Photo: Matteo Vistocco

ARCHITECTURAL DISTORTION OR A JOURNEY I WOULDN'T WISH ON ANYONE, PART I 

Last year, I forgot to schedule my annual mammogram.  

I'm usually on top of things, but it never dawned on me to make an appointment for the yearly x-ray.  That's something I've been doing for thirty years!  I blame it on COVID because the pandemic had a way of distracting me.  I wasn't the only one.  In fact, when I scheduled a date, the receptionist told me quite a few women had forgotten to make their appointments, too.  

Unlike the previous years however, this time felt different.  I'm 66, the age my mother found out she had breast cancer.  I was nervous and could not shake the bad vibes.  Being two months overdue did not help.   

Then a week after the mammogram, my cell phone rang displaying a number associated with my doctor's office.  I braced for bad news.  My heart thumped against my chest.  During the short call, I learned that a diagnostic mammogram would be needed.  The latest x-rays looked different from the previous views.  

This was not good news.  Worry doesn't even come close to describing how I felt.  So to quell my fears, I spent hours googling the two words the appeared on the report:  architectural distortion.  The terminology basically meant something did not look right.  Now, I had reached new levels of anxiety.  I kept searching the Internet to find some positive information.  That's when I ran across One Frugal Girl.

This blog is written by a woman named Jewels who shared the emotional journey of an abnormal mammogram. She even published other women's personal experiences.  Jewels and her followers had been diagnosed with an architectural distortion, too.  After reading the blog post and other people's comments, I felt a little better.  Jewels revealed, as did every follower, that the outcome was negative for cancer.    

On the day of the diagnostic exam, I sat in the waiting room socially distancing from (and yet part of) this cranberry-colored gowned and masked group.  It kind of blew my mind that all twenty of us needed diagnostic mammograms.  The strange thing was, everyone appeared to be at ease.  One woman, who spoke loud enough for all to hear, revealed that she was a cancer survivor.  She spoke in great detail to the lady sitting next to her.  I'm not sure how the listener felt about it.  Had it been me, I would have been reduced to tears.

After a half hour, the tech called me back for the mammogram.  I returned to the waiting room and began reading one of my books.  An hour later, I was called back for another set of x-rays.  Again, I returned to the waiting room.  But as the time passed, I was becoming a nervous wreck.  What was the reason for two mammograms?  My brain could no longer comprehend the words in my books.  I was not like the other women in the room who appeared to be brave and calm.  I was drowning in a pool of waiting and of not knowing and needed to be rescued from the clutch of worry and to be delivered by the voice of good news.  

I wanted this to be over.  Instead—a tech called me back for an ultrasound.  

This was going from bad to worse.  And then during the exam, I received some encouraging words.  The tech told me that she didn't see anything abnormal.  It was a minor relief, like taking a quick breath after being denied air for so long.  Still, the radiologist had to perform an ultrasound to be sure.  I waited again, staring off.  Trying to not think about anything.  Feeling numb.  About a half an hour later, the radiologist performed the ultrasound.  She agreed with the tech.  There was nothing suspicious.   

At this point, I was worn out, but relieved.  Finally, this day of not knowing and waiting was about to be wrapped up.  And then (never assume something is about to be over when you see the words and then) the doctor wanted to know more information about my family...and then when she learned about my mother's medical history, I found this journey was not even close to ending.   

To be continued...

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Photo: Julien Delaunay

WHEN YOU GOTTA GO 

I'm not a fan of porta potties.

But when nature calls and you're away from the conveniences of a restroom, sometimes you have no choice.  As my mother-in-law used to say "What are you going to do?"  And in this case, it would be: use the damn outside toilet.

Porta potties go way back.  They were invented during World War II for ship crews that spent a long time on board without coming back to shore.  The first portable restrooms were constructed of metal and wood.  Later, they were made of fiberglass and polyurethane so they could be more easily moved.  To mask odors, a blue liquid was developed and added to the toilet.  This deodorizer contains a biocide to inhibit the growth of odor-producing bacteria.  

Though I'm happy to know the manufacturers put this blue stuff in porta potties, they might think long and hard about upping the fragrance.  I should know.   I've used plenty a porta potties during the years my daughter ran cross county.  Before a race when she and her teammates warmed up, I'd scout out the blue toilets.  Thank goodness they were not hard to find and were situated in an area that could be called Potty Parkway, Toilet Throughway, or Got to Go Row.  

