Dishing It Out And Not Taking It

For Susan

by Mrs. Chicken on February 6, 2012

The blogosphere is a strange place.

In the course of my online life, I’ve met so many women. Wonderful women, some of whom are now my flesh-and-blood friends.

I never met Susan in the third dimension, but I know with all of my heart that Susan Niebur was my flesh-and-blood friend.

Several weeks ago, Susan left a comment for me. Her words surprised me, and I know they were some of the most sincere ever left in this virtual home of mine — and they both saddened and worried me.

I can’t claim her — I won’t — the way Marty and Jean and Kristen can. But although I never wrapped my arms around her body, my heart has been right there with her until this afternoon when it stopped, stuttered and painfully began to beat again after I heard Susan died today.

I was home with my 3-year-old son. He’s sick and we’re tired. I set aside my work and daily chores today in a way that I usually don’t. We played and snuggled and hugged each other, my Henry and me.

Susan’s sons are 6 and 4. Today they said goodbye to their mama. And I know she gave those boys as many loving memories of her as she possibly could, because she knew she would die before they grew into men.

It seems the universe was telling me something today when it whispered in my ears to put my comfortable clothes on and be with my boy on this gloomy Monday.

Susan was telling me goodbye, in her own way.

A long time ago, I asked Susan to post on my blog while I was on vacation. It was shortly after she was diagnosed and today, Feb. 6, 2012, I am re-posting her words as the only way I really know how to honor my dear, dear friend.

My heart is just broken for her little boys and her husband, Curt.

Susan, we — and all the stars — are weeping for you, today and for a very long time.

I love you, my friend. You are missed, already.

—

July 7, 2007

Whymommy was recently diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer, and we know she is going to beat it. How do we know? Because ever since her diagnosis this woman – who isn’t just as smart as a rocket scientist, she IS a rocket scientist – has used her cancer and her blog to educate the rest of us.

So listen to her. Because she’s going to kick cancer’s ass, and if you don’t do as she says, she’ll kick you ass, too. Thanks for being here today, Whymommy. It was an honor.

*****

A year ago, I had never read a blog. But then my friend Canape introduced me to hers, and I started reading. I clicked here, I clicked there, I couldn’t stop.

I found Chicken and Cheese, and I felt immediately at home. (Hey, wait! I like chicken! I like cheese! And some days that’s all my toddler will eat too!) I liked Mrs. Chicken and the Poo instantly. So I kept visiting.

Today I have the honor of being a guest blogger here, and as much as I’d like to give you a real thinky post, I want to just share with you a few quick facts about a topic that has recently (really recently) become close to my heart.

Breast cancer.

Now wait – don’t click away – I’m not saying that you’re at risk for breast cancer. But maybe someone in your playgroup is. Or that nice woman you see at the park on Tuesdays. Or one of “the girls” you eat lunch with. Or maybe a cousin or bridesmaid from your wedding.

Because, the first shocking fact is this: – 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes.

That’s a lot. I had no idea there were that many. But there are. In fact:

• 1 in every 229 women between the ages of 30 and 39 will be diagnosed with breast cancer within the next 10 years; • More than 11,100 women under 40 will be diagnosed this year in the U.S. alone;

• There are more than 250,000 women living in the U.S. today who were age 40 or under when they were diagnosed with breast cancer; • Young women’s cancers are generally more aggressive and result in lower survival rates; and

• This year, more than 1100 women under 40 in the U.S. will die from breast cancer.

So, are you doing your breast self-exams each month? You remember how, right? If not, click here for a primer from the American Cancer Society.If you find a lump, call your doctor.

Today.

If you don’t find a lump, take just a few seconds to consider the shape, size, and texture. Are they both the same? Is either one particularly red, inflamed, or warm? Do you feel a funny thickening of the skin, dimpling, or see a retracting of the nipple? (Dear Mrs. Chicken, I am so sorry about the language I used today. I will do penance any way you dole out if the spammers begin to deluge your email box. But this is important, so I’m going to use the real, grown-up words today. Now go back to your beach reads and don’t worry about us, okay?)

There’s a rare form of breast cancer out there called IBC, inflammatory breast cancer. It is characterized by mastitis-like symptoms and a change in texture of the breast to resemble an orange peel. It also might itch, or just “feel funny.”

Mine did. That’s right. Mine did. Just two weeks ago. I went to the OB to have mine checked out, and bam! Ten days later, I’m told I have breast cancer and must start chemotherapy immediately.

So do me a favor, eh? Take five minutes tonight and go check yourself. Then drop your best friend a line and remind her too. Yes, even if she’s pregnant. Even if she’s breastfeeding. You just might save her life.

{ 6 comments }

Wild Boy

by Mrs. Chicken on January 26, 2012

Henry has grown three inches since school began in August.

I swear I can hear it at night when he sleeps, a creaky groan over the baby monitor I can’t seem to part with. I like hearing him in the night, his little coos and sighs, his snores and babbling. Sometimes, he says my name.

Mama!

He’s such a big, wild boy now in his underpants and crewcut. Every month his father takes him to the barber and he comes home shorn, a little sheep, a cadet, a seal pup. His eyes get exponentially bigger as his hair gets shorter. His face is changing, morphing from baby to boy and back again in the same frame of film.

He winks at us from the other side of the dinner table and dabbles in potty humor. Brushing his big sister’s hair while he watches in the morning, I ask her, rhetorically, what happened overnight to tangle it so.

Maybe, he answers me, it was a HAIR-icane!

He is built like a whippet and swims like a fish, jumping off the high diving board into 12-foot-deep water and the arms of his swim teacher with absolutely no hestitation. He trusts her to catch him.

He trusts.

At night when we cuddle he is all mine, the door shut on all the distractions and the new complications of raising a 7-year-old girl. She is beautiful, complex and tender and I handle her like glass, fearing that I may break her.

He is wiry, wiggly and still close enough to his primal self to see me simply as mother — softness, safety and solace. During the daylight hours he mimics the big boys but alone in the dim glow of his nightlight he is my baby again.

Every day as he leaves me I give him a kiss for his pocket and he gives me two in return.

I use them both before I drive away, and pine for the end of the day when we two are together and quiet, his wildness tamed.

Mama, he says, Mama I need a tight snuggle. Mama, when I am big will you still snuggle me and read me stories?

Yes, my wild boy, for as long as you will have me.

{ 6 comments }

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