orders, I did make a scheduled follow-up visit with my oncologist. He and I had to forego our usual hug but we happily noted it had been 10 years since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, which felt like a big milestone. Am I cured? I hope so. I can just worry about Covid-19 like the rest of the world.

7) I learned about something I had only read about – yes, chocolate really is bad for dogs. My poor pooch got into a stash on the kitchen table, which I only found out about at 1:00 am when he started vomiting and I saw the undigested wrappers from the mini chocolate bars. One of my kids had picked up the spilled bowl and unopened candies earlier in the day without telling me, which was just as well. I didn’t have to anticipate the sickness. Just experienced it first hand. I was up all night with him. I googled “what happens when dogs eat chocolate” and was pretty sure he wouldn’t die but I did dial the pet poison hotline about 5:00 am. The initial recording said the consultation would be $59. I was mostly confident that he would live until 9:00 am when the vet opened so I saved my money for the vet visit. Fortunately my hunch was correct and I can report that my dog is happily recovered. My bedroom rug? Not so much.

8) My father lives in Israel where he is happily sequestered with his lovely wife. While I haven’t seen him since November, we speak regularly. I am relieved each week when he tells me he is, “Bumping along.” In his infinite wisdom, he tells me that this (the Pandemic) too shall pass. He’s my dad, so I believe him.

Like my dad, I’ll continue to bump along and look forward to the day when a mask no longer hangs from my rear view mirror. In the meantime, can anyone teach me how to use TikTok?

 

 

 

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Walking on Eggshells

My second child recently turned 20. It is quite a milestone, as we mark the occasion of parenting this very special, special needs young man. My husband and I marveled at two things:

  1. Our son’s awful genetic disease has spared his life thus far, and
  2. We haven’t killed each other and are still generally happily married.

It feels like another wedding anniversary for us. We were married almost three years when we had this son. Life changed drastically, in a much different way then when we had our first, typical child. It’s a wonder we got through those early years. The stress of a sick child, the unknown of what was wrong with him and then the grief of finding out about the life-threatening, chronic genetic disease that we had unknowingly given to him. Our different coping styles didn’t mesh at first – my husband was angry and I was in denial that this child’s illness would affect our lives as dramatically as it does. Our dream for a perfect family evaporated. There were many hospitalizations, doctor’s appointments, and a myriad of therapies.

In the midst of it all is a happy, sweet young man who loves us both unconditionally. He sees the good in everybody. He has no guile. On his birthday he proclaimed after opening his gifts at 7:30 am that “this is my best birthday ever.” While he does have a good memory, he lives in the moment and is content. He is not sullen or bored or unkind. He has a good sense of humor and is especially “pun-ny.” He loves his family and everyone in his world.

I walk through the days on eggshells however, never knowing when my son will feel unwell with one of the episodes which are the hallmark of his disease – Familial Dysautonomia. He feels nauseous and then starts to retch uncontrollably. Sometimes it is mild and sometimes it is severe. He needs medication to stop it, which makes him fall asleep for several hours so his body can reset. He can go months without an episode and I am lulled into a false sense of security that my life and our family’s days will unfold as I plan. And then it happens, usually with no warning. He will often fall into a cluster of episodes with no obvious pattern. From the moment I set eyes on him in the morning I am scanning for signs of a “crisis” as the events are called. If he is well, he is chipper and always asks, “How was your sleep?” My husband and I can sometimes tell he is “sick” before our son admits it, just by the look on his face. We must make him insane, constantly asking, “Are you okay?” He hates to disappoint us and ruin whatever the day’s plans are so he often denies it until we hear him retch or admits that his stomach hurts, which is the beginning of an episode.

If he emphatically says he feels “fine,” despite my doubts I drop him off at his volunteer job and keep my fingers crossed. I putter around, waiting for the call from him, lamenting silently that my life is put on hold. Sometimes he is right and sometimes I am. It doesn’t matter. There is no rhyme or reason. I rarely call his specialist for advice anymore as I am in the foxhole by myself. My husband is very supportive but when it comes to tweaking our son’s medications, it is a crap-shoot. I do my best to go with the flow but sometimes it is maddening.

I recently saw a friend who is about 20 years younger than me. Her eldest child was just diagnosed with autism at the age of 6 and naturally she was feeling distraught and overwhelmed. I explained that this is an especially difficult time as she has to grieve for the life she thought her child would have. “What about my life?” she asked.

What about her life, indeed. While I do my best not to let my disabled son consume my life and be my sole identity, my life rides the waves of his disease. It ebbs and flows with his health and happiness. Yes, this occurs with all children but it is more pronounced with a child who is so dependent on you for their daily functioning. It can be smothering and isolating, if you let it. I choose to be part of a large community that lifts me up when I feel down. When I step back and look at my life, I see mostly the good stuff. Savoring the positive things, no matter how small they might seem in the moment, is how I don’t let the bad times keep me down.

