We need roooooommmm! Basement remodeling decisions

I was going to write about my sister and how she’s really pissing me off by making my mom feel guilty and she’s passive aggressively dissing mom on social media. But when I started writing, I realized giving Julie that much of my time and attention was making me really, really angry. She’s crazy, and always will be. (And for anyone I know IRL who’s following Julie’s FB “health” drama, don’t believe the hype, and please don’t think my mom and I are not involved. We just know how this plays out because we’ve been there, done that, and we’re over it. Julie’s using and abusing the new BF and his family – they’re just too new to know who/what my sister truly is. But, hey, Julie’s getting a newly remodeled home out of the deal, so grossly exaggerating things and lying is okay, right?)

Ahem.

Let’s talk basements. The topic will still stress me out, but in a much nicer way.

When I bought this house, I really liked that the basement was unfinished. I’d seen some homes with poorly designed basements, so a large, empty, open concrete slab (with decently tall ceilings), was a selling point. Clean slate. Do what I want, when I want, figure out what works for the kids and me.

In the four years since we’ve lived here, the basement has become a four corner dump pile – storage here, kids’ toys there, stuff for a yard sale here, holiday decorations there. There are also about 15 large moving boxes STUFFED with packing paper, making a cardboard wall separating kid space from yard sale stuff. Organized but not useable.

Sure, the kids will play down there every once in a while. And I’ll run/walk on the treadmill (which can’t be plugged into the outlets in the basement, so a heavy-duty extension cord runs up the stairs – super classy). But it’s cold (no heat), and a little dark, and really not inviting.

Last year, I thought I’d get it finished, but, you know, cancer. (Damn, 2015 was a wasted year.)

Now this, THIS is the year: the kids are older and need more space – Lauren’s dollhouses and dress up clothes and babies are taking over the living spaces where I never intended toys to be (dining room, front room, living room, entryway, kitchen – girl stuff is EVERYWHERE); Ethan doesn’t always want to watch “Wild Kratz” or other Lauren-type shows and is at an age where he needs to have a little bit of his own time and space. And I’m tired of stepping on Legos when he spreads himself – and those damn plastic foot-destroyers – across the living room floor.

And, as B and I work toward merging our family together, more usable space is becoming necessary – a place where all six of us can (comfortably) gather, a place where he can play his bass and I can arrange/organize/use crafty and gift wrapping stuff.

I started getting bids for the job.

  • First guy: REALLY young (not that age is a big deal), ridiculously quick, didn’t seem super thorough, plans didn’t reflect some of the things I asked for, some of the design elements didn’t make sense (i.e., walling around the furnace and water heater so close that neither would be able to be removed should I have to replace them in the future), kind of got the sense he might nickel-and-dime me when things don’t go as planned.
  • Second guy (and his wife who is his design partner): straight shooter, super thorough, pointed out some things I should correct now (whether or not he does the job), his bid was about $10K more than I want to spend BUT I think he’d do an amazing job (and he guarantees not to go over the budget).
  • Third guy: walked him through what I wanted, spent half the time he was at the house talking on his phone to someone (I was upstairs; he was supposed to be doing measurements), pointed out stuff I should do now (like guy 2), can’t get me the estimate until he has his electrician AND plumber AND carpenter all come out separately – like “Hey Dude 3, what’s your job if you’re not qualified to figure this shit out?!”
  • Fourth guy: got his name from an remodeling referral service at a home improvement show this weekend (he was the only one of four names sent that had a website, and I’m leary of builders and remodelers who are not showcasing their work on the internet or social media), from his website he is really receptive to working WITH the homeowner on budget and design, GREAT phone conversation with him, he’s coming out tomorrow.

This is a CRAZY big decision to make. It’s a lot of money. I want it done right. I want it to feel like part of the house, not just an afterthought or nasty scary basement. I don’t know enough about remodeling or building or plumbing or electric or drywall to know if someone is doing a good job or not. I need to have full-faith in the person doing the work.

Guys 1 and 3 are out.

I like guy 2, especially his no bullshit attitude, but he’s expensive.

Guy 4 *might* be the answer.

Oh boy, adult decisions are hard.

Ours

“Beautiful children. Are they all yours?”

We stopped for lunch at a mom-and-pop restaurant in a smallish town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, on our way home from spending Thanksgiving with B’s parents. (More on that another time.) An older woman behind the counter asked the question.

B was carrying his youngest daughter, following the server who was taking us to our table; Ethan was close behind, talking nonstop in B’s ear about something or other; and I was shepherding Lauren and B’s other daughter as we traversed the small entry of the restaurant, filled with knick knacks and tchotchkes for sale.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” I said, barely making eye contact with her as I made sure the girls’ heavy winter coats didn’t knock over something I really didn’t want to buy. I was busy holding the hand of one girl while directing the other by the shoulder.

The woman behind the counter followed it with, “But you both look so young…” and a sort of tsk-tsk sound.

Crazy lady, I thought. Of course they’re ours. What other kids would be with us? Does she think we found some kids alongside the road and brought them in for Swedish meatballs and limpa bread?

We were at our table at the back of the restaurant when it finally hit me what the woman meant.

