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“Be Your Own Advocate”

I’ve been hearing a certain comment over and over lately and its severity really resonated with me today.

“Be your own medical advocate.”

That’s a pretty heavy load and one I’m not entirely sure I’m excited to tackle.  I grew up, like many people I’m sure, with a reverence for doctors.  Until recently, I would have never thought to actually question a diagnosis, load myself up with information before visits or double-check a doctor’s prescription.  I believed that a medical degree afforded a certain amount of  confidence and, of course, knowledge.

But, I heard a story today that chilled me to my very core and reminded me that doctor’s are human, and therefore capable of human error.

A friend of mine found out this spring that she has Stage-2 rectal cancer.  As daunting as that is alone, the part of her story that really scared me was the road she took getting to that diagnosis.

Eighteen months ago, during a routine annual exam her gynecologist found some suspicious pea-sized nodules in her rectum.  Not suspecting anything particularly harmful the doctor sent my friend for a closer look with a specialist.  A colonoscopy deemed her free and clear.  She was told the lumps appeared to be scar tissue and the doctor saw no need for further inspection.  A note was sent to her gynecologist explaining the situation and away she went feeling slightly unsure but comfortable with the doctor’s decision.

One year later my friend began experiencing strange symptoms and went back to her gynecologist with questions.  Given the nature of her symptoms the doctor referred her back to the gastroenterologist she had seen the year prior.  This time the news was dire.  The specialist was 99% sure my friend had rectal cancer and in her words, as told to my friend, “It’s bad.  You know…the kind that Farrah Fawcett had?”  Two months later, after a battery of tests and a slew of procedures she was officially diagnosed.

Cancer.  The same cancer she was already suffering with twelve months before the diagnosis.  The same cancer whose symptoms drove her to see a specialist.  The same cancer that had been written off as “scar tissue” the first time around.  The same cancer that had advanced from what would have been considered Stage-1 had she been diagnosed correctly the first time.

My friend has now endured 23 weeks of radiation and 2 rounds of chemotherapy, suffering burned skin and complete hair loss.   Her determination is strong and her faith in God is stronger.  She will find out in the next few days whether the brutal treatment she endured actually worked.  She already knows that this was most likely her only chance at this type of treatment and the next step could possibly result in the removal of her rectum.

After telling me her incredible story she encouraged me to “be my own advocate.”  Had she went with her gut reaction over a year ago and pushed that insensitive specialist to have the lumps biopsied, there’s a chance her cancer would have been caught at a much earlier stage leaving her more options for treatment and a better chance at beating the disease.

I have nothing but optimism that my friend’s check-up will go as planned and her cancer will have receded.  But her encouragement to advocate for myself really struck a nerve.

For a whole host of reasons I’m not about ready to get into, the medical community is changing and it is now, more than ever, in our best interests to take an active role in our own health.  It’s important to do our own research from reputable websites or books and magazines and arm ourselves with questions and concerns to be discussed at appointments.  Gone are the days of just accepting a diagnosis at face value when our guts are telling us there’s reason for distrust.  We have to be our own advocate or that of those we love.

So, there you have it.  Remind your loved ones to get all necessary tests and screenings.  If your doctor doesn’t order it, request it.  Arm yourself with knowledge.  And do not be afraid to question anything.  Our health is precious and worth the extra effort.

Mindy

“Do You Think You Can You Keep It Like This?”

I’m a fairly clean person.  And, although I pride myself on squeaky clean bits’n pieces, it is not of a hygienic nature that I am speaking today.

I’m a bit “Type A” when it comes to keeping my house neat and tidy.  I’m not so much concerned with the nooks and crannies as I am making sure that at first glance, things look put in their place.  And, as I’m sure you’re already aware, I have a 7 year-old daughter and a 3 year-old son who, I feel, have been placed here as cohorts to some super-spy conglomerate who’s sole mission is to determine the point in time at which the mixture of teensy lego pieces stuck to the bottoms of my socks, Barbie cars placed throughout the house in precarious ankle-breaking positions and Pop Tart edges glued to the remote control will cause me to spontaneously implode (or explode, obviously whichever is more dramatic.)  To simplify it:  my kids are trying various methods to drive me cuckoo.  And they’re getting close.