I am 55 years old. My mother died from cancer when she was 74. I am acutely aware of time and how the next 20 or 30 years could unfold. My goal is to get my son into a living situation that is not solely dependent on me and my husband and eventually on his siblings, depending on how long he lives. I experience gratitude and despair on a regular basis, but I strive to choose joy. I try to give my child and myself the best possible lives we can have.

If the eggs break, I prefer mine sunny side up.

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Solitary Confinement

My middle-aged body is slowly wearing out from wear and tear. I had a triple arthrodoisis (major foot surgery that fuses three joints in the foot) three months ago to fix arthritis and pain which was limiting my ability to walk. I was not allowed to bear weight for 10 weeks so I got around on a knee scooter. It was my right foot, so driving was out. While a nifty invention, my hands hurt from leaning on the scooter, my knee was chafed and my back hurt. To use my teenage daughter’s favorite phrase, I was a hot mess.

Not being a kvetch by nature, I was sick of myself and pretty sure my housemates were sick of me too. Being a stay-at-home mother, I run the household and keep the trains running on time. Since it wasn’t emergency surgery, I was able to plan ahead for rides, meals and help around the house. To my surprise, the household ran relatively smoothly as I directed family life from the couch.

I would be remiss if I didn’t appreciate that my confinement wasn’t life threatening or permanent, for which I was grateful. So while I had anxiety about the surgery and recovery I was mindful that I wasn’t “sick” which helped keep it all in perspective. I had surgery, chemotherapy and radiation for breast cancer in 2010 so I was well aware what an existential crisis feels like. This was merely a big, fat nuisance.

My dignity definitely took a hit. Dependent on my husband to get in and out of the shower, I developed a new appreciation for my privacy and independence.  Our morning ablution schedule became intertwined. It became a joking power move where I would meekly ask, “Could I take a shower now?” and he would bark like a drill sargent, “You will shower when I tell you you can shower.”

Obviously, a sense of humor was key. Otherwise how could I tolerate hoisting myself up and down the stairs on my rear end or on my knees? My sister came from out of town to help nurse me and found my scooter riding so hilarious that she made a video. Our friends found it amusing and I wondered aloud if it could go viral. My kids assured me that it wasn’t that funny. Now, if I had fallen over, that would have been a different story.

I felt a little disconnected from my kids and my husband. Without the parallel talk time while driving and my going to bed early, they were left to deal with the logistics of their lives. On the one hand, it was a welcome break from all of the mental and physical juggling. On the other hand, I felt a little left out. As I recovered and could be more engaged, the kids resumed being normal teenagers and taking me for granted. I took comfort in remembering something Lisa Damour wrote in a 2016 article in the New York Times:  “Happily, the quality parenting of a teenager may sometimes take the form of blending into the background like a potted plant.” On a knee scooter or on the couch, I could excel at being a potted plant.

I developed a whole new appreciation for physical therapists. I saw the surgeon only sporadically so the physical therapist really was my cheerleader and expert regarding my progress. Mine was a guy named Ken, a few years older than me. I looked forward to my twice weekly sessions. During the time when I couldn’t bear weight, I would lie on the table while he massaged my foot, iced it and used electrical stimulation – all without asking anything in return (other than payment.) I could dump all of my frustrations about my recovery on him and joked that he became my best friend.

I tried not to be a kvetch but I know I wasn’t always successful.  I actually developed callouses on my hands from gripping and pushing down on the scooter and they would fall asleep at night so that I began to worry that I was developing carpal tunnel syndrome. I felt like I was playing a bodily game of “Whack-A-Mole,” fixing one problem as another one popped up.  I confess to having a pity party or two. I am human, after all. My girlfriends were great shleppers and listeners, helping me keep my sanity. I was grateful that my confinement was in the age of Netflix. Don Draper and his crew of “Mad Men” kept me company as did the wacky antics of the gang at Dunder Mifflin in Scranton.

The day came when I was given the green light to drive. I hopped in the car and headed to the bank with the windows down and the radio blasting. I felt like a 16 year old with a new license. The freedom was invigorating. My fantasy was shattered when I hobbled through the parking lot, like the middle age, debilitated woman I was. But in the car, and sometimes in my mind, I’m 16!

Recovery is complete and now the serious rehabilitation begins. Ken, once my masseuse and psychotherapist, is now my slave driver. “You mean I have to get off the table and actually do stuff now?” I asked him. I long for the days of passive physical therapy. Was the surgery worth it? Time will tell. Determined to shed my crutches and resume my active middle age, I will push forward and back out into the world. One step at a time.

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Good From Far

I find it amusing when parents preface a complaint about their child with, “I mean, I love my kid but…” I find this disclaimer unnecessary because I believe it is implied by virtue of birth (or adoption) that a parent loves their child. Let’s be real though – sometimes it’s hard to love them to the moon and back.

There are so many articles or “list-acles” about how to raise perfect children and be perfect parents and perfect families. I confess that my eyes glaze over when I see an article that tells me the ten things I need to do to raise respectful, moral, interesting, hardworking, non-entitled, you name it kids. While I value expertise and seek it out when needed, I wonder what happened to good old common sense and listening to your gut? Sure, my gut may not have a huge social media presence but it’s gotten me pretty far.