“Are they all yours?”

Oh… are they OURS? Like O-U-R-S, mine and B’s? Well…

I felt a little foolish for  misunderstanding the woman. Yeah, they’re ours, but not technically O-U-R-S. Like if we start getting into if they’re our biological children and genetics and stuff… well, then…

But then, I realized I didn’t misunderstand the woman at all. YES, they are O-U-R-S. Damn, it, all four of them. For all their faults and all their goodness. For all the little arguments we referee. For all the cuddles we share. For the goodnight stories and kisses and late night movies and board games. For the helping make Christmas cookies. For the knock knock jokes at dinner. For the tears, for the laughter. For better or worse.

“Are they all yours?”

Hell, yes. Yes, they are mine. Yes, they are B’s. They, all four of them. They are ours.

That time I confronted a stranger who assumed I was a man

I’m shaking as I type this. I’m angry. I’m embarrassed. And I’m a little nervous about the confrontation I just had.

Background: My hair is growing back, but it’s in a really awkward stage. It’s no longer “Oh, look how cute! Little hair!” And it’s not long enough to do anything with. It’s just…there. I’ve overcompensated lately by dressing more girly than normal – dresses or skirts, soft colors, scarves, makeup, jewelry – things that scream “GIRL!” Or so I thought.

I was standing in line at the sandwich place in the food court of the Union. It was pretty busy, but I was hungry and sometimes this place has a decent sandwich. I stood there in my jeans (rolled at the ankles to expose cute black flats) and white t-shirt with a ballerina in a mixed-medium lace skirt. I wore red lipstick. I carried a bright pink purse and checked Facebook on my phone covered in a bright pink and gray case. A pink Fitbit on one wrist, and a delicate purple stone and silver ring on the other hand.

Do I look like a fucking man?!

Do I look like a fucking man?!

I placed my order at the counter, and then the student worker called, “Next!”

The older man behind me said, “Did you get this man’s order?” and pointed in my direction. At this point I was looking directly at him.

“You mean HER order?” the student worker corrected.

“Yeah, his order,” the guy said again. Then looked me in the eye and said, “Oh, HER’S…” It was a condescending, sing-songy tone.

He patronizingly patted my left shoulder twice. I looked away.

I was seething. My eyes started to get liquidy (not tears, but I tend to leak from the eyes when very angry). Do I say something? Do I let it go? I played a couple of scenarios in my head, a few things I’d like to say. The kind of things you think about but you know you won’t really say aloud.

I was stuck. This guy was an older white man, dressed in a suit coat and tie. I work at a university, and dress code is usually pretty casual, except for administrators (most of whom are older white men). Do I dare jeopardize myself, and possibly my job, by saying something?

I started to shake.

I grabbed a drink from the cooler and made my way to the cashier. After paying her, I realized the guy was behind me. And I realized that I was really pissed.

“Hey,” I said, looking him right in the eye. “You called me a man back there. Referred to me as a ‘him.’”

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking. Your hair…” he said, his eyes wide.

“Yeah,” I pointed to my head. “This is called breast cancer. Six months of chemo, 17 radiation treatments, and surgery. I’m a women, god-dammit, regardless of what my appearance might suggest.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he said again, looking down.

“Just do me a favor. Maybe you should LOOK next time. Really look.”

I turned and walked away, out of the Union, back to my building, into the elevator, and to my office.

I don’t know who that dude was, and know what? I’m not sure I’d change a thing if I DID know who he was.

Now, I’m going to enjoy my lunch before my next class.

Updates: radiation, kids, yoga, photo session

Cancer stuff: Radiation gave me second degree burns. In my armpit. Specifically in the crease of my armpit. It hurts badly, so I have a 3-inch by 3-inch gel pad stuck to it now. It’s cool and refreshing but oozy and weird. I hope it doesn’t dislodge itself and fall out during class today…

Tomorrow would have been my last day of radiation, but the oncology radiology doc decided to add a “boost” to my treatment. This means four more treatments, really super concentrated to the area in which the tumors lived. It makes sense – studies show a decrease in cancer returning in younger women with a few “boost” treatments. And the boosts will not affect the armpit area, so it can start to peel and heal. Thank goodness.

Radiation has been pretty easy. Lie down for four minutes while getting five doses of super powered x-rays, then on with my day. Other than a sunburned armpit and some slight fatigue, I’m handling it well. The only outward sign of radiation is the tanned skin my right side where the treatment happens. Overall, it’s certainly better than chemo!

Kiddos: The kids started back to school.

Kindergarten is kicking Lauren’s ass. She can hardly keep her eyes open during dinner, and she’s become super whiny until bedtime. She also sleeps until she’s woken up around 6:15 – completely different than the kid who was up by 5:30 every morning during the summer!

