If the muu muu fits...

It occurs to me as I sit in my parents' apartment in the "old folks' home," that I may be sitting in this exact same spot in 30 years. Probably wearing this same muu muu. "Why the muu muu?" you ask - here's the tale.

I am visiting my parents and this is the first time I've seen them in over two months. There is usually a marked difference in both Daddy's mobility and Momma's sanity during this period of time. It may not be so much a progression of their ailments as much as it is my ability to push it to the back of my mind and pretend it doesn't exist.

Truth is, I really enjoy my visits with them but they are, of course, totally predictable. Within 30 seconds (not kidding!) of my walking in the door, Dad has already plowed over antique bottles (read: clutter!) with his walker and Mom is berating him to "slow down, Tom!" I begin eyeing the bottle of wine I brought with me.

We enjoy a "late" dinner at 5:50pm in the Tavern. Miniature-sized entrees for miniature-sized appetites. Apparently, old people don't eat much - but they sure drink a lot! I marvel at how attentive the staff is here. The very sweet waitress cuts open the mustard packets for Dad b/c his fingers are unable to manage it. We enjoy our dinner although Mom interrupts frequently to introduce me to another one of her friends. (They have many friends!) She has perfected the 10-second introduction - "This is our Beth. She's our only daughter. She has 4 children. We love her very much." These people seem genuinely pleased to meet me and have only kind things to say about my parents.

We come back to the apartment and I'm in bed by 7:30. WTF?! It's Friday night! So, I sit there, drinking my wine, watching some crap movie - "The Ballad of Cable Hogue" with Jason Robards - and watching Daddy eat the charred popcorn he popped. It's actually kinda enjoyable. I go to sleep smelling the burned popcorn.

The next morning I awake to smelling something else burning. Turns out Daddy's making fried potatoes for his breakfast - literally fried to oblivian in no less than a pound of butter. Charred little nuggets. They look delicious. He also exploded an egg in the microwave (again, not kidding).

I take advantage of not having anything to do and get involved in another movie -"Lorenzo's Oil." This movie makes me cry sporadically and thank my lucky stars that all my children are healthy and needn't ingest some extracted form of olive oil via a feeding tube to live. Daddy shuffles into the room with his undershirt tucked into his tighty whities and says "There MUST be something better on." "Well actually Dad, I'm watching this." "Oh, ok then." I believe the volume is set at 40 or 42 - yet still doesn't effectively drown out Mom and Dad's bickering about what a mess the kitchen is and how he should get dressed.

Suddenly, going for a run actually appeals to me. I spend an hour in the gym where the average age is 85. I marvel at how good I look, how healthy and strong I am! Of course, everything is relative. I think these people are terrific - moving their old bodies and maintaining their flexibility. Good for them. I will enjoy what little youth I may have left.

But what about the muu muu, Beth? Patience, here we go.

After my workout, I jump into the shower. The shower can be only so hot b/c the facility caps off the hot water heater to avoid accidental scaldings. I rather enjoy the nifty little handle bars in the shower. You never know when you'll need to grab something in the shower to keep you upright, after all. Momma kindly threw my workout clothes and anything else she could get her hands on into the washer. Of course, I had only one pair of jeans so I have nothing to wear until everything is washed and dried. So I must wear my mother's clothes or sit naked for an hour. My choices are scratchy corduroys with a matching applique'd top, or said muu muu. I choose the latter and go commando without any undergarments.


There is nothing quite like a muu muu to scourge one's fashion sensibilites. I'm sure Tim Gunn would be rendered speechless at the sight of me. I mean, look at me! Do I look freakin' happy? That'd be a no. Any one of the following describes how a muu muu makes one feel - bloated, Jabba the Hutt, old, tub of goo, strangely liberated, sloth, comfy, hopeless. This is not good.

This is the face of a woman who sees what the future could look like. It looks like my Mom and Dad. It is living in a retirement community with my husband of 50+ years, arguing over burnt potatoes. I see it coming like a storm over the mountains, hoping that the clouds will break up before reaching me. I have similar mannerisms, a similar body shape, and (God help me) similar annoyances. Becoming one's parents may be upsetting to some. Honestly...I should be so lucky.

Leave my tits alone!

I’m sitting in a warmed white robe, listening to the trickle of a fountain, reading a magazine I found next to a bowl of chocolates and assorted teas. The lighting is warm and dimmed just a touch. I think this would make a lovely spa if it weren’t, in fact, a breast diagnostic center. I appreciate the fact that they’re trying to make me feel calm and cared for, but it’s not exactly working.

A week after receiving my annual mammogram, I receive a phone call from someone who I think identified herself as a Breast Coordinator (really? what kind of coordination do they need?) saying that I need to come back in for further testing. There is an “architectural distortion” and additional films are needed to determine if an ultrasound and/or biopsy may be necessary.

Sitting in the waiting room full of women, I can’t help but wonder what their stories are. Who is here for just the annual exam; who is here for additional testing; who is here for more serious diagnostics; who is here for follow-ups after surviving breast cancer; who is here because their treatment is failing? They are all different sizes, shapes, ages, backgrounds. One woman is dressed in a business suit, another in poly stretch pants from Wal-Mart. It doesn’t matter. Naked, we’re all the same. Cancer doesn’t discriminate.

