Last week I had to have four spots frozen on my face that were considered to be “pre cancers”. Other than going outside under cover of darkness to avoid sunlight, or walking around with a parasol wearing a ski mask, I guess I will be dealing with having this procedure done a regular basis to keep me intact. The spots formed four blisters in the center of my cheek leaving me looking as if I’d been bobbing for French fries. Very attractive, I have to say. Ah well, this too will pass. Yesterday I had errands to run. I told Richard I hoped I didn’t scare small children in the stores. He said he couldn’t even notice it. Thank you Richard for that kindness, however I do have a mirror at my disposal. I hate having anything done on my face. It’s the first place people look. I feel compelled to stop complete strangers to explain I had surgery and don’t usually look this way. What a narcissistic thought, yes? It’s ridiculous, I know, but we women are held to a high standard in the U.S. and it’s difficult when you can’t live up to it. When I went into work the first person who came up to my desk was a doctor. He looked at me and said, “pre-cancer”? Okay Richard, you big fibber. I cannot imagine what people who have suffered severe burns or other disfigurement go through every day, so I shall quit my whining and behave myself lest I become ashamed of my behavior, which at this moment I already am.
When you go in for such an exam, they pick and fuss over you like a mother chimpanzee might her little one when searching for fleas. As they scour your body for flaws, when they see something suspicious they stop, hold up their little magnifier, and say “hmmmm” or “oh my” for emphasis. When they find something they really don’t like, they take out the dreaded freeze gun and zap, zap, zap at it. It’s interesting, at first it just feels cold, then the stinging shows up. After that, the skin reacts to the assault, and you are left either with red marks or blisters. Lucky me, I have blisters. Ah, but I see I’m whining again.
We (Richard and I) had a dinner party Sunday to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day. The menu was traditional, with a corned beef and cabbage dinner as the main attraction. In Richards case, as well as several other guests at the table, he stops at corned beef as he doesn’t like cabbage in any form. I, on the other hand, can cook a cabbage, and if allowed, would eat the entire head at one sitting. However, as cabbage is included in the “windy” variety of vegetables, this would not be advisable unless one was sleeping alone.
Ten friends and family members joined us at the table. I broke out my beautiful green dinner plates Rick bought me many years ago which were perfect for the occasion, stopping to thank him quietly while distributing them on the table. I was missing my children, but there will be other holidays, I hope at least, where they will be seated at my table. My first husband, also their father, came from Irish ancestors, so my children are Irish by half. Last year I took a DNA test to see if I could dig up any unknown or missing relatives, and found out I have a smattering of Irish thrown in the pot myself, along with a heaping helping of English, Welsh, Scottish, with a wee tad of German and Swedish thrown in for taste. Sort of a Heinz 57 apparently. Also, it seems I stem from Neanderthal roots. Interesting. I wondered why my knuckles were always red. The tests I took didn’t unearth any missing relatives, unfortunately. Somewhere in this world I have twin half brothers five years younger than myself I would love to find, but have no idea how to proceed as I don’t have much information to go on. Being an only child, I am intrigued by the thought of having siblings of any kind, and am undeniably curious about seeing who these two are. Hopefully, I will unlock some hidden door to find them standing behind it before it’s too late.
We don’t have any extended family locally on either my mother or my father’s side. As I’ve said many times in my writings, my mother and I relocated from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Southern California when my mother married my first stepfather. I was nine. All my relatives, both paternal and fraternal, remained in Canada, spread out like pimples on a teenager’s face from one side of the continent to the other. When my stepfather was no longer part of the equation after a rocky three year run, it was just my mother and I who formed our family unit, until my second stepfather entered the picture. He was one of eleven, hailing from an Irish Catholic family, all of whom were based on the east coast. That being said, he was the plus one at family gatherings once they tied the knot. This remained the status quo until I got married and had my two children, and they in turn had theirs. There are no aunts, uncles or cousins who show up for holidays to tell embarrassing stories about the time you nearly drowned the cat in the toilet when you were three, at least none from my generation. Since I have no siblings, there aren’t any nieces, nephews, sister-in-laws or brother-in-laws either to populate the pictures taken on such occasions. We form a tight but hardy little band of travelers. I’ve always had a silent yearning to be part of a large boisterous family unit. When I got married the first time, my thought was to add six new faces, somewhat like mine, to the population growth. Life, and the universe, had it’s own roadmap, so in the end there were to be only two I was to contribute. They are a special two, so I have no complaints. My children are truly the best of me and their father, who has been gone since they were eight and nine. I have never for one second regretted the choice to be their mother. There are some who believe we choose who will bring us into the world. I am not sure my kids would have opted for me looking back, as mistakes were made. My early years were filled with lessons and learning curves, not always easy to manage for me or my offspring. There is no question, however, in my mind I would have signed up for the two of them if asked to do it again without a moment’s hesitation.
Life was a bit chaotic once we got to California. I went to twelve schools between fourth grade and high school graduation. There were a lot of first days for me as a child. Without siblings for back up, these new beginnings were faced by me, and me alone, unsupported by anything but my Archie lunch pail and my staunch determination, peppered with a heavy dose of stubbornness. Somehow, I managed to get through it all, learning a lot as I went along about surviving in a world that isn’t always easy on those of us who populate it. Was I to say anything about the first half of my life it would be that I was a survivor. My mother used to say if she threw me out of a twelve story window I would, like a cat, manage to land on my feet.
Lately, I am finding I have settled more into myself, accepting that I am getting older (though not always acknowledging it lol), and being kinder to me. I was far from perfect, but who has achieved such lofty goals. I stuck the landing as best I could and though perhaps I didn’t get a 10, at least I made the effort.
So, I shall end with those deep thoughts on this incredibly beautiful, and pollen infused sunny 70’s day here in Northern California. Have a great week. Remember to stop and smell the roses, but take a box of tissue on your walk as everything is blooming and it’s beginning to look a lot like spring.
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