There was a bit of a hiccup in starting the year when I learned – at a parent meeting less than 36 hours before the first day of school – that Lauren would be required to wear a uniform this year. (Previously K4 and K5 did not wear uniforms. Apparently there was a communication that came home at the end of last year, but only three K5 families received it. There wasn’t any more communication from the school over the summer. Some found out through word of mouth and others were just learning of it also.) I spent the summer buying clothes for her to wear to school – and I checked and rechecked the dress code in the parent handbook (which wasn’t updated until VERY recently). I freaked out in that meeting, and I sent the new principal a strongly worded email that night. And… the new principal completely impressed me with her handling of the situation. She called me promptly the next morning (day before school) and offered that Lauren and the kids in K4 and K5 would not have strict enforcement of the uniform policy (so she could wear regular clothes when she wanted), and the school had a few smaller size uniforms we could have. Turns out, Lauren LOVES her plaid jumper. I’m out the cost of what I spent on school clothes, so I’m letting her wear them anytime, anyplace. She’s growing so fast that most will be too small soon anyway.

Ethan’s in fifth grade. He’s trying to find his place among his peers. Most of the boys play a sport or two, but Ethan hasn’t shown any interest in sports since Mike died. In fact, he’s specifically shied away from most sports – Mike was Ethan’s coach for baseball and soccer and helped (a little bit) practice football at home. He’s been reprimanded for talking out of turn during classes or hurting someone’s feelings. On one of the “feelings” situations, I have to side with Ethan. The kids were working in small groups to come up with “rules” for the class, and one kid suggested something like “we will give 110 percent in class.” Ethan called the kid out for the “110 percent” thing, saying it’s impossible to give more than 100 percent AND he strongly believed that in a school environment, they should focus on the facts not “bad math.” We talked about how he could have addressed his concerns in a more suitable way, but I also high fived him for identifying the flaw. (The teacher kept the 110 percent thing in the class rules, much to Ethan’s chagrin.)

Other stuff:

  • Mom and I started yoga. There’s a class at the Y for cancer patients and their caregivers. It’s not very physical, but there’s a lot of focus on stretching and breathing. The woman teaching the class also shows us how to modify some of the positions to meet our physical needs (like not putting too much pressure on the arm on the side where lymph nodes were removed). It’s an open-ended class, so no real beginning or end. Mom is loving it. I’m in it for a while (especially to learn the modifications), but I’ll need something more challenging at some point. Still it’s a cool thing to do with my mom once a week.
  • Friday will be my second boudoir photo shoot, complete with SUPER short hair and lopsided, mismatched breasts. (The first session was right after I started chemo – and still had hair, and the last session will be in the spring/summer – after reconstruction and after I have ((hopefully)) decent hair.) I’m hoping it’s as fun as the first time!

Radiation in 3, 2, 1….

Radiation started today. Good news: my plan includes the smallest amount of radiation exposure and the shortest amount of time (only four weeks). The radiation amount is low because the pathology report shows cancer is gone, so this step is just a precaution since I opted for the lumpectomy and I still have breast tissue. Radiation will eliminate any minute traces that can’t be detected. (The length of time is based on a size measurement. I measured between four and six weeks. The radiation oncologist went with the lower end because of the GREAT pathology report.)

The appointment started with “radiation stimulation” (or “the sim”). Basically, instead of radiation, the machine was prepped to take images. The techs spent about 10 minutes positioning me, using the four tattoos as their guide. (A few weeks ago, I met with the team for CT imaging and the tattoos, which will help align me for each radiation session. The four tattoos – two on my sternum and one on either side near the bottom of my ribs – hurt more than the surgery. I was bruised for days – and each tat is really just a small, tiny dot made by applying a drop of ink and then jabbing my skin with a needle.)

Once my position was verified by the images, the radiation started. It took about four minutes to radiate five locations – lymph node area and the “cancer bed” from both the left and right sides plus the overall breast. The hardest part was staying completely still for the duration of the sim and radiation – about 30 minutes with my arms in “stirrups” above my head, my hips extended far to the right. Of course, when you’re told not to move, everything starts to itch – and you’re not allowed to scratch or your position will be compromised.

Following radiation and changing back into my clothes, I had radiation education with the nurse. Basically, we covered side effects and what to expect. My skin from collarbone to the sternum to the bottom of the right breast will appear a little more sunburned week-to-week (red, sunburn-like skin that will itch and may eventually start to “flake” toward the end of treatment). Fatigue is a side effect, but not like chemo fatigue. The nurse described it as wanting to take a nap or go to bed an hour earlier than normal. Physical activity will wear me out faster than normal. Big deal. There are longer-term effects, like the possibility of a secondary cancer in the area (less than one percent) and a life-long sun sensitivity in the radiated area (like it will burn before any other area of my body). Also, I have to use a special deodorant and apply a special lotion twice a day. No pools or lakes during treatment. Plus no underwire bras, so back to the surgical and sports bras for a month. Blah.

The biggest thing is radiation is every. damn. day. It doesn’t take long; most appointments will be 15 minutes or less. It doesn’t “hurt.” The side effects aren’t awful. But Monday through Friday, every day, for four weeks, is a lot of time spent at the cancer center. Ho hum.

I’m just going to focus on the positive: I have to wait six months after radiation for reconstruction on my left side (much needed because things are REALLY “off” right now – I’ll be wearing a lot of scarves to cover up the difference). Six months puts me at spring break, and I’m already on the surgeon’s schedule for early that week in March. New breasts done and healed by summer 2016! Woot!