The oldest of my four children is almost 21 and a junior in college. We happily made the transition from being his supervisor to his consultant. However, I find it a bit stressful when he comes home for breaks. Suddenly I have to see his comings and goings, notice his grooming habits, worry when he is out at night. I appreciate that he tries to spend time with our family but I know that he prefers to be with his friends. I understand too that he doesn’t appreciate me asking too many questions or giving unsolicited advice. I try to keep my thoughts to myself but am not always successful.

He recently went abroad for the semester. We are thrilled he has this opportunity and he is excited about being in a foreign country and meeting new people. Truth be told, I am happy he is away. I have noticed that the distance between us allows me to see the best in him. He calls when he wants to talk so we have interesting conversations, as opposed to me trying to drag information out of him. I admire and appreciate his independence and adventurous spirit. I am reminded that he is a kind, sweet, curious and outgoing person. I hope the distance allows him to see more of my virtues instead of a nagging, intrusive mother.

I realize I will not want my children to be far away forever. When they get married and have children I can only imagine it would be nice to have them nearby so we can be a part of each other’s lives. But I am learning to appreciate each stage of parenting, from both sides. My widowed 81 year old father, who lived nearby for most of my adult life, moved to Israel three years ago to begin a new life for himself. He remarried and has an active, rich life. I am delighted that he has interests and a life separate from mine. We can enjoy each other during visits and in phone calls and not be irritated as frequently by our quirks.

I don’t mean to say that I prefer to avoid the underbelly of life. It is part of what makes life real and interesting. Instead, I appreciate the breaks and find sometimes that distance truly makes the heart grow fonder.

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Well Nourished

My late mother, in spite of living a healthy lifestyle, suffered from many maladies as she got older. As I drift through middle age, I feel like I am following in her footsteps as I slowly fall apart.

My recent physical failing is not life-threatening, thank God, but skeletal. A lifetime of flat feet has apparently led to arthritis in my right foot and ankle which translates into chronic pain. While the problem has been simmering, it declared its permanency in my life last summer. After living a few months in denial and avoidance, I began the task of figuring it out.

I tried physical therapy, orthotics and bracing, which didn’t help. An MRI report revealed ominous-sounding language, although it was hard for me to decipher. After the first doctor recommended surgery, I began my unofficial residency in the sub-specialty of foot and ankle problems. I learned that having flat feet can cause a deformity that ruins the “tripod” position of your foot- which refers to three points of contact that the bottom of the foot makes with the ground. So my tendon has slowly torn, my arch has collapsed and I have developed arthritis from my foot becoming so poorly aligned. Some doctors think I should do a tendon transfer to realign my foot and fuse the painful joint on the outside of my foot. One doctor suggests a “triple fusion.” There are other little things that would be part of some surgeries, such as taking bone marrow from my hip to help the bones fuse, a tibial bone graft, as well as releasing the Achilles tendon. All of the surgeries are a big deal in that it takes about 3 months to recover, with no weight-bearing for 8-10 weeks. Clearly it is not for the faint of heart. It is my right foot so I will not be able to drive for a while.

I have wrapped my mind around needing surgery and the long recovery. I just want to make sure that I have the best possible outcome. I had never given much thought to the amazing, intricate foot and ankle before. Just like when you are focused on anything in your life, you begin to notice it all around you. In fact, you can’t not see it – like noticing other bald people during chemotherapy or noticing front doors when you are in the market for a new one. Now I am totally focused on people who seem to be limping although I have to restrain myself from speaking to strangers. I wonder if they are before surgery, after surgery, or taking a pass on surgery.

After seeing a few specialists, my head was spinning as each doctor recommended surgery, although with no clear consensus. Remembering my late mother’s medical decision-making strategies, I asked for the office notes after each doctor’s visit so I could compare their recommendations. My goal was to figure out which procedure/doctor combo could  achieve the best outcome, which for me is no pain and the maximum normal use of my foot and ankle.

Never having really collected or read my own medical records, it is a bit jarring to see yourself described in medical-speak. One doctor’s general impression of me was as a “well nourished” woman. Oof, thanks doc. I mean, I really do try to eat healthy – thank you so much for noticing. I took my dog to the vet soon after seeing that note. She said my dog is a little overweight but nothing to worry about for now. I said, “Pardon me, Doctor – my dog is well nourished, not chubby.”

During this time, I decided to have what I believed was a benign cyst removed from underneath my chin. I had shown it to my oncologist and internist over the years so I wasn’t really worried about it but it bugged me so I finally went to the plastic surgeon. She thought it looked a little unusual for a cyst and recommended it be taken out. The results came back as a benign “fatty growth.” Or as I told my husband, in my case, it was a “well nourished growth.”

After consulting with a dozen doctors and discussing my foot ailments with anyone who will listen to me, I plan to have surgery at the end of January. My hope is to return to my active lifestyle and get back outside on long walks with my dog. We both could become a bit more active and a bit less well nourished.