Panic, Punks, and Permethrin

Cable/internet's down, router flashing pretty orange.  Operating off my phone's "mobile hotspot."  Yes, it may be a pain in the behind, but it's also kinda cool that my phone can provide my wifi for my computer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doing a bit of necessary research the past little while before deciding where to take our boy, urologist-wise.  Here in the States, "Circumcise him!" is always the answer from the medical community, regardless of the complaint or whether that malady actually calls for consideration of such over-the-top measures.  Trying to find a "foreskin friendly" urologist which, again, is a tough thing here.  Would be a breeze in Canada, Mexico, the entirety of Europe, but here?  It's big money, even if better than 50% of American newborns today aren't circumcised.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Because today didn't already suck enough, I had 600 bucks worth of dental work done.  Well, actually, I had 300 worth--the other half comes in two weeks when the permanent crown goes on.  Cracked molar being built up and crowned.  Major fun.  Eating's going to be an adventure.  On the bright side, the cavity I didn't think was there?  The one on the bottom left canine?  Wasn't there--the dentist I saw today poked, prodded, pored over the x-rays, and finally said, "I don't know what she was talking about, but there's no cavity there."  Given my druthers, I'd have taken the cavity and foregone the crack in the molar, though.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's a possibly "NSFW" piece that came across my wall today.  Made me tear up, because you know what?  I remember my mother TELLING me to go nurse my then-infant son in a public restroom.  No, I didn't--I took him in, took one look around, and went right back out.  It was the first and last time I even considered breastfeeding on a toilet. A TOILET.   Breastfed babies, on average, suffer markedly fewer diseases and ailments, the production of breast milk creates no emissions, no pollution, requires no shipping, packaging, sterilization, or preparation, and is FREE, and yet breastfeeding mothers are shamed into corners, into bathrooms, and, all too often, into switching to formula because it's "easier" (it isn't) and, more importantly, because it's less "humiliating." We sexualize nursing, and we shame women for nursing their babies, and we do it because of decades of wickedly effective marketing. We need to grow up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I dreamed about my Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen Jean last night.  Bob died in 2007, Helen Jean in 2011, I loved them so much for so long, and have had them ruined for me by crappy things two people have said and done.  To the two women, both also nieces, who did so much to try and ruin their memory for me?

I wish you both at least twice what you deserve.

Anyway, I dreamed hubby and I were in a restaurant (Green Gables in New Milford, maybe?  That feels right) when I spotted Helen Jean over by the bar.  She was walking behind the bar, sort of, making her way to a table across the restaurant.  She was carrying a pitcher of beer, and I nudged my husband and said, "That's exactly what Helen Jean would look like if she were a teenager."  And then I realized it WAS Helen Jean as a teenager.  She and Bob weren't dead, they were just YOUNG again.  They looked SO young, so happy, so carefree.  I woke up crying--first, because I was so happy that they were young again, and then because I realized it was only a dream.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting the boy ready for camp.  Backpack, tarp, headlamp, waterproof, floating, carabinered flashlight, new shorts, tons of DEET and permethrin, and noseplugs.  I won't bar him from swimming in the warm, stagnant fresh water of the southeast, but I will insist he have on noseplugs so he doesn't wind up with that crap up his nose and in his head.

This pic is a link to a piece I wrote on the product

The above picture?  Sawyer Permethrin.  You DON'T spray this stuff on yourself (or your cats!), but instead on your clothing, shoes, and gear.  Let it dry, and it gives you six weeks/six washings worth of tick repelling.  Mosquitos, too.  And it doesn't just repel--those that DO get on you?

Die.

Here in Tickland?  It's a lifesaver.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just one last thing--a link over to someone else's page because he answered the whole "Bogus Jeff Foxworthy" meme thing so beautifully that I don't feel any need.

I was going to post the meme, but it's so incredibly loooong, I think I'll just post an excerpt and you can go from there:

And here is the brilliant, detailed, and really thoughtful (though biting) address from a guy I really admire over at 

Stonekettle Station

Cancer, Cancer Everywhere

No, I don't have an answer here. Saw the Urologist yesterday, one of the Washingtonian's "TOP DOCTORS" for a few years now. A bit chilly, not particularly friendly. Of course, my urogynocologist, also touted as a star in her field, was quite personable, and she totally missed the mass, so maybe personality isn't as important as skill. This guy found the mass with no effort and didn't even have to root around or make me hurt for it.

He says he feels confident it's not a diverticulum. That's in keeping with what my gynecologist (not urogynecologist) said, but he's in a better position to make that determination--he's a urologist, and he's seen the ultrasound results. He seemed lukewarm to the MRI idea, whereas my gyno and GP both want it done. So do I. He wants to do a cystoscopy (I was hoping he'd do it yesterday), and he wants to do it at the hospital so he can do general anesthesia AND do an excision of the mass, too. Get it out and get it to pathology.

That scares the shit out of me.

On the one hand, my brain cries that I want an oncological gynocologist, even though we don't know if this is cancer! On the other hand, this mass, whatever it is, is in the anterior vaginal wall, which means it's right up there with the urethra and bladder. One of the concerns my gyno had was not screwing up and damaging the urinary tract, so the uroligist is my guy, right?

Right?

He's got a gang of oncology experience, so he knows how to look for clean margins and keep track of what and where, and that was my concern with my gyno-that she'd be out of her league. So this is a good choice, isn't it?

Is it?

Shit.

I can't even express how terrified I am, how utterly tharn I've gone. I read and read and read, and nothing makes me feel any calmer or more optimistic. This feels bad, and I am scared half to death.

For now, I guess I hurry up and wait. My GP should be calling tonight so I can discuss this with her--I'm outta my league, maybe she'll have some insight about this approach, right? And then I wait on the insurance, make sure things are covered before the disaster hits. I'm already three grand into this, and that's before the gyno and urologist bills hit. Call it four grand. Add the MRI, surgery, and cystoscopy. IF those are clear, we can probably call it an even ten grand.

Oh, please.

But it's not just me. My beautiful Noodle-niece goes in for surgery next week for a recurrence of her thyroid cancer. She's 14 years old, and this is her second cancer surgery. If, at 46, I feel too young to be dealing with this, how's she got to be feeling? I'm scared for her, and I'm scared that, between the two of us, we're not ever going to get to see each other again.

How messed up is that, folks?