That all being said, there have been places in my house that have been grossly neglected.  If it can be shut behind a door it has most likely been thrown to the wayside until I am ready to fully deal with the disorder.  I have had to come to terms with the fact that my “super-spy” children take up 23 1/2 of my 24 allotted hours on a daily basis, and therefore, some things have to be pushed to the back burner.  And I was 100% certain that Jer supported me in this belief.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Have you ever sent your husband to Costco for milk and contact solution and he comes home with milk, eye drops (hey…he thought you meant eye drops) and a set of 15 plastic organizational shoeboxes?  Well, I have.

Jer decided he simply had to “do something” about the pantry.  He couldn’t stand the mishmash of Kellogg’s cereal boxes and antacid tablets.  And I will admit, the pantry is a wasteland.  It’s four shelves containing anything from cookbooks to cough syrup to Swiss Cake Rolls (these being a problem entirely unto themselves, but I won’t get into that.)  And, I kind of agree with Jer that it’s a hot mess.  But.  As I mentioned before, I’m a busy lady.  And as far as Jer having a huge opinion on the matter, the dude has zero credibility in the “clean and orderly” department.  His monstrosity, also known as the garage, has a reputation for swallowing household items and could qualify as a front runner for any episode of “How Clean Is Your House?”.  The dude really has no room to preach.

So, basically, here’s my “disorderly” husband attempting to school me on previously unrealized organizational opportunities.  In my kitchen.   My ‘hood.

Jer spent approximately 3 hours moving various sundries and dry goods into plastic shoeboxes, throwing an occasional smirk my way.  There was groaning and tsking and verbal disdain.  There was sweating and cursing and a whole lot of flying cardboard.

It was painful.  And oddly, kind of sexy.

And, when it was all said and done, as if to pour salt in my already festering wound, Jer brought me into the kitchen for a formal tour of my new pantry.

“And this and this go here…blah…blah…blah…pfft…pfft…pfft.”  I managed to tune out most of what he said until I heard the following statement.

“Do you think you can keep it like this?”

Oh no he di int!

But, yes.  He did.

“Um, Jer.  Are you seriously asking me if I can handle maintaining the pantry?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I am.  This took me a lot of time.  I don’t want it messed back up.”

People.  I could barely look at him with a straight face.  I could have began a lengthy explanation of how I clean things daily that get ‘messed back up’ without a backward glance.  I could have reminded him that he still hasn’t cleared off his desk which has so many dishes piled up it could double as a restaurant pass-through.  I could have gone into numerous pending grievances.

But I didn’t.

I looked at his hardwork, displayed proudly and prominently by macaroni-filled shoeboxes lining the shelving and then I looked at his face, expectantly looking back at me.

And I answered, “Sure, babe.  I’ll do my best.”

There’s still empty shoeboxes left, waiting to organize some other part of my home.  I noticed Jer eyeing my makeup drawer today.  This could get ugly, folks.

Mindy

Friday Photo of the Week

Avery "On Top of the World" in Utah

For this week’s “Photo” I pulled out a previously unseen (by me, that is) picture obviously taken without my permission, approval or consent.  This photo must have been snapped while I was throwing back a Xanax because there is no way on God’s green earth I would have EVER allowed my precious, innocent, fragile baby girl to perch atop a gargantuous mountain of rock without wearing some sort of harness, protective head gear or at the very least without a giant mattress securely placed below said rock foundation to cushion any potential fall.

Gorgeous picture?  Yes.  Maternally vomit-inducing?   You betcha.

Happy Friday!

Mindy