Grab a chair and a couple of root beers...

Yes, yes, I know this post is long overdue.

Last week, I was having some major discomfort in my side. We thought it was my spleen, because of the fact that it felt like someone had jammed a softball up under the ribs on my left side. Not only that, but pain was radiating up behind my left shoulder blade, and down into my left arm.

The doctor poked and prodded me, much to my annoyance though I recognized the necessity. It could have been my spleen. It could have been a huge case of costochondritis, which I do get from time to time, thanks to the coughing I do because of asthma. It could have been any number of things, so she sent me to a surgeon who had his own ultrasound in hopes he would take a look and see what he could find. Well, after sending me to have a few tubes of blood drawn.

He didn't do an ultrasound on me. He poked and prodded even more than my doctor did, which hurt like... a huge frickin' amount, and after contemplating my family history, felt that my problem had more to do with G.E.R.D. than it did with my spleen, and started asking detailed questions about my asthma, like when did it start, how bad is it, when do I mostly have it, how does it act when I take antacids, do I have heartburn, etc.

The upshot is, I'm on a medication, Dexilant, to control the acid production in my stomach, and I'm going to be seeing a gastroenterologist of my own, and possibly have my very own endoscopy. Yay.

(just in case y'all didn't notice, I'm saying this with a marked lack of enthusiasm)

My mother waited until after all of this went down to tell me that the Blonde Sister has pre- Barrett's Esophagus, which is what my dad was diagnosed with (without the "pre" in front of it) before it developed into full blown esophageal cancer. Fortunately, the Blonde Sister is only showing the first signs of the precondition, and this means she can take steps to reverse it.

It's going to be painful, because she's going to have to give up Mexican food, by the way. Did I mention, her husband is Mexican?

*snorts*

So... I've been on the meds for about a week now, and the softball under my ribs feels more like a golf ball. It's still very tender, and Dr. W. is still very puzzled by it. As she said, it's too far over to the left to be my stomach, but... she's sending me to the stomach doctor anyway, because of my family history. I agree.

I have to say, though, it was awfully entertaining when the surgeon was asking me about my family history, and we were talking about my maternal grandfather. Grandpere had colon cancer, and the surgeon said, "How old was he when he died?"

"53 or 55," I said, "depending on which source you use to find out his birthdate."

He nodded. "What treatment did they use?"

"I think it was all palliative," I said, "because they didn't really have treatments back then for cancer."

He frowned and looked up. "Back then? When was this?"

"1927 Louisiana," I said with a grimace, because I was still hurting, dammit.

He boggled. "1927??? Wait... how old is your mother?"

"83." I watched him boggle some more. "She was 3 months old when he died. And the youngest of seven."

"And... how old are you again?" he asked, staring at my chart.

"47," I said helpfully. "My mom was 36 when I was born."

You should have seen his face when I told him my great grandfather served in the Civil War!!

*needs to get out more*

And in other news, my second oldest niece is getting married this weekend. Yes, this is the same niece for whom I bought the now infamous Pizza Pan.

Is it me, or am I including a lot of links in this post?

Anyhow, she's getting married this Saturday, and we have to go, except the Flaky Sister is being... very odd, and now the Husbandly One and I are debating... do we go to Houston tomorrow, spend the night, and have the general circus of trying to get ready in an unfamiliar house in the morning? OR... do we stay here, then drive in early Saturday morning, and run the risk of being late for some inexplicable but inevitable reason regarding either something we have to return here for, or some sort of bizarre traffic tangle between here and there involving an elephant, a Honda Civic, and a pair of fuzzy dice? No, seriously, y'all know what my life is like... what are the odds?

Plus, I made the bride's earrings, and scored these awesome garnets cut in the shape of leaves to add as dangles that matched some weird little bead and sequin pattern on her dress... and she said, "Um... I don't know if I am comfortable wearing dangly earrings. I'm just not a dangly earring sort of person."

Okay. Fine. That's... fine. Except... you approved the sketches of the dangly earrings! *sighs*

So, yes, I remade them. And I hope like hell she likes them, but just in case... I'm taking my tools and supplies with me.

Aw, geez... I just realized... I have to shave my legs.

*whine*

Tell me why I'm doing this again? Oh, right. I love her.

I must really love her, because it's a Catholic wedding, so... lots of upping and downing, and putting my hand across the Impossible Son's mouth whenever he pops out with the sorts of things a curious 9-year old boy is bound to say at the most inconvenient moments.

Did I ever tell y'all about the time I was at a wedding and was forcedblackmailed told to sit with Great Aunt Nosy and expressly charged with gaggingredirecting her if she started to drop one of her verbal bricks? As her name implies, Great Aunt Nosy was a major gossip, and had no tact whatsoever. So, we're at her next door neighbor's daughter's wedding, and we're watching the bride float up to the altar, a very vision in a frothing, fluffy confection of white, her face beaming with joy, her groom clearly stunned at the sight of his gorgeous bride coming to him.

Up to that point, I had done rather well at my job of cutting her off at the knees distracting her, but... I had relaxed. I thought she'd be as hypnotized at the visual of the bride as everyone else. But, in that moment of silence after the "Bridal March" fades out, and everyone is taking a deep breath for having managed to walk down the aisle without face-planting in the aisle, the unrepressable Aunt Nosy leaned toward my mother and said in a whisper that could be heard all the way to the back of the church (we were sitting in the front), "Of course, she doesn't deserve to wear white, because you know, S and R were living together, in sin, and you know, I don't think they were sleeping in separate beds at all!"

My mother and I were frozen in horror, me with my hand inches from Aunt Nosy's mouth because I was too slow to slap her muffle her, and we could only watch as the three people sitting in front of us turned slowly around to GLARE at her. And the bridesmaids turned to glare at her. And the groomsmen. The bride and the groom, the bride's face beet red with fury, the minister... even the flower girl and ring bearer were glaring at her with all the ferocity five year olds can muster.

Aunt Nosy looked around innocently, wondering what all the death glares were about. My mother gave me the Hairy Eyeball and not so gently kickednudged me with her foot, with a clear message of Fix this! And all I could think of to say was, "Hey, Aunt Nosy, why don't you say that a little louder? I don't think the people in the parking lot could hear you."

Everyone laughed, and Aunt Nosy's mouth closed up tighter than a miser's wallet at a Sunday meeting!

Okay, I'm babbling now. Time for me to go to bed!