My bladder had a mine of her own.  During those open-air races, she was quick to let me know that she demanded attention and would not take no for an answer.  One time when I was on my way to the potties, the men's race had just begun.  To get to the toilets one had to cross the runner's path.  I streaked across as fast as possible so that I wouldn't interfere with the race, but an enraged fan fussed at me.  Didn't he know I could run pretty darn fast when I had to go?

Just so you know, toilets on trains are no better than porta potties.  In fact, they're smaller (lots smaller) and not necessarily cleaner.  More, they can be nerve-wracking.  Several years ago, I got trapped in a bathroom on a train heading to Madrid.  It took me three to four minutes to get out.  When I returned to my seat my husband asked, "Any problems?"   

He could barely control his laughter.  He said that the indicator light at the entrance to bathroom had been flashing on and off.  I had no idea I was broadcasting my predicament.  In my defense, it was a Spanish lock so I'm pretty sure it worked differently than American locks.

Airplanes can be even worse.  There's always the possibility of turbulence. 

I would rather have a clean, nice-smelling, big bathroom when I'm away from home, but you take what you can get.  And those cross-country meets have groomed me well.  So, allow me to offer some tips, that is if you have the misfortune opportunity of using a porta potty.    

• Bring a tissue because you never know if the roll will be empty.  (Chances are good the roll will be empty).
• Roll up pants hems.  The floor may be damp due to rain, a spilled drink, or body fluid.   
• Do not look down.  Trust me, there's really nothing you'd want to see.
• Follow potty etiquette.  No line skipping.  Those standing at the front of the line have to wait till the door they're facing opens.  
• Hold your nose.  That deodorized blue liquid ain't fooling no one. 

À la prochaine! 

 

I'M AN INDOOR CAT AND I DON'T BELONG OUTSIDE

I never knew cats could bring me to tears. 

My sweet boy, Ozzie

Had I been blessed with foresight, I may have never have adopted one.  But since my daughter begged for a pet, we found a cat at the Lexington Humane Society, unaware of what the future would bring.   

Ollie was a smart cat.  He could obey commands like sit, stay, and come here.  He did however, have a peculiar habit.  Ollie insisted on scooping kibbles from his dish to the tray before eating them, which was quirky as well as noisy.  Sadly, Ollie only lived to be eight-years old.  He hid his illness well as most cats do.  When his symptoms began to show, it was too late to do much for him.  We tried to enrich his diet and to give him sub-cutaneous fluids, but nothing seemed to work.  Ollie was wasting away—not eating, not able to clean himself, not being able to make it to the litter box.  It was agonizing to see him struggle so much.  

Then after bringing him to veterinarian to administer fluids (we were not that successful at home), I learned that his condition would only worsen.  He could develop seizures.  So, it was time to make the painful decision to put Ollie to sleep.  I sat sat in the waiting room sobbing, my tears flowing like a fountain.  When the vet returned, I received Ollie's body wrapped in a clean white cloth.  I swore I'd never go through this heartbreak again.  

After three months, I missed having a cat in the house and consequently, I went back at the animal shelter.  Companionship outweighed the risk of heartache.  And the minute I saw Ozzie's eyes (one is amber and the other is green), I knew this was the cat for me.  

Ozzie is a good ol' boy.  The sweetest, loving cat.  A talker.  Ask him anything and he'll speak right up.  You want food?  He answers with a meh, meaning yes.  You want to go upstairs?  Meh.  You want to watch bird Youtube videos?  Meh.  Granted, his vocabulary is limited, but he'll speak up when spoken to.

As you can expect, he's as curious as any other cat.  If a cabinet is open, he'll climb inside.  If dinner is on the table, he'll hop up for a sniff.  If stray cat comes to our deck, he'll go to the door to have a look.  

Ozzie is not only curious, he's daring.  He'll slip outside if we have not completed closed a door.  He has darted out a few times, but we were able to catch him quickly.  But one time, he snuck out and the timing couldn't have been worse.  He took off to the great outdoors on the day we needed to pick friends up at the airport and go out for dinner.  

I was a nervous wreck. I envisioned him being run over by a car or getting into a fight with a stray cat.  I imagined him never finding his way back home.  My husband Jim and I had a few minutes to search for him in the neighborhood, but we didn't have any luck.  Our friend's flight would be arriving and we had to get going.  For my peace of mind, we kept the garage door up and the basement door open just in case he'd return.