My dear mother-in-law just finished radiation treatments for stage 1 breast cancer yesterday. She asked how my annual mammo went and I never responded. I couldn’t dare worry her with something so painfully familiar to her right now. Fingers crossed that it’s nothing and I can tell her “Oh, everything’s just fine” the next time we talk.

The technician shows me the film from last time – the spot is obvious even to my untrained eye. “It could just be dense tissue. We’ll need to get more images, moving and manipulating the tissue flatter for a clearer picture.” Flatter? Really? She twists and rolls my breast like she’s kneading pizza dough. I try not to make eye contact with her. I don’t even know her name. Again, with the machine squeezing and squeezing and squeezing my breast until I can hardly breathe. Click. Click.


Clearly, she doesn’t like what she sees and she pulls out a super duper magnifiying attachment for the machine. No comfy pads on this one. It simply feels like she’s slamming my tit between two books – not pleasant. “I’m sorry – I know this isn’t comfortable,” she empathizes. What a crappy job she has. With the new digital technology, we can instantly see the images. I peek behind her station and see the spot again. Shit.

She seats me in the aforementioned fake spa area and says she’ll show the films to the Doctor to determine if we need to do an ultrasound. I sit. I wait. I think. I start to panic, but O magazine diverts my attention just enough. Soon after, another woman is seated next to me – lucky girl. I offer her a chocolate. She accepts. She has darker skin and speaks with an accent. Very lovely. She says “I hope everything will be OK for both of us.” The technician calls my name and I leave the oasis, squeezing my new friend’s arm and wishing her well.

I am ushered to the technician’s ultrasound room. I always loved getting ultrasounds. I think it’s brilliant that they can look inside your body and your organs and determine good things – the size and sex of a baby – and bad – the location of a tumor. Again, I see something on the screen and, to my own surprise, blurt out “What is that?!” “Just normal breast tissue” comes the beauteous response!

The Doctor comes in after reviewing the ultrasound and confirms that everything is, in fact, just fine. An apology for putting me through the wringer from the Doc, a sigh of relief and a commitment to come annually from me. I get dressed and marvel at how it’s suddenly all over, and with a very happy ending. As I leave the office, I walk past the other faces in the waiting room. I look at them, and they look at me. We’re all thinking the same thing – leave my tits alone.

Ladies – please please please do your monthly self-exam and get your annual mammogram. Early detection saves lives.

What sucks more than being eleven?

It sucks to be 11 years old. Just ask my daughter. She’s caught in limbo – literally…purgatory, that place between heaven and hell. Not a child anymore, though not yet a young woman. Seeing her deal with such raw emotions every day brings back the same memories to me. The ones I wanted so much to just leave my mind and never return, because when you’re eleven it’s all quite dramatic.

Both my girls, like me, were late bloomers. Of course, now as a parent I’m terribly grateful for them to not grow up too quickly. But I remember how devastating it was for everyone else to be “ahead of me” in nearly every sense of the word – not yet time to shave…no need for a bra…can’t wear make-up or high heels…no period. No matter how many times I read Judy Blume’s book, I couldn’t will puberty on fast enough!

My daughter is a microcosm of me – truly a “mini me.” It’s like looking in a mirror. She looks like me, has the same interests and talents, and the same tendency to make much more out of a situation than is necessary. I understand her deeply, and this is what makes it so hard to step back and let her find her own way. I’d much rather draw a map for her – take two steps forward, one to the side, hop over this guy, slide down this railing, poof, you win! But then what would she learn? I don’t want her to be a soldier; rather, I want her to lead.

It makes me think back and wonder if my Mom felt the same way. Was she attuned to what I was feeling? Did she want to fix things for me? From my perspective, she was agreeably absent from my middle school dramas. She would envelop me every afternoon with a hug and a healthy snack, but I don’t recall detailed discussions about my day – who did what; she said this; he made me cry, etc. So why does my daughter feel compelled to share this with me?

Despite what she thinks, she is quickly growing up. I see a devastatingly beautiful face behind the hair that falls in her face. She’s more gorgeous than she can even imagine. The curve of her face, the blue grey eyes, the freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks – it’s a dead sexy woman in the making. And really, who the hell wants to think of their daughter as sexy?! Her body is changing too – taut, athletic, growing curves, and a butt you can bounce a quarter off of. It’s ridiculous!

I know she sees these changes. She’s been waiting for them. But now that it’s here, it’s a little scary for her. She waffles between wanting to be more grown up – putting on make up, wearing fashionable clothes, looking “hot,” having more responsibilities and privileges – and just wanting to be a kid – running around in the mud, acting goofy, making rude noises, having no responsibilities.

I’m the lucky recipient of her love and adoration. For some reason, she thinks I have my act together and models herself after me. How long will this last? Another month? Another year? Before too long she’ll discover that her friends are much wiser than her mother. In the meanwhile, I’ll enjoy any moments she chooses to be with me because while she thinks being 11 sucks, having your children grow up and leave you sucks even more.