First, I guess, the bad. My mum has been diagnosed with a stage 1 infiltrating ductal cell carcinoma, less than 1 cm long. This kind of growth is typical, and typically easy to cure; the five-year survival rate is 98% which is pretty good, all things considered (see below). On the phone she was talking a brave line but let slip that my dad cried when he got the news. However, they are going to go to Florida to settle on the condo there, only they may be back quicker so mum can have the lumpectomy and start the radiation therapy that is the standard treatment for this type and stage of cancer.
That seems so strange to type in connection to a loved one. It was hard to say it on the phone. I still don’t know what to do; should I do the same as I’ve always been doing, or call more often or take her out to dinner tomorrow evening before they go off to Florida, or what? I’d let my ‘heart be my guide’ but it’s not always reliable. I just called again to see if they wanted to go out to dinner with C and me tomorrow evening.
Thank you for any prayers and good wishes you can spare her and the family.
The Good (and the Ironic)
I took my Framingham Risk Assessment Tool with my last blood work measurements (bp 122/60, cholesterol 198, HDL 43, and I have a calculated 1o-year risk of a heart attack of 2% (i.e., two percent of men with my same characteristics had a heart attack within ten years of taking the risk assessment). Now, this is good, especially since the results, in a UK study, seemed to indicate that the test overestimates risk in otherwise healthy low risk populations, but I have to remember that I got here, especially the improved cholesterol level, via all the things such as exercise I’ve been doing in the past year or so. Ironically, this isn’t so far off my mum’s survival rate.
Which should make me think.
I Am Thinking
About not skiving off the gym tonight, although it’s been since last Thursday that I went and I’m bound to be a bit more puffed than usual. 😦 I hate this but it’s my own fault and my own fault alone. I chose all the avoidance of the treadmill, and now I must live with the consequences. It’s really rather simple. And so even though I would love to go home tonight and watch a movie, I’ll go and try to do 40 minutes or so, and start building back up to 60 minutes five times a week. We’ll see. 🙂 It’s nice because it’s warm-ish, because it’s spring, and spring makes one think of the start of baseball. Here’s Matus Valent pretending to be a baseball player…
And here, from my favourite reality franchise, “The Real Housewives of xxx” is a real baseball player, Shane Keough, who uses his big bat to swat around little white balls for the Oakland A’s farm team system. First we start with the shirtless wonder at home recovering from a nasty shoulder injury. He still decorates a sofa nicely…
(Keep in mind though that while he was home moping he was horrible to his younger brother Colton, and mostly hung around wearing just what you see here, which is odd for a self-described ‘private person.’ His bedroom is not the living room so why didn’t he slouch off up there, watch internet porn, and exercise that other shoulder of his.)
Here he is lounging by his mum’s pool, apparently counting how many girlfriends he would have on the show (sort of Jo De La Rosa and some Canadian he imported – does something that fine have to go international to get lucky these days?)
(You have to really be disappointed that they didn’t have him do one of those semi-homoerotic spilled glass of milk all over my chest poses, don’t you. That’s not his pool because his mummy, who was bragging about how she had a house for each of the children, just sold his condo for him. Or for herself since minor league ball doesn’t play that much and Shane’s not employing his other assets to earn the odd buck or two. Just saying, is all, he could bankrupt a few ageing queens if he wanted. Especially since random club lovelies mistake him for K-Fed and he loves it….)
Finally, here’s the little stud slugger in uniform nogal.
Now, I know there has been some controversy about how foully he treated his mummy when she showed up with a camera crew and obsessive control freak friend at his game, but I also remember feeling sorry for him when he graduated high school. His dad and mum pushed him so hard into baseball (his dad and grandad were both pro ball players) that they didn’t care about his academic progress; he himself said that school was nothing to him compared to basseball, and so he was only a little bummed out when his mother and father both blew off his graduation because they were too busy with work. Oh, how I wanted to comfort him as he lay there in the pool….
And no matter how foul-mouthed he is I’d take his unself-conscious sexiness over relentlessly self-promoting Slade Smiley any day:
(Who would you pick? The Studly Slugger or the Smoothie with the Smile?)