During dinner, I had a hard time concentrating.  I fought back tears worrying about my sweet boy.  Daylight was fading.  Ozzie is an indoor cat.  He didn't have the skills to take care of himself in the wild.  Ever since we adopted him, we had always provided food and shelter.  

From the time we went to the airport, had dinner, and drove back home, Ozzie had been missing for four hours.  But when we pulled back into the garage, I caught a glimpse of something furry scurrying from the left side to the right side of the garage.  Ozzie!  Either he had been hiding in the garage the entire time, or he was close by and slipped inside the minute we pulled into the garage.  

Jim and I try to keep close tabs on Ozzie.  But no matter how careful we are, Ozzie could escape again, so there had to be a plan in place.  But we didn't know what we could do.  Then one evening, Jim and I took a walk in the neighborhood and discovered a lost puppy.  The dog wore tags that had his name, an address and contact number.  After making a phone call, we were able to unite him with his owner in less than ten minutes.

And that sparked the idea.  Though Ozzie is chipped and wears vaccination tags, he needed another tag with his name, an address, and a phone number.  It was easy enough to find tags online that could be personalized.  I found a cute one that had room for a name and a phone number (which we put on the front) and space for four lines of text on the back.  Neighbors would be able to learn his home address and give us a call.  They would see he's an indoor cat—and that he doesn't belong outside. 

We'd like to think that Ozzie is happy.  He could however, be bored being in inside.  To that I would say, "Sorry, my sweet boy.  Being inside keeps you safe."  But he wasn't born with good sense and one certainly can't reason with him.  When a door is ajar, it's an open invitation.  He just can't help himself.  Off he goes.  There are so many sights and smells to experience.  He'll take off regardless how it makes me feel.  I know, I know, he's a cat.  He's certainly not considering my feelings.  Still, I wish he had an inkling that his curiosity has the power to bring me to tears.     

Bonne année à tous! 

     

NOTHING STAYS THE SAME 

I'm stressing out about a tree that we will lose this year.  

See the elegant dogwood at the corner of the house?  That thirty-year old tree must be moved and it's likely it won't survive.

This came about because there was a crack in the foundation of our house which caused water to seep into the ceiling of the basement.  To fix the problem, the house will need to have piers placed under the foundation at the corner to lift and straighten it.  Right by the dogwood.

It breaks my heart that this magnificent tree will be dug up.  The dogwood and its twin have graced the corners of our house for decades, creating symmetry in the front landscaping.  Throughout most of the year, there is no shortage of color:  creamy-white blossoms in spring, emerald-green foliage in summer, and crimson berries and rust-red leaves during the fall.   

It's odd how we take things for granted, how we may fail to fully appreciate what we have.   When I glance through the sheers of the dining room window, I expect to see the leafy dogwood.  It's always been there.   And now, its days are numbered.       

I can't bear to lose this beautiful tree.  So, I did a little research and found that the best months to transplant a tree would be November through March.  It would be important to bring along as much of the root as possible without roughing up the root ball.  Ehh...this looks iffy.  Though we plan to have the work done late fall, expecting contractors to carefully uproot a tree with a bulldozer is unlikely.  My gut feeling is they won't give a sh*t.  

Even still, I needed to know if we could save the tree.  I asked my arborist friend B.G. to stop by and give us his opinion.  After taking a look at the dogwood and noticing how close it was to the house and how far its roots had spread, he said that it would not survive.  "The tree is too big," says B.G. 

We had another expert come by to have a look.  He said that if the tree is removed and then replanted it may have enough energy to flower in the spring, but it may not live much longer. 

Two grim opinions.  

And then, my husband interviewed three contractors.  Two of the three said the tree is in the way.  But one told us that they could work around the tree!  You know which one I'm rooting for (pun intended.) 

But who am I'm kidding?  The dogwood hugs the corner of the house.  It would be a miracle to work around a tree that's smack dab in the middle of an area that has to be dug up. 

I'm crushed about losing a tree that my husband planted thirty years ago.  This healthy dogwood is like an old friend.  Soon, it will be gone forever.  And I'll have to get used to the fact.  This will not be easy for me.  But like Carly Simon sings, "I know nothing stays the same."  

There is a slight chance that once the tree is dug up, it won't be damaged too much and it can be replanted.  If enough root ball is saved, it might survive.  For a moment, I have a flicker of hope.  Who knows what will happen?  All I know is to appreciate the now because tomorrow things may change.  Elegance may disappear.  So, I take a deep breath, step toward the window, and part the dining room sheers.    

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Photo: Anton Titov 

DANCING DURING THE PANDEMIC 

I miss taking ballet in the dance studio. 

Since April, I've been taking class on Zoom.  Laurie, our ballet teacher teaches from her carpeted loft.  I dance on the wood floor of the dining room after scooting the chairs and the table to the side.  Most of us use a chair for a barre, though one of the younger students has a barre at home.

This setup works fairly well for me unless my cat Ozzie decides to stretch out on the keyboard.  It may be comfy for him, but he blocks my screen view or sometimes presses a key to shut off Zoom.  So, after I move Oz (who then sits on my makeshift barre) I follow along by listening and watching my teacher.  When we've completed thirty minutes of barre exercises, we push our chairs out of the way to do center work.  Here's where it gets tricky.  Most of us have limited space, so our adagio (slow) and allegro (fast) movements are more confined.  We don't have the luxury to spread out for waltzing, pirouetting, and leaping across the room. 

Then in July, ballet studios in Kentucky opened their doors with safety measures in place. I joined Laurie's in-person class which had been limited to ten dancers. All students wore masks when entering the studio, used hand sanitizer, and did temperature checks.  The waiting area was divided into spaces six feet apart so that dancers could spread out to pull on leg warmers and step into ballet slippers.  Each student had their own barre to promote social distancing. 

I loved being back in class where I could receive personal instruction, chat with friends, and have the space to dance.  But I was concerned about doing ballet in the studio.  Even though we are required to enter with masks, not all of the students continued to wear one at the barre and during center work.  I get it.  Wearing a mask is no fun.  It makes me overheat and it catches my eye and distracts me, especially when spotting for pirouetting.  I can understand why some dancers don't want to wear one.  But I didn't feel safe when we moved from the barres to the center of the studio.  Trying to social distance was difficult.  Center work requires learning a combination of steps that move dancers in many directions across the floor.  For some, it was hard to remember to stay six feet apart.   

With every class, I was feeling more conflicted.  I wanted to be face to face with my classmates.  I wanted to receive correction and encouragement.  I wanted to have space to dance.  But I didn't feel comfortable even though the studio arrangement had been well-thought out.

So, after struggling about what to do, I decided to give up the in-person classes and to return to ballet lessons on Zoom.  For me, it's a good alternative.  It's an opportunity to be expressive and stay in shape.  At home, I am able to do barre and center work and receive instructions on improving technique.  Hopefully next year, I will be able to return to the studio and do ballet without any restrictions.  But for now, it will have to wait.  And that's okay.  Even with limited space and a keyboard loving cat, I can put on ballet shoes and dance.

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Courier Journal 

A NON-TRADITIONAL RUN FOR THE ROSES  

I love to watch the Kentucky Derby.  It's not just a competition of three-year old thoroughbreds galloping around a dirt track.  It's a horse race steeped in tradition.

And yet the 146th running of the Derby was just plain sad.   

The Derby has always taken place during dogwood-blooming time on the first Saturday in May.  This year, it was in September.  

The Derby always drew fans dressed in classy suits and showy hats.  This year, no fans were allowed to sit in the grandstands.   

The Derby is always raced by jockeys wearing brightly-patterned silks.  This year the jockeys added face masks to their attire.    

On this Derby day, I think back to a happier, more carefree time, to the time I joined friends for the 100th running of the Derby.  We arrived at the entrance at 4:00 in the morning with coolers of food and drinks.  Since we had to wait for Churchill Downs to open, we dozed on blankets laid out on the pavement.  Four hours later, we made a beeline for the infield to grab a spot by the rail—a race in itself with other early-risers.  What I remember most is a warm sunny day, a crowd of hippies and partiers, a streaker who climbed a flag pole, and the Derby winner, Cannonade.    

Winning Impression, photo: Churchill Downs 

Experiencing one Derby in person was enough for me.  Ever since then, I watch the race at home with my husband, away from the sun and drunk fans and close to a bathroom where I don't have to wait in line. 

As always on Derby day, we sip on mint juleps.  It's a Mrvos tradition.  This year we concocted a batch using Woodford Reserve and topped it with blackberries and fresh mint from our garden.  I'm not much of a bourbon fan, but when the ratio of alcohol to simple syrup leans more to the sugary side, it's delicious.  And this sweet drink helped wash away some of the sadness that had settled upon Churchill Downs.

Another one of our Derby traditions is to root for a horse that we think will win the race.  This too, chased away some of the Derby blues.  We had something to look forward to.  My husband typically goes with the favorite.  I like to cheer on the grey horses.  I believe they try harder because their coats are not as flashy as the chestnut-colored thoroughbreds.  My money was on Winning Impression.  (He finished in 12th place in a field of fifteen.)

We added a new tradition this year.  My husband decided to make burgoo, a traditional dish served at Kentucky racetracks, made with beef, tomatoes, potatoes, mixed vegetables, thyme, sage, sherry and red wine.  Imagine a thick hearty stew.   Having good ol' comfort food also helped to lift our spirits.       

Our traditions make the Derby special, in spite of the changes brought on by COVID, changes that ultimately give all sports a melancholia, a palpable sadness whether it's football, baseball and basketball games or tennis matches or horse racing. 

I'm hoping by next spring, the regulations will have been eased and that the 147th Kentucky Derby will be run in the month of May.  That there will be grandstands filled with fans decked-out in fancy suits and elaborate hats.  That there will be jockeys wearing silks without face masks.  Churchill Downs is an elegant southern racetrack and the Run for the Roses should be held as it was conceived, ever so colorful, full of pageantry, and forever steeped in tradition. 

À la prochaine! 

Please follow me on Twitter and RT my pitches on October 29th for #PBPitch (and I'll reciprocate)  https://twitter.com/RandiLynnMrvos  

LOVING NOT ONE, BUT TWO STRAYS  

I'm not embarrassed to say that I love a scruffy cat called Putty.  

Putty is the cat that I took care of for over seven years.  Ever since a tom cat attacked him on our deck, I've seen very little of my sweet stray.      

Putty chilling after a dish of tuna

When Putty first came to our door begging for food, he was shy and he didn't hang around for long.  Over time, he became accustomed to me.  He'd follow me on the deck when I fed the birds or in the garden when I weeded.  He'd come to patio after I'd drive into the garage and greet me with a gravelly meow.  Putty would even let me pat his head.  He learned his name and would trot up to me when I called him.

Putty had it made.  This cat ate canned cat food and tuna. He was spoiled rotten and I loved spoiling him.

But after the cat fight, he's only returned one or two times.  I've seen him in the neighborhood when I take a walk, and I'll call him, but he doesn't come to me.  He only stops and stares.  I wonder where he hangs out.  I wonder if someone else feeds him.  I wonder if he has forgotten me.  

Kitty says, "Feed me." And I do.

Then this spring, another stray cat came to our deck.  She's beautiful and tiny and I call her Kitty.  You can see from this photo that her left ear has been clipped.  This is called ear-tipping and it is the universal sign that a feral cat has been sterilized.

Kitty is like a miniature version of Putty, though instead of having black spots on a white coat like Putty, she has striped spots.  Like Putty, she has green eyes and a pink nose.  She has the identical facial pattern as Putty, which looks like she's wearing a cap that comes to a point on her forehead, curves around her eyes, and extends down to the upper cheeks.  She looks like she could be his daughter.

 One night, I heard an angry growling sound coming from   outside.  It could only mean trouble.  Another stray, a huge   Russian Blue cat, was fighting with Kitty.  It was like a rerun of   Putty's skirmish on our deck.  I banged on the kitchen window but that did not stop him.  I opened the door and yelled at him, and then both cats ran away.  Luckily, the attack didn't harm Kitty or scare her from coming back. 

Kitty makes herself at home on our deck much like Putty had done, stretching out on her back with paws facing the sky, curling on a chair, or resting under the picnic table.  But no matter how comfortable she is lounging on the deck, I have not gained her confidence.  She stares at me through the kitchen door wanting to be fed.  Then when I fill her bowl, she skitters to the opposite side of the deck.  She comes to eat only after I close the door.  In time, this may change.  

Part of me feels that Putty's departure has made room for a cat that needs more attention than he does.  I try to wrap my head around the fact that Kitty is the cat that I'm supposed to be caring for, not Putty.  In a way that makes me feel better.  That somehow this is how things are meant to be.  But it doesn't mean I like it.  It's just how things are for now.

Though I enjoy having Kitty around, I am ever hopeful that Putty will return*.  Maybe during the winter months I'll be putting out tuna for him.  And when the weather gets colder, I'll be taking care of not one, but two strays, little Kitty and a cat that I call Putty. 

À la prochaine! 

*Putty stopped by on Sept.19th!!! Guess what he had